(no subject)
I didn't expect it to be a good book, exactly, but I expected it to be more fun, a guilty pleasure rather than an embarrassment. More than anything it made me feel bad for Johnny Weir, because more than anything he comes across as a lovely young man whose self-conscious preening and loud pronouncements on his love of his sport sound to the attentive ear like music played loudly to drown the insistent muttering of regret. Frankly, all that figure skating shit seems even more awful than I'd already assumed it to be, a catty, backbiting sport that is mostly embarrassed by its own artistry.
A review of Welcome to My World, by IOZ.