Cheetah’s mom is dead. So’s his dad. He lives with his almost-deaf uncle Grant. His uncle plays a lot of solitaire and has a lot of different girlfriends. When Cheetah was in fourth grade, Uncle Grant was a volunteer fireman. He laughed a lot. He made casseroles and brought them…
These aren’t pictures of my cars. In fact, they may not even be pictures of the years of my cars. They are the color of my cars, the model, the make. The years, however, are a blur of heartbreak, manslaughter, and ice storms. Volvo 66: My mother conceived her second…
He orders tuna salad because he always orders tuna salad. Today, he also orders bacon potato soup. It’s too hot for soup. He likes to wipe his pretty mouth with the back of a hand. He sneers at the waitresses and only pays attention to the ones with fat tits….
Credit cards are bullshit in Cuba. Phones. Just leave them at home. I sit in the bulkhead. Neither of the hostesses does anything except stand next to me in the doorway, shifting with the turbulence and gossiping. Maybe about me. They withhold peanuts. The markings on the plane are Cyrillic….
She was no Ingrid. She was more of a Pat, or even a “Chuck,” but she was no Ingrid. An Ingrid would never own a truck stop on 85, and an Ingrid would never tell blue jokes to men who haven’t bathed in a couple weeks. When her daughter, my…
The best part of this English Civil War tale by Maria McCann is when Jacob, a murderer/rapist, gets his tooth yanked at the home of his idealist lover, a printing press operator who pees on his typeset letters, because he takes the tooth-pull with no anesthetic like a champ.
Marion Zimmer Bradley penned this beauty about trapeze artists living in what feels like the Great Depression, which is actually 1950-something (I think), and a guy called Mario, who, when he gets it on with his trapeze-mate, made me think of Mario Lopez kissing a stout redhead.
Michael Faber wrote this thick ol’ novel that starts off strong with juicy details, such as how-to abortions and the mucky skirts of a 19th century whore, but the myth of the crafty prostitute is like the myth of the bad-boy-motorcycle dude who cries at dead-dog parts in movies.
Written in 1975, this novel by Agustin Gomez-Arcos is chock full of metaphors about a dysfunctional family and Nationalist Spain and horny scenes about giving priests erections, and the incest is a nice touch.
Although I don’t remember too much about this book by Jerry Stahl—there might have been a titillating scene with a washing machine—I’ve lugged it with me to four residences, so it’s probably really good (I’ve tossed more for less: I could not fit Dante’s Inferno in box 18 of 42).