BIRTH ( “I was born on my side, looking towards the floor. My mother was on her back, looking between her legs. It amazed me how a mother and son can have such different points of view.” ), DEATH ( “If there is a reason for everything, it better be a damn good one.” ), LOVE ( “Come on, it’ll be fun.” “But I hate you!” “And I love me. We have me in common.” ), SEX ( “Let me put it this way: the closest I had ever come to a vulva before twenty minutes ago was when my uncle wanted to show us the neighborhood-Christmas-lights and we all piled into his Volvo.” ), and EVERYTHING else ( “ Sure , there might be an infinite number of universes, but ours is the most important. Why else would all the big-name celebrities choose to live here?” ) can all be found in Falling Asleep to the Sound of Critics . Very generally, Falling Asleep to the Sound of Critics is a portrait of someone with a supernatural ability to use humor to deal with how weird everything is (not the least of which is our awareness that, at some point, the fat lady's gonna sing). A little less generally, Falling Asleep to the Sound of Critics is the portrait of an early life, from conception (" Aah maaan ...now I have to die someday... Thanks a lot ") to blackness right after death (in which Average White Band's Pick Up the Pieces plays over end credits). It's a commentary on the possibility of transcendence that love and humor can provide, as well as (to some degree) on the meanness—the hate—that pervades humanity. It's an account made from such a distance that just about everything can be played with...just about. Praise for Falling Asleep to the Sound of Critics : “I like this book. For one, the paper smells like petunias… Okay, I didn’t read the book; I just wanted to say the word “petunias”… But I do know the author, and I like him… For one, he smells like petunias.” —someone who's never met Lucas "I can't imagine a better history of post-war flourless desserts... It's not?... It is ?... Boy, was I off." —someone who will console themself with the idea that great works of art are open to interpretation “If I were a porn star, I’d order a copy of Falling Asleep to the Sound of Critics instead of a pizza… If I were the mayor of Rio de Janeiro, I’d promise everyone in the city a copy of Falling Asleep to the Sound of Critics in order to make Carnival just that much more festive… If I were an Olympic sprinter, I’d imagine a copy of Falling Asleep to the Sound of Critics waiting for me at the finish line... If I were in a U.F.O.'s public bathroom trying to convince my sphincters to relax, I’d say to the huge eyes that just walked in and made my body go into an Alcatraz-shaming lockdown (in order to make the extraterrestrial get out of there quickly), “Hey, d’ya hear they’re giving away free copies of Falling Asleep to the Sound of Critics in the cafeteria? [ door slam ]… Now , where was I?... Oh yeah . As I was saying, sphincters, you’re in the warm water of a tropical lagoon, a gentle breeze caressing your faces…”... [ 132 “if”s later ] If I were…well, you get the idea.” —someone with way too much time on their hands