It was once such a regular activity, to leave
the house, go to a record shop and buy a new
single or album on the morning of release - I
must have done it a hundred times, if not more. Today
though, I did something I've rarely done before - I purchased a
book on the actual day of publication. After
catching a breathy review of Morrissey's
'Autobiography' on the radio over breakfast,
I made a mental note to look out for it in
town later on, while in reality
doubting that I'd actually be able to find a
copy locally. WH Smith didn't make it easy
either. I'd all but given up the search when
I found a small pile of them at the very back
of the shop in a small alcove near the Post
Office, on the floor, literally.
So now I pause awhile in my quest to
re-read all of Kinky Friedman's books before the year
is out, in order to take a gander at what
young Steven Patrick has to say for himself.
Initial observations? No chapters or index
pages and an opening paragraph that spreads
itself over 4½ sides. So far so good.
