Problematic, but utterly predictable: I'm so in love with Malcom Gladwell I want to put on a dress made of curtains and run through the Swiss Alps.
I just read a review of his work which calls it engaging but over-simplified. I don't know if I agree with the latter characterization, but regardless, I couldn't care less. If it were true, it wouldn't bother me a bit; I've come to terms with the fact that I'm not nearly as smart as I thought I was. Quite frankly, I'm sick of feeling stupid. Over-simplified? Keep simplifying and then send it my way. I tell you honestly, family: the sheer weight of things that astound and mystify me on a daily basis should be a cause for concern.
That's all immaterial, of course, as it doesn't account for why I suddenly want to just scoop this man up and carry him around in my pocket and occasionally take him out so that we can make big, nappy-headed babies.