A book I unfortunately can’t finish – not being able to reach the headset of Mann, Amis, Ginsburg or half of the other fellows this reviewer ties the book to. Maybe I could have related more if my trip to Venice was as Bellini-and-blow fueled as the narrator’s, who supposedly is a hero in a dumbass antihero’s costume. The reviewers say he is bored with his drug antics but at the age of 45, I’d say he is pretty damn lucky his heart hasn’t given out. I lost patience around the time the dude was shocked that his love interest said a smart thing, to which he replied (loosely quoted): “What are you doing talking like that, working in the art world?” “I know,” she tells him, “I am going to leave and become a hedge fund manager.”
But then we only know her by her mane, her smell, the turn of her ankle and sandals, nice dresses and underwear. As a Californian object she was so sweetly drawn that shit it was a shocker when she had something intelligent to say. He hardly knows her when before we all know it, they’re on to the ol’ 69. Acrobatic but so easy. Maybe I’m just jealous – why wasn’t my Venice Biennale like that?