American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

Or "How Andy Lampl Ruined Thanksgiving."

I am wearing a dress from a thrift store, grey boots from Macy's, a scarf I bought from a street vendor in New York, tights from Target, and a necklace Reggie gave me, writing a review of a very disturbing book.

I won't say I liked it. I won't say I recommend it. But I will say that I thought it was very good and that, if you haven't, you should probably read it. And that I definitely dig this Mr. Ellis character and am looking forward to reading more of his stuff - although it will be awhile because I feel that I must regain the will to live before diving back into that awful world.

American Psycho is a miserable portrait of the young rich late-1980s Wall Street types told in first person through Patrick Bateman, an uber-rich 26 year old Wall Streeter-by-day-serial-killer-by-night. To describe the plot makes it sound like a trashy grocery store novel, but believe me it is not. It is part totally fucked up miserable psychological thriller gore fest, and part biting social commentary. It is nauseating, exhausting, and hilarious.

It's not a question of whether or not it is miserable to read. Without a doubt, it is the most miserable thing I have ever read. The question is what about it makes it most miserable? Because I can't decide. I honestly don't know which was worse to read: the way-too-long-and-detailed, violent, graphic, chauvinistic depictions of sex; the hideous descriptions of brutal torture and murder and hacked up body parts (including three vaginas that our hero keeps in his gym locker); or the scene where Patrick and some of his Wall Street buddies all talk on conference call and try to decide where they're going to eat that night. I am not saying that to be clever. Ellis's genius with American Psycho is that the rape and murder and disembowelment is just one part of Bateman's repulsive and meaningless lifestyle.

It's a horrifying look at isolation in the age of burgeoning technology, obsession with appearance and trends, where people's names and jobs and girlfriends are interchangeable and, ultimately, insignificant. Yes, he's a serial killer, but at the end of the day Patrick Bateman is just a sad lonely guy who can't even cook a meal for himself.

My warning to you, readers, is this: you can't un-read American Psycho. So just beware.

Now I have to go return some videotapes.