Throw a rock hard enough and you'll hit an aspiring New York City writer who thinks they're the long lost love child of Dave Eggers and Maya Angelou (let's pause for a moment and ponder the awkward sexytime between those two. Thank me later.).
They're usually graduates of some overpriced MFA program, roam the streets of Williamsburg to find "inspiration" and feel itchy and wrong unless they're discussing structuralism and semiotics (loudly) at cocktail parties.
But sometimes you want something a little less self conscious and more genuine (pssssssssttt...the author was mentioned in Gawker....) So I advise you double-click, shell out the same amount as 2 Manhattan drinks (your abused liver will thank you), and help support a writer who had the gall to actually self publish his work. Go to hell Simon & Schuster!
Reading his poetry and short stories—mainly focusing on urban bed hopping and pill popping— will conjure the same feeling as going out for cocktails with your gay best friend, minus the go-go boys and the lost dollar bills. Trust.
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