On Social Media+Short Review

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Image Credit: geralt/pixabay.com

I’m always late to the party. It took me a long time to join Facebook (I hardly understand it, but I post on it whenever I remember the thing— I’m trying.) Twitter was the first social network I was glad to join; I still kind-a like it, mostly because, it feels like I’m shouting into a vacuum, a vacuum with an echo. The same thing applies to G+ , I tried ‘engaging’ other writers and followers—like you’re supposed to—but I haven’t been very successful at it, I’m probably doing something wrong or maybe I’m just boring as a lead lollipop, who the fuck knows certainly not me. A lot of these places are starting to feel like déjà vu because they remind me of a High School popularity contest, or the good old—hey! Look at me! I’m cool, smart, pay attention to me! I hate that shit. But apparently that’s what a writer has to do nowadays; jump through hoops buddy- boy if you wish to make a dent.

It’s a brave new world I guess, I’m no big fan of the whole process but I’m trying.

Reading around the web I got to learn about GoodReads.com as a place for book lovers and writers, Yoo-hoo! I thought this is my kinda place. Well not so fast there cowboy, because as I kept reading I came to learned that it’s also a place where writers get their asses handed to them by other writers and especially by the most important people to a writer, yep that’s right: readers—well shit, I thought, who the fuck wants or need that? But of course after much pondering and after getting in touch with my sadistic side I decided to take the plunge, and join I did (If somebody decides to rip me a new one on there I’ll try to give zero fucks about it, been on it since September 2014, nothing bad so far) yet, it wasn’t until about two months ago that I finally got myself some friends on there, even got myself five followers—yeah baby. I’m on my way to popularity. Winning at life I say (kick me, please.)

I still find GoodReads somewhat intimidating, and of course the place it’s a fucking maze to navigate properly but I decided to post on it reviews of books that I really like and or enjoy, with that in mind, I’m re-posting here a short review of a book I read recently by the musician Nick Cave. I’ve never heard of the guy before, never heard any of his music (I’ve long past being hip, and ‘in the know’ when it comes to music.) as a matter of fact the only reason I got interested in the book was because of the blurb and the cover, I mean; look at it.

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                                                      I guess it says a lot about me huh?

Look, I like book covers which are irreverent, shocking or anti-PC. A combination of all three is the perfect trifecta, but hey, two out of three ain’t bad right? Anyway, I guess the public or somebody must have found the original book cover offensive because the only cover you’ll likely to find for the book seems to be the one with the bunny costume on it. (What the hell is going on with folks these days? Everyone gets easily offended, it’s like suddenly everyone’s become a frail little flower—wua, wua, wua, you hurt my feelings. Grow up already will ya?  Geesh,) sorry for the grumpy old man routine folks—it saddens me really, and it grinds my gears (mostly the later) bellow is the yawn inducing book cover.

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                                                                            Yawn

Okay enough bitching and whining, here’s my review of:

The Death of Bunny Munro by Nick Cave.

Bunny Munro is a bastard, a tragic figure, a modern age Lothario with sexual addiction tendencies accentuated by his predisposition for dreaming and daydreaming about the private parts of Avril Lavigne and Kylie Minogue, a man with a gift of the gab which incidentally makes him a successful beauty product salesman, and of course gets him in trouble along the way especially with the staff of the many fast food restaurants he visits.

I enjoyed the fact that a bunch of what goes on in the novel we read through the eyes of his nine year old son Bunny Junior who loves his encyclopedia as much as he loves his dad. When a writer goes on and on describing every little minutia of the scene, I tend to skip it, as I like to use my imagination to fill in the gaps, plus I find that shit boring as balls, not saying that Mr. Cave did that here a lot but in the instances in which he did, the writing was so good that I didn’t mind it that much. The novel is a breezy read a fact which I found a bit surprising since the adventure takes place in England and I thought he was going to use a lot of regional dialect.

Kafka meets Benny Hill, go read it.

Thank you, come again.

All For One

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Photo Credit: yeniguel/ pixabay.com

Once upon a time I was Porthos, the third Musketeer. The toughest of them all, the one with the crappiest name in literary history (I personally think that Ignatius Jacques Reilly takes the cake—Ignatius Geesh), anyway… I’m the one and only proud owner of the droopy mustachio who still manages to hold the undivided attention of the ladies of The Court, and they are plenty of nubile wonders this beautiful night. These lasses feed me all kinds of stinky cheeses, grapes, and grilled meats; while the Wine flows like the river Seine. Is that Constance Bonacieux?—I’d hit that, regardless of the consequences with D’Artagnan an indiscretion like that would bring upon me. She is fine as the best of wines.

Then I see her, she sees me. There’s a slow waltz—I can’t recall which one, we dance. Her long blond hair flowing to the rhythm of the string quartet. We kiss and it feels like I’m being kissed for the first time in my life. She tastes like the ripest of strawberries and smells of Patchouli.

Sir Lancelot shows up with his posse. That toothless Brit bastard trying to cramp my style. I whisked her away from the crowd, from the riff-raff, from the rapacious Brits; to the terrace I take her, where our only companions are the sound of crickets and a super moon.

Her name is Genevieve de Gasparin, and she tells me that she’s from the North; I tell her that I like the North as much—if not—more than the South, she smiles shyly, I give her a long wet kiss, then Sir Lancelot; that bangers and mash eating bastard found us. He waltzes in with Milady by his side, who seems to be enjoying the powder keg of a situation in which we find ourselves. Sir Lancelot produces his sword telling me that we have unfinished business. But as luck would have it, a gaggle of Genevieve’s nubile friends rush in saying that we should hit the dance floor.

They all left me there alone with that super moon; like a puppy without a home, eventually I follow the crowd inside. The lights are flickering like I’ve never seen them before, the bombastic sound of Sir Mix A-Lot’s ‘Baby Got Back’ flows from the ginormous speakers. Unbelievably all the dames in The Court begin to disrobe, to shake their collective booties, but then I wake up—Damn! I supposed I had that coming. Serves me right for going to bed right after eating a Three Musketeers Chocolate Bar.

Okay so, the preceding narrative was just me making shit up. My question is dear reader: Do you ever have lucid dreams? The type where smells, sounds and touch are as palpable as the screen before you? If so, do you remember them, can you recall them in vivid detail? If you can do those things I envy you, you should consider yourself lucky as for me, I’m just gonna turn this off and hit the hay, hopefully I’ll run into Genevieve de Gasparin, she sounds lovely don’t you think? No chocolat for me though.

I wonder, what I would dream about if, I was to eat a giant burrito? Or a live octopus a la Old Boy. How about a taco, a falafel, a baleada, a pupusa—oh great now I’m hungry.

Sweet Dreams.