It’s best to know this from the start: Augusten Burroughs is mean. Augusten Burroughs is also outrageously X-rated. If you can get past those two things, Burroughs might just be the most refreshing voice in American books today, and his collection of acerbic essays will have you laughing out loud even while cringing in your seat. Whether he is stepping on the fingers of little children or giving you the blow-by-blow on a very unholy act, Burroughs manages to do it in a way that fills conflicted fans with both horror and glee.

Spanning from the surprisingly Machiavellian portrayal of his role in a Tang commercial at age seven to his more recent foray into dog ownership, Burroughs has what seems to be an endless supply of offbeat life experiences. Much like earlier David Sedaris collections (Barrel Fever or Naked), there are occasional fits and starts in the flow of the writing, but ultimately, Magical Thinking is worth reading (and re-reading). If you’re familiar with Burroughs's memoirs, Running with Scissors, and Dry, you may find parts of Magical Thinking repetitive, since these essays bounce around in time between the other two. In fact, in an ideal world, this collection would have come first, as it offers an excellent introduction to Burroughs's fascinating life.


From Publishers Weekly
A psychological term, "magical thinking" describes the belief that one exerts more influence over events than one actually does. Burroughs, who spent childhood days stepping on cracks to see if his mother's back would break, possesses a wealth of magical thought. Like Dry and Running with Scissors, this collection showcases Burroughs's sharp, funny and sometimes brilliant writing. Burroughs views his life through a lens of self-deprecation, and the result is pieces like "My Last First Date," describing the first time he met his current boyfriend. After only a short conversation, he fumbles into joking about his life, to the horror of his date, and realizes, "I must ease people into the facts of me, not deposit large, undigested chunks of my history at their feet. Too much of me is toxic." Fortunately, his companion has a high threshold for toxicity, and most readers will, too. Burroughs's smooth prose, peppered with charming and awkward moments, is occasionally reminiscent of David Sedaris and David Rakoff. But he's no imitator of those essayists. Rather, Burroughs ambles toward insight in a continual state of self-examination and just happens to have peculiar adventures along the way, like drowning a mouse in his bathtub, attending the Barbizon School of Modeling and complaining that the "new gay thing in Manhattan" is adopting babies instead of buying shar-pei puppies. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.


From Bookmarks Magazine
A small breath of ennui chills the generally good reviews for Burroughs’s latest memoir. His bestselling debut Running with Scissors and his follow-up, Dry, were met with excitement. But the strain of keeping the shtick alive is showing. Instead of the coherent narrative of his first books, Burroughs presents a collection of true stories that provokes shock, laughter, disgust, and pity in equal proportions. The cynical critics feel that he’s prey to the psychological disorder of his title, trying to make himself more interesting just by thinking about himself. But his supporters—fans, really—point to his distinctive voice and the courage of his unflinching honesty as the continuing marks of his brilliance. Copyright © 2004 Phillips & Nelson Media, Inc.


From AudioFile
Augusten Burroughs, bestselling author of DRY and RUNNING WITH SCISSORS, offers a new collection of humorous essays searching for signs of intelligent life in his universe and, usually, not finding it. Magical thinking, according to psychologists, is the belief that one exerts more influence over life events than one actually does, and if magical thinking is a malady, then Burroughs has it. Reading with delicious irony, Burroughs explores the outrageous side of life--his life. There's the hilarious account of Augusten, star-struck teen actor, getting cut from a TV Tang commercial because he wants to "emote" and a seriously bizarre encounter by an older Augusten with an undertaker in a funeral parlor. Burroughs reads well; his perspective is witty, and his essays, appealing and agreeably shocking. S.J.H. © AudioFile 2005, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine


From Booklist
*Starred Review* Like fellow essayists David Sedaris and Jonathan Ames, Burroughs possesses a mind-set best described as superlatively disturbed. Following his two unnerving best-sellers, Running with Scissors (2002) and Dry (2003), the self-described "alcoholic, high-school dropout raised in a cult by a crazy psychiatrist" unleashes a brand-new collection of deliciously lurid true tales. In "I Dated an Undertaker," a steamy sexual act is performed in the onetime viewing room for Rose Kennedy's wake. "Telemarketing Revenge" reveals a raunchy solution for relentless nocturnal callers. And in "Debby's Requirements," a diminutive, passive-aggressive cleaning lady takes the unsuspecting author to court. Burroughs is a proponent of "magical thinking," the belief that a person can control the world with his mind. (It's like a grown-up version of "Step on a crack and break your mother's back.") In the title story, his wish for the demise of a moody, expletive-spewing boss is granted, though not by means of a moving bus, as he would have liked. Steroid-induced cleaning sprees; prickly encounters with priests; a nerve-shredding session with a sadistic dentist's drill--brimming with bawdy language and bodily fluids, this volume by a man "made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions," offers an irresistible display of sanity hanging by a thread. Allison Block
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved


Book Description
From the number-one bestselling author of Running with Scissors and Dry comes Augusten Burroughs's most eagerly anticipated collection yet: true stories that give voice to the thoughts that we all have but dare not mention.

It begins with a Tang Instant-Breakfast Drink television commercial:

"Yes, you, Augusten. You were great. We want you." I can now trace my manic adult tendencies to this moment. It was the first time I felt deeply thrilled about something just a fraction of an instant after being completely crushed. I believe those three words "We want you" were enough to cause my brain to rewire itself, and from then on, I would require more than other people....- from Magical Thinking's "Commercial Break"

A contest of wills with a deranged cleaning lady. The execution of a rodent carried out with military precision and utter horror. Telemarketing revenge. A different kind of "roof work." Dating an undertaker who shows up in a minivan. This is the fabric of Augusten Burroughs's life: a collection of true stories that are universal in their appeal yet unabashedly intimate, stories that shine a flashlight into both dark and hilarious places. With Magical Thinking, Augusten Burroughs goes where other memoirists fear to tread.



From the Inside Flap
Praise for Augusten Burroughs "A wrenching, edifying journey…with the added benefit of being really entertaining." - The New York Times Book Review on Dry "Beneath the quick-flowing, funny-sad surface of Burroughs's prose lurks considerable complexity." - Time on Dry "A great read." - Chicago Sun-Times on Dry "Dry is more than a heartbreaking tale; it's a heroic one." - People on Dry "Laughter on the road to sobriety…for aficionados of outrageous black comedy." - The New York Times on Dry "Bawdy, outrageous…insanely funny (quite literally)…a William Burroughs situation comedy." - The New York Times on Running with Scissors "Running with Scissors, as a memoir in the current conventional sense, makes a good run at blowing every other contender out of the water." - The Washington Post on Running with Scissors "Outrageously amusing…wait until you get a load of this guy's material.… He can consider this a fan letter. Grade A." - Entertainment Weekly on Running with Scissors "As funny as it is twisted." - GQ on Running with Scissors


From the Back Cover
Praise for Augusten Burroughs

"A wrenching, edifying journey...with the added benefit of being really entertaining."
- The New York Times Book Review on Dry

"Beneath the quick-flowing, funny-sad surface of Burroughs's prose lurks considerable complexity."
- Time on Dry

"A great read."
- Chicago Sun-Times on Dry

"Dry is more than a heartbreaking tale; it's a heroic one."
- People on Dry

"Laughter on the road to sobriety...for aficionados of outrageous black comedy."
- The New York Times on Dry

"Bawdy, outrageous...insanely funny (quite literally)...a William Burroughs situation comedy."
- The New York Times on Running with Scissors

"Running with Scissors, as a memoir in the current conventional sense, makes a good run at blowing every other contender out of the water."
- The Washington Post on Running with Scissors

"Outrageously amusing...wait until you get a load of this guy's material.... He can consider this a fan letter. Grade A."
- Entertainment Weekly on Running with Scissors

"As funny as it is twisted."
- GQ on Running with Scissors



About the Author
Augusten Burroughs is the New York Times bestselling author of Dry, Running with Scissors, and Sellevision. He lives in New York City and Amherst, Massachusetts.



Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Commercial Break


When I was seven, I was plucked from my uneventful life deep in darkest Massachusetts and dropped into a Tang Instant Breakfast Drink commercial. It was exactly like being abducted by aliens except without the anal probe. I was a lonely kid with entirely imaginary friends. I played with trees.

Then, one day during penmanship class, a white van pulled up in front of our little gray schoolhouse, and the men from Tang climbed out. My elementary school sat atop a low grassy hill in the center of Shutesbury, a small New England town that was so "small New England
town" one had the sensation of existing within a snow globe at a souvenir shop. The mailboxes at the local post office had ornate brass doors with etched-glass windows. There was a white church with solid mahogany pews and a pipe organ. A small red library was tucked on the edge of the town square and carried books about local birds and field mice. It was retchingly quaint.

Of course, in this wholesome idyllic community, my school was the anchor. It was a gray clapboard building, two stories tall, with shutters. There was a steeple on top and inside a bell that worked. The door was bright red. There were two apple trees on either side. The playground consisted of a sandbox, two swing sets, and an area of blacktop on which was painted a hopscotch outline.

Now that I am an adult and have wasted much of my life as an advertising executive, I can easily imagine the conversation that must have taken place among the occupants of that van, upon their seeing my schoolhouse.

"So Cronkite was grilling the guy, you know? Just really asking the tough questions. Then they cut away to Nixon, and boy oh boy, you should have seen his face. It was li-"


"Jesus fucking Christ, Mitch. Get a load of that."

"Huh? Oh, mother of fucking God. STOP THE VAN."

"Christ, there's even a bell on top."

"Love those trees. But are those actually apples? Christ, yes, those are apples. The client's gonna hate that. Apples clash with the orange flavor."

"So we'll cut 'em down and throw up a couple of maple trees. What's the fucking difference?"

"You know, you couldn't build a set this perfect in Burbank, you really couldn't. This is so New England schoolhouse. We have hit pay dirt, gents. I think we've got a few triple martinis ahead of us tonight."

I was sitting in Mrs. Ames's tedious penmanship class looking out the window when the white van pulled into the circular driveway. I watched as a window was rolled halfway down and two lit cigarettes were tossed out. Then the doors opened, and the men stepped out.

Mrs. Ames noticed, too, because she paused in the middle of looping a D. When she turned her ancient neck to the window, my mind added the sound effect of a branch creaking under the weight of snow before it snaps. I was quite sure that Mrs. Ames was one of the original
settlers of the town. She once said that television was "nonsense, just a fad like radio."

Visitors were uncommon at our school. Especially visitors dressed in dark suits, wearing sunglasses, and carrying black briefcases. These were like the men who followed President Nixon around and whispered things in his ear.

"Remain seated and do not talk," Mrs. Ames said, glaring at us down the point of her nose. "I shall return in a moment." She quickly brushed her hands down the front of her heavy gray wool skirt to remove any wrinkles. She straightened the dainty single pearl that hung around her neck, centering it perfectly between her breasts, which were certainly bound with ace bandages beneath her crisp white shirt.

The group of men removed their sunglasses in unison, raised their chins in the air, and inhaled. I could tell they were inhaling because they slapped at their chests and flared their nostrils. It
was a familiar gesture. Many of my mother's friends from New York City or Boston did the same thing when they came to Shutesbury.

Personally, I could never understand why, because the air was thick with pollen and insects. If one wanted fresh air, why not just open the door to the clothes drier and stick your face in there?

One of the men approached the school, came right up to the window, and knocked on the wood next to the glass. "It's real, all right," he called back to his associates.

A moment later, Mrs. Ames joined the men outside and, to my horror, smiled. I'd never seen Mrs. Ames smile before, and the thought had never occurred to me that such an act was even possible for her. But there it was, her mouth open in the white daylight, her teeth exposed. One of the men stepped forward, removed his sunglasses, and said something to her. She touched her hair with her hand and laughed. Kimberly Plumme, who liked to insert marbles into her vagina at recess, said, "Gross." Her lips frowned in disgust. I myself was horrified to see Mrs. Ames laugh. And then blush. To see her in such a state of obvious bliss was unbearable. I had to look away.

Eventually, Mrs. Ames walked back into the room, and I watched her legs, all plump and plastic-looking through her support hose. She wore high heels of an unfashionable style that made a sharp, angry sklack against the tile floor when she walked. She was kind only to the girls. And by "kind," I mean she was not mean. She was punishing to the boys, even the prissy, girly boys like me. But for once, she had something to say that interested me.

"Children, children, may I have your attention please?" She clapped her hands together quickly. Smacksmacksmacksmacksmack.

But this was unnecessary because she already had our full attention.

We'd been sitting there waiting for her, not daring to breathe lest we disturb the balance of the universe, causing her to fall and die and then not be able to tell us why the men had come to our school.

Or worse: somehow cause the men to simply drive away.

"We have some very special surprise guests here today." She looked to the door and nodded, and the men entered the room. "Hi kids," they said. "Hi there, everyone."

It was thrilling to hear them speak in their deep, baritone voices and to see, up close, the dark razor stubble that shadowed their chins. At the same time, an exotic aroma entered the room, one that made me feel light-headed and flushed, like I'd been on a pogo stick.

Only as an adult would I be able to name this intoxicating scent: English Leather.

Mrs. Ames continued. "These men are from New York City. And I hope you all know where New York City is. Because we have studied our geography quite a bit this year. Does everyone here know where New York City is?"

We nodded yes, but we all thought, What's the matter with you, crazy old witch? Why is your face so red?

Although it alarmed me to recognize that my own face was red, as well. Something about the presence of the men made both Mrs. Ames and me turn red and become hot. The fact that we had this in common made me wonder what was wrong with me.

"Good. Well, then. These men are here to make a television commercial."

Here, I almost peed. She might as well have told me that as of today, I never had to come to school ever again and for that matter was free to hit anybody I wanted to, without being punished. I lived for television commercials. The only reason I watched TV was so that I
could see the commercials. Faberge Organics Shampoo: "I told two friends. And they told two friends. And so on . . . and so on . . . and so on." Or my current favorite: "Gee, your hair smells terrific!"

I was also fond of the commercial with the dog chasing the chuck wagon underneath the kitchen sink: "It makes its own rich gravy." I watched one of the men scan the faces in the room. Occasionally he would jab his friend on the shoulder and nod in the direction of one
of the students. As I was watching him he caught my eye and smiled. I thought he was a very friendly man, very nice. I admired his crisp dark suit, white shirt, and black tie. His hair was thick and glossy, combed back. I smiled at him. He nudged his friend and nodded in my
direction, and then the other man looked at me. He smiled, too. I wanted to jump up out of my seat and run to the men, hugging them around the legs. I wanted to lick the hair on their wrists.
Mrs. Ames announced to the class, "These men would like to use our schoolhouse in a commercial for their special beverage. It's called Tang. Do any of you know Tang?"

There were gasps in the room. Of course we knew Tang, the orange crystalline powder that the astronauts brought with them to outer space. I loved Tang and would sometimes eat it by the teaspoon, straight from the jar. I loved the green label, the orange lid. The way the lid was extra wide and easy to unscrew. I even liked the paper eardrum that was over the mouth of the lid when you first opened the jar. You had to puncture the eardrum with a spoon, and
printed on top was "Tang, Tang, Tang."

My mother despised Tang. "I've just made this fresh tangerine juice and put it into this nice clay pitcher I bought at the Leverette Arts Center, and you want that god-awful artificial junk."
She did like cinnamon DYNAMINTS, though.

Mrs. Ames told us that the men from the van wanted to use some of us in their commercial.
"Not all of you, now. Only some of you. They're going to have to choose."

Instantly, the students began raising their hands. Except for me.

Some voice inside me said, "Don't do it. It's beneath you."

Instead, I sat politely at my desk with my hands clasped firmly together. I was very pleased that I'd thought to wear my fourteen-karat-gold electroplated ID bracelet that day. One thing was certain: I would be in their Tang commercial. And if any of the other children tried to get in my way, I would use my pencil to blind them.

"So these men would like to separate everybody into groups and then ask each group a few questions."

Chaos erupted as the kids began to screech with excitement. Desks were shoved back, chairs knocked over. Mrs. Ames tried to gain control of her students by slapping her ruler against the edge of her globe. "Now, now, now, silence! Stop this! Children, come to attention at once!"

Reluctantly, the class came to attention, facing the flag and placing their hands over their hearts, ready to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

"No, not that," she said. "Just stand still and be silent."

Eventually, we were split up into groups of three. Then group by group the men met with the kids.

I stared hatefully at the back of Lisa Tucker's fat head. I was trying to determine where the odor she emitted was coming from. A hole? Some sort of vent for her brain? I hated Lisa, and so did everyone else. She smelled like feet and something worse, something spoiled and eggy. And she was mean. She was a strong girl who pushed the boys around. Her older brother, Tommy, was one of the big kids who went to the new school down the street. Once he hit me so hard he knocked the wind out of me. I wished that Lisa and Tommy would go swimming in the ocean and be eaten by Jaws. Surely the men would know not to cast her in their commercial.

When it was finally my turn, the men were tired, as evidenced by their loosened ties and the large wet spots that spread from under their arms. They'd spoken to all thirty kids and had notes splayed out on the table in front of them. They looked funny sitting in our small chairs, which had never seemed small before.

The man who had first smiled at me said, "Hi guys. So do any of you want to be in a commercial?" He looked at me when he said this, and I got the feeling that he had already chosen me. His eyes said, You are special and better than all the other children, and I would like you to come live with me and my blue eyes in a city far away from here. His eyes said, I will save you.

We all nodded our heads yes.

"Good then. Good. So what I want to do is, I want to see if you can laugh. I'm gonna tell you a joke, and I just want to see what you sound like when you laugh. Ready?"

The other children nodded, I thought, like puppets. I smiled and winked at him, like I'd seen people do on TV.

He winked back and nudged the man on his left.

"Okay," he said. Then he raised his voice and made a comical face.

"Your mother wears army boots!"

Neither of the other kids laughed.

I tossed my head back in an explosion of delight and laughed so hard I was able to bring tears to my eyes. My face was flushed, my hands dripping with sweat from the pressure.

"Wow," said the man. "You really liked that joke, did you?"

His friend turned to him. "Yeah, Phil, you're a real laugh-riot."

I quickly looked back and forth between the two men, but I wasn't sure what was going on between them. Had I laughed before the punch line? Or was it a trick joke? Had I just blown my chance?

"Do you kids like Tang?" he asked.

The other two kids nodded grimly.

"I love Tang!" I gushed. "Only I like to make it with an extra scoop. Plus, you can put it in ice cube trays and then freeze it! That's really good."

Where had that come from? I'd never in my life frozen Tang.

"That's great!" said the man with the blue eyes who was going to take me away to live with him in a penthouse apartment.

All of the men exchanged a look. Then my man said, "Thanks a lot, kids."

Disgusting Evan and retarded Ellen immediately pushed their chairs back from the table and fled. But I was crushed, stunned, so I moved in slow motion, carefully rising from my chair. They might as well run over me with their white Tang van now, I thought.

"Uh, no. Not you. What's your name?"

"Augusten?" I said.

"Yes, you, Augusten. You were great. We want you." It was the man with the blue eyes speaking, and now I had my confirmation: he adores me, too. Instantly, my mood reversed, and I began to grind my teeth in joy.

I can now trace my manic adult tendencies to this moment. It was the first time I felt deeply thrilled about something just a fraction of an instant after being completely crushed. I believe those three words "We want you" were enough to cause my brain to rewire itself, and from then on, I would require MORE than other people. At the same time, my tolerance for alcohol was instantly increased, and a new neural pathway was created for the future appreciation of crack cocaine and prescription painkillers.

"You want me?" I said, containing my enthusiasm so completely that I probably appeared disinterested.

"Well, yeah. Don't you want to be in the commercial?"

"Well, yeah. A lot." I tried to imitate an excited boy. I was excited but somehow unable to express the actual emotion of excitement. My electrical system was all off now.

"Good," he said clapping his hands. Then he slid a stack of papers across the table. "Then you need to take these home and have your parents read them over very carefully. We're going to be back Monday."


Copyright 2004 by Augusten Burroughs

FROM OUR EDITORS

Augusten Burroughs is always prepared for the worst. When Running with Scissors came out, he expected it to sell "about seven copies." Instead, this meandering self-exploration turned into a national bestseller. Even Burroughs gained optimism: "It was just great. It allowed me to continue writing and not have to publish myself at Kinko's." By the evidence of Magical Thinking, Kinko's has permanently lost a client and we have gained an engaging author. Burroughs himself describes these true stories as "weird things that have happened to me." The weird things include an epic contest of wills with a deranged cleaning lady; a story about the emotional complexity of rodent annihilation; and a cautionary history of failed first dates. Touching; twisted; absolutely magical.

FROM THE PUBLISHER

A contest of wills with a deranged cleaning lady. The execution of a rodent carried out with military precision and utter horror. Telemarketing revenge. A different kind of "roof work." Dating an undertaker who drives a mini-van. This is the fabric of Augusten Burroughs's life: a collection of true stories that are universal in their appeal yet unabashedly intimate, stories that shine a flashlight into both dark and hilarious places.

FROM THE CRITICS

Publishers Weekly

It would be tempting to call these highly personal and uninhibited essays painfully honest, except that Burroughs (Running with Scissors; Dry) is so forthright about his egocentricity that the revelations don't appear to cause him much pain. He approaches his material with a blithe tone that oozes sarcasm and crocodile tears. But the palpable humor of the writing itself endears listeners to him enough that they won't be completely repelled by even Burroughs's ugliest moments (which include his less than gallant reaction to accidentally stepping on a toddler's fingers in a store). His performance is off the cuff, but even when he's at his least humane, he still comes across as all too human. He adopts the same openness that made his previous memoirs-dealing with his bizarre upbringing and battle with addiction-so successful; now, however, he's focusing on less serious subject matter and displaying failings that are more vain. Burroughs excels in his personifications of others, whether portraying a domineering cleaning woman or an overbearing boss. While some may secretly wish for the death of such a boss, though, Burroughs admits openly and proudly that he believes he can will it to happen. That attitude, which is accentuated by his reading, makes this audiobook a true guilty pleasure. Simultaneous release with the St. Martin's hardcover (Forecasts, July 12). (Oct.) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

Like Burroughs's earlier books (Running with Scissors; Dry) these humorous stories draw on the author's unstable childhood, work in advertising, struggle with alcoholism, and quest for fulfillment as a writer and a gay man. They treat a wide range of topics, from a gay couple's search for a summer home to homosexuality in the Catholic priesthood. Whether writing about the prevalence of steroid use by gay men or the murder of a mouse in the bathtub, Burroughs uses the same light touch. While his stories may at times shock or even disgust readers, they are redeemed in the end by laughter. Like the narrator in the title story, Burroughs wants to believe he has some control over the universe, or at least a tenuous connection to a higher power. A gifted satirist, Burroughs offers hilarity in the face of despair, and loyal readers of his earlier best sellers will welcome this new collection. Recommended for public libraries. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 6/15/04.]-William Gargan, Brooklyn Coll. Lib, CUNY Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

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