I have not yet seen the film version of Sendak’s Masterpiece Where the Wild Things Are. But in Paris I picked up a copy of Dave Egger’s The Wild Things- a book about a movie about a book. And I was incredibly disappointed. Who, exactly, does he think he is writing for? Not me, not anyone I can think of. There were all sorts of uncomfortable moments, difficult issues, not to mention violent moments and parts that seemed sexual (almost like a modern Red Riding Hood). I’d prefer not to pull apart the story and explain this more fully- I’d rather just forget the book. And so, while I was looking forward to the movie, I am now avoiding it. The only thing that could bring one to pick up this book is the McSweeney’s Packaging- it’ll get you every time.