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You wonder about that NYU freshman kid in the purple sweatshirt and what his story is and whether, to be honest, he’d be more interesting than Bret Easton Ellis because Bret Easton Ellis has kind of just, well, given up, it seemed, which was a horrible thing to think about a guy that was sitting right in front of you…

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This asseveration lead me to the undeserved conceit of imagining life as Ellis (“…after all, who am I compared to him?” says the Woody Allen sequitir in my head), and thus, to imagining what I would do if I were B.E.E. for a day.

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And now, Glamorama is one of my favorite books of all time. I love it for the writing, for the glamour, and for the sex. One of the things that always stood out to me about Glamorama, as well as in other Ellis novels, is that the boys have sex with boys, who still have sex with girls and it’s all fine. They’re not, like, g-a-y. It’s just sex, which is how I think it should be.