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Your name is Bret Easton Ellis and you started writing stories when you were 5. Your parents, a real estate analyst-developer (or something) and, well, your mom, sent you to Bennington College in Vermont, which is cold and very, very expensive (like, a lot, OK?), but you don’t have to take the SATs to get in (“Rock and roll!”) and you can major in creative writing, which you do. You work on a book about LA’s soulless youth culture—see rich kids do drugs, see them afraid to merge (a metaphor, OK?), see them, um, gang-rape a 12-year-old girl—and the book, written in affectless prose, is Less Than Zero. It gets published, then made into a movie staring Andrew McCarthy (lame) and Jami Gertz (hardbody), which flops right around the same time your second novel, the more sophisticated (multiple narrators/longer sentences/some characters even develop a little) Rules of Attraction, does, too. You get even with the critics—and every bad date you’ve ever had—in American Psycho, which is about Morality and Aesthetics and a serial killer. The book is gross, yeah, but very good and very funny; your best and way better than The Informers, which is, in a way, about vampires. Now there’s Glamorama, your “big book” about Fashion. In it, a male model with great abs named Victor (a character recycled from Rules) joins a group of terrorists who kill people and blow stuff up. The new book is big, sure, and uneven—sometimes boring and sometimes gross, but also—maybe, conceivably—very, very good. You read from Glamorama at 7 p.m. Thursday, Jan. 28, at Olsson’s Books & Records, 1200 F St. NW. Free. (202) 347-3686. (Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa)