Bad ReviewAmy Gerstler
Here we have a song sung while drunk. Published in Europe as Believe Every Moment Holy, and in Asia, where they like longer titles, as Golden Lotus Takes a Wild Bronco Ride Astride a Paradise of Errors, the prose reads as though proclaimed by headless angels on horseback brandishing tuning forks and socket wrenches while howling in thousand year old slang, or as if hissed into existence by hippo hipped washer- women who insist on illustrating the narrative by flapping their wet, red hula dancer hands. Willfully stripped of interesting elements, what remains is gamey as goat’s milk at rutting time: a lot of boo-hooing, confessions of bedwetting, a mania for overexplanation, and yet a sense that the writer is a muzzled drudge who was whipped with a belt as a child. The disclaimer appended at the end of this wicked testimonal resembles a round of forced applause wrung from an audience threatened by heavily armed gunmen. One pictures the author, a stricken, would-be Romeo quietly sucking his thumb. Having acquitted himself rather miserably here he just wants to lie back in the scratchy weeds in the vacant lot behind his house, counting his misdeeds and the insects in his whirling halo of fleas, plotting arson and awaiting his next erection.
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