I somehow managed to actually read a book during last week’s grand mess: A Density of Souls by Christopher Rice, better known as Anne Rice’s gay son. I’m not really one for literary criticism in general, but I can say that there are only five authors in this world who have left me completely pissed off after finishing one of their books, and that two of them hail from New Orleans and are named Rice. Something about the way the book developed just seemed wrong. Sure, it was a compelling story (I finished it in one sitting, because I simply had to), but there was so much pain in that book, pain that didn’t really seem to serve any purpose. Yes, I know that pointless things happen every day. But why write a book about it? I have a life of my own, thanks, I was looking for fiction.