A man for the ages.
Augusten Burroughs was Christopher Robison before he changed his name. He had such a miserable childhood in such a spectacularly dysfunctional family that he apparently decided he had to invent a new world for himself or go crazy. Or maybe he did both.
By any name, he’s hilarious in an unfiltered, unhinged way. His books are normally too expensive for me, but I got this short book of five true (or true enough) stories for a couple of dollars. Never was money better spent.
I think the stories are well chosen because they show the man at various stages of his life. We see him as a child, growing up in a disgustingly-quaint New England town. Little Augusten/Christopher jumps at the chance to be in a television commercial, which will be his express ticket to a glamorous life in Hollywood. But stardom is snatched from his sweaty little hands and awarded to a lethargic kid who couldn’t care less. Isn’t that always the way?
Then we see him as a teenager, enticed into a job as a sail cutter at a local boat-rigging company. He quickly learns that the job requires math skills, manual dexterity, and (apparently) Kennedyesque good looks. Another career path blocked forever.
Another story shows him as a junior “mad-man” at a New York city ad agency. The job is perfect for his eccentric creativity, but dealing with demanding clients is another matter. There’s no way to make people buy mints outside of a movie theater, but that won’t stop a good ad-man from trying.
Then he’s promoted to “Associate Creative Director” which (in an ad agency) means he works eighty hours a week instead of sixty. With no time for “chores” he hires a woman to clean his small apartment. It’s Debby, rejected for the lead role in “Fatal Attraction” because she’s too scary. I read this one years ago and have never forgotten it. It’s the quintessential modern horror story. And it could so easily happen to any of us.
The last (very short) story involves two blood-thirsty Central Park swans and his speculations as to the cause of their recent demise. He blames a well-known dog-walker and he may be right. A woman with designer poop bags is quite capable of offing a couple of swans, IMHO.
Wish Kindle would run his full-length books on sale. He’s a great writer.