The other day, a few close friends (or maybe they were complete strangers, which is just about the same thing these days) were discussing the current phenomenon of the Gen-X memoir, in which people in their early 30s put to paper their lives' great adventures, which usually amount to little more than an addiction to nicotine, pornography and prescription anti-depressants. Everyone in our little group knew someone younger than us writing an autobiography; none of these authors, surprisingly enough, was named Elizabeth Wurtzel,... More >>>