On Social Media+Short Review

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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.

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