He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl (same thing in my book),
And he called for more Caris O’Malley. [it rhymes; deal with it]
This review is premised on the audio version of the text—not the official publisher’s edition, rendered with impeccable delivery by Maya Angelou, but instead, the critically acclaimed and harder-to-find bootleg version read by Pat Buchanan at CPAC 2010, live from Rooms 3A-B at the New Orleans Convention Center [because that whiny bitch Michael Steele had already reserved the Grand Rooms, 4A-B, for his poetry slam where attendance at An Evening with Jack Kerouac and Alan Ginsberg (read by Haley Barbour and Bobby Jindall and based on Barbour’s doctoral dissertation) drew a capacity crowd made up largely of Log Cabin Republicans and a delegation from Guam].
Buchanan’s heartfelt reading stood up to the challenges of the smaller rooms with poorer acoustics, and only suffered once due to a surprising outburst by a large, hot dog-smelling, mustachioed local shouting, “Myrna Minkoff, you slut!” in the direction of the Palins, all 53 of them, before being subdued by teamsters and an especially butch LCR member of one sex or the other. Indeed, it is Buchanan’s professionalism and flawless delivery which earns this reviewer’s coveted Fifth Star. So flawless is the delivery that an agent, claiming to represent The Gregory Brothers, declined an opportunity to Auto-Tune Buchanan’s presentation saying: You don’t fuck with art [or, Art, but I don’t believe for a second that Art actually attended the conference]. For a better sense of the ever-lyrical Buchanan, please consider this Crank it!
BTW, the book’s pretty damned good as well. The only question I still have is: Is Madame Rain still waiting for that call?
As I’ve indicated in my profile: the difference between a 4-star vote and a 5-star vote is that I not only liked the title, but also that I was lucky enough to read it at the right time. This book came at the right time, exactly the right time. As of today, this volume takes its rightful place on my actual bookshelves between Flannery O’Connor and George Orwell—now, I’m truly afraid.