Executive Times
		2006 Book Reviews
		Possible Side Effects by Augusten Burroughs
Rating:			**
		(Mildly Recommended)
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	Dark It takes special skill to master the art of self-deprecating dysfunctional family humor. At times in Augusten Burroughs latest offering, Possible Side Effects, he reveals such skill. Mostly, he comes close, but his writing becomes a distraction from his humor. Unlike David Sedaris, whose writing is skilled and becomes the pleasure of the story, Burroughs stumbles through the writing to convey the story. Burroughs’ humor is typically of a darker variety than that of Sedaris. Here’s an excerpt, from the beginning of the essay titled, “Bloody Sunday,” pp. 9-13: According to the map on my personal video screen, the British Airways 747 was halfway over the Atlantic. If the plane were to lose an engine, I reasoned, we had a good chance of just making the tip of Greenland. I don’t like to fly especially over large bodies of roiling black water. But this was the red-eye from New York. All the shades were down and the lights had been dimmed. So I didn’t feel I was flying in a plane so much as sitting in a particularly comfortable doctor’s office, waiting for a minor surgical procedure. I was filled with dread, but only a little more dread than normal. After all, in just a few hours I would be in London, a place I consider to be perfect. Something was bothering me and I was unable to concentrate on the book I was trying to read. My nose, specifically was giving me trouble. Not to be uncouth, but there was just something stuck in there. I removed a tissue from the pocket of my blazer. This was a new experience for me because I never wear jackets. And here I was, in a fine jacket, with a pressed dress shirt. Slacks. Black Gucci loafers. Not only this, but I had thought ahead to bring a small pack of tissues. Last time I came to London, I dressed like I do every day: jeans with a T-shirt and a baseball cap. I was mortified when each restaurant I went to required I wear their outdated loaner jacket, kept on hand expressly for losers like me. I was determined not to make this mistake again, in the more formal United Kingdom. So I’d packed nothing but business attire. I blew my nose, trying to make as little noise as possible. And then I looked down and saw blood on my shirt. Three slug-shaped stains and a constellation of splatter. Dark red, purple-black almost, against the sky blue of my shirt. Stupidly, I pulled the tissue away from my nose to inspect it and more blood dripped onto my shirt. I was horrified, but more than this I was fascinated. Because there was absolutely no pain and quite a lot of blood. Quickly, I brought the tissue back up to my nose and reached for the napkin next to my water bottle. I pressed this against my nose, as well, but almost immediately it was soaking red. I am one of those people who tend to get bloody noses easily. My brother is the same way We spent much of our childhoods hemorrhaging and it’s a wonder, really, both of us made it to maturity without transfusions. Normally my nose stops bleeding after just a couple of minutes. But as I sat there on the plane, pressing the blood-soaked tissue against my face, I sensed that this was no ordinary nosebleed. Something about the cabin pressure had made it much worse than usual. I needed more tissues. I needed them immediately. Or else, I needed a blowtorch to cauterize the wound myself. I unbuckled my seat belt with my free hand and stood, trying not to draw attention to myself. I was relieved that the cabin lights were low and many people were sleeping. As I turned to walk back to the lavatory I saw a passenger seated on the opposite aisle, reading a book. The cover was orange and featured a young boy with a box on his head. I couldn’t read the title but I didn’t need to because it was burned into my brain. I’d written the book. She glanced up at me just as I began walking, and then she looked back down at her book. But right away, she looked back up, eyes wide. The front of my shirt was now quite stained with blood. I must have looked like somebody who had been unfortunately involved with a knife. I saw her hesitate. Should she press the button to alert the flight attendant? Had I just shot the pilot? All of these thoughts were plainly visible in her eyes. And then the look of recognition, of disbelief. I smiled at her and motioned with my free hand. As if to say “It’s okay. I won’t be directing the aircraft to fly into Harrods. I just have a bloody nose.” Her lips parted and she turned my book over in her hands, examining the author photograph. Then she looked back at me. I looked away and resumed walking toward the tiny bathroom. Once inside, I locked the door and began pulling the irritating runt-sized paper towels from the dispenser. I crammed them up my nostril and leaned back against the wall, looking at my sorry self in the mirror. Blood had stained my mustache and the sides of my mouth, and even drizzled down my chin. I looked like somebody who had caught a small rodent in the aisle and bitten its head off. At that moment, it seemed to me that something in my genetic code acts as a sort of metal, magnetically attracting disasters, both major and minor. Like Carrie at the prom. Standing in the miniscule lavatory and doing nothing except waiting for my nose to stop bleeding, I realized how long I’d been in there. Now bad would that look? The bloody guy locked in the bathroom, probably cooking up a shoe bomb. To partially remedy this, I wet a paper towel and cleaned my face. After ten minutes, the bleeding had stopped. I wet paper towels with cold water and began to press them against the bloodstains on my shirt. I’d bought six “no wrinkle” shirts from Brooks Brothers in Manhattan and was astonished to watch as the blood was sucked away from the shirt, into the towels. The fabric of the shirt had held the blood, but released it when asked. My friend, the Asshole Lawyer, had told me about the shirts. If anybody knew of shirts that were blood-proof, it would be an Asshole Lawyer. Of course, it’s only a matter of time before these shirts catch on among the serial killer community, I suppose. I removed all the blood. There wasn’t even a pink shadow remaining. But I now had a soaking wet shirt. Which, compared to a bloodstained shirt, was dandy. I’d merely look like a drunk who spilled a martini on himself. Instead of a freak, bleeding out of one of his holes. I glanced down and saw that the entire lavatory area was bloody with my fingerprints. This would not do. I could not leave bloody fingerprints for the next person. Maybe I could have done this on September 10, but not now. This would surely cause the plane to be redirected to the nearest airport, where camera crews would be waiting. I would be questioned by CNN, held responsible for the delay of the flight, the imposition of three hundred passengers. I cleaned up the toilet and left, walking back to my seat. The woman turned herself around in her seat, to watch me walk back to mine. I knew that when she got off the plane she would call friends back home. “You’ll never believe who was on the flight,” she’ll tell them. “What a freak.” If you enjoyed the excerpt, chances are you’ll like the rest of Possible Side Effects. Steve Hopkins, September 25, 2006
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	2006 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for this book appeared in the October 2006 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Possible Side Effects.htm For Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • 723 North Kenilworth Avenue • Oak Park, IL 60302 Phone: 708-466-4650 • Fax: 708-386-8687 E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com www.hopkinsandcompany.com