with dilated pupils and wanderlust. Billy Woods needs to drop another
damn solo joint already. Scribblenauts will win over your
girlfriend. Everybody needs to read more Jamie Delano shit.
First and foremost I think I'm just fucking done with Lethem. Rewind,
FF, shuffle, delete: started off with Motherless Brooklyn on a friend's
recommend, more or less blown away by the verve with which he smacked
around the deteck-noir genre. Note to self at the time: watch the
kid. Later I 5fing his Gun, With Occasional Music. Again i'm floored
and impressed. By now he's in the zone; but I forget about him. Peep
Men and Cartoons, for good money this time, lovely, but some shorts
fare better than others. All gravy.
Then I pick up The Fortress of Solitude.
Rewind again: sitting in a snazzy lil auditorium at SUNY Albany, a
lanky gentlemen with costello frames and a humble attitude reads
selections from the book in question. He pronounces the voices of the
brooklyn brats playing chess on the stoop, getting some laughs from
the students forced to listen by yawning English profs who lounge in
seats somewhat nearby; lionesses fed and aware of their cubs. I think
to myself, this'll be a good'un. And yeah I get my copy of MB signed,
to boot.
I crack the book years and a life later. What starts strong
degenerates into a fucking mess. Violence, death, cruelty and pop
culture reconfigured with a fulla shit protag you want to repeatedly
smack in the eye. It's Grandmaster Forrest Gump somewhat. Lethem's well-touted ability for memory itches, or the often beautiful sentence structure helps the medicine go down - I have to make this admission for the worst of his books. The fond recall of old Brooklyn is nice but fuck
it, that's child's play and well trodden; besides, been there, done
that in a sense. The second half doesn't crumble as much as it
collapses upon itself, like the dying t-1000 - sub nerd shame for the
liquid nitro. There's also the presence of an arguable mystical negro figure, which I'm sure we all agree is what his books were lacking.
Staying away from the man's work at this point. We cop an autograph
at the Brooklyn book fest, after his talk with Eggers who I'm
embarassed to say I haven't read yet. The staged convo was nice, as
we approach for our ink I barely recognize the guy from 3 years ago.
I see a chubby satisfied unkempt slightly douchy public defense
lawyer. I attempt to start some conversation about Omega The Unknown,
a rumor at the time. He flutters his hand and dismisses the talking
point: "i'm not really involved, it's more a writing credit thing.".
He impatiently stares at the next man behind me waiting with a copy of MB,
I savor the possibility that this vision dismays him, like Burgess
working his whole life on the follow up hit that never came. Then,
realizing I am now wishing ill on the man, I take a hint from myself and move on.
Fucker. So glad you can take little bullshit profit projects, riding
on the inelegent syllables of your surname to move units on a title you don't even care enough about to discuss. Bravo.
Oh, then I buy an advance proof of Chronic City for a buck on a sidewalk table of used books. What a load of utter shit. Pothead
politicking and labored prose. Some pretty moments, but overall like a
bollywood version of DeLillo's untouchable opus Underworld (I mean that in the bad way but the truth is this actually sounds like a fun idea). Also, the unveiling of Protagonist You Want To Smack In The Eye Part Deux...except this time I think he's doing it on purpose?
He is officially now writing beyond his means. Gone from having fun with experimental genre work, he now attempts epics to make people giggle at how clever he is. Like so, I'm done with him.
(P.S. Girl in Landscape was also pretty good)
End first mobile transmission, to the sounds of the new Raekwon joint.
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