I am (blessedly) very close to finishing British comedian Russell Brand's second memoir Booky Wook 2. While Brand's first foray into writing, Booky Wook , was funny, literate and self-aware. The continued story feels self-aggrandizing and cobbled-together to capitalize on the star's growing fame ( Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Get Him to the Greek) . Two books in, Brand's "beautiful fucked-up man" ( TM Sarah McLachlan ) schtick begins to wear thin. Ultimately, you win no points for admitting...
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