The inevitable satire to the insanely successful Eat, Pray, Love.

It is of similar pseudo-lit as Augusten Burroughs or Tucker Max. Casual, metaphor-laden writing saved only by occasionally humorous anecdotes and imagery. It’s not a complete waste of time as it is short. Take it to the beach or take it on a plane and finish it there.

And leave it there.

Hollywood will inevitably turn Drink, Play, F@#k into a vehicle for Steve Carrell or Vince Vaughn or Paul Rudd.

When will they adapt Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Memories of My Melancholy Whores?

Casting ideas? I’m thinking Peter O’Toole…

Filed under: Books, Reviews
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