I’m deep into a biography of Chuck Berry and I’ve been whining to friends and family for a week about how hopelessly thorough it is. Now the stories about his endless philandering and unrestrained sexual harassment and his reputation as an uncooperative, miserable bastard are adding up and I’m wishing I had chosen to read his autobiography instead.
it’s 1970 and the critics are saying chuck berry is out of gas.
100 pages to go.
I finally finished the Chuck Berry biography and now I know what a shit that guy was. #alas
I picked up “Glorious Exploits” by Ferdia Lennon at a bookstore in London (Ontario) not because of the googly eyes, but because of the back cover blurb. (And because of the googly eyes.)
Fifty pages in and it’s kind of funny but also kind of sad … and cruel.
Welp.
I’ll try to read it in big gulps and get through it quickly.