Andrew Young, the John Edwards aide who initially jumped on a grenade for his boss and claimed that he, not the newscaster-haired former Vice Presidential candidate, was the father of Edwards' mistress's love baby child, is going to make a literature. The Times reports that Young's book, published by St. Martin's Press, will be a memoir concerning that time his boss begged him to etc etc.
Also, because it is unlikely that you will read the Times article down to the last paragraph, there may or may not be a sex tape; you'll read more about that in reviews and Slate's Juicy Bits, when the book comes out.
My favorite person in the world is the editor of this forthcoming book, who will have to work with the author to pad a few damning and salacious anecdotes up into, what, 175 pages, without letting him put in too many boring solipsistic personal details. Or you know, actually just pretty much ghostwrite the book. And then explain to the "author" that nobody actually bought the book, because all the good parts will keep coming up in promotional TV interviews, reviews, news reports like the linked-to Times article, and blog posts like this one.
If we went through the whole process of promoting and discussing the book and its contents, without there actually being a book, would anybody mind? Can this happen? It's not like he'll make enough to cover his advance, really this would just save everybody a lot of time.
That — along with, you know, the stories about the USC football team gang-banging Clara Bow — is why Kenneth Anger's Hollywood Babylon is so genius: chapters are like four pages long. It's only the good parts, like a box of doughnut holes.