I know girls who listen to Frank doing the girl-punk-slut Sylvie just to see how its done. How a girl talks when shes talking with her pussy. How to tease an ear with a tongue, at a distance. There’s nobody like Frank doing pussy.
“What do you like, Thorn? What do you like to
DO? You know, in the green grass….Outside… Or, inside…”
Or, “Wanna take the afternoon off? Put your mind on hold for a while? Take the stairway to heaven?”
With that low, raspy, throaty voice that is a man’s voice pretending to be a woman’s mouth, this reading is an infinite, indeclinable invitation.
Self-righteous, five foot eleven cunt-cop does a “If I have to choose between doing the right thing and ratting on my cop-boyfriend I’d rather be a cunt” and spoils this perfectly curious re-take of vice-cop falls in love with wretched and beautiful prostitute.
Don’t you hate it when the PROTAGONIST is a jerk?
There’s nothing like a kitchen-fuck, standing up against an old refrigerator, the ketchup bottle and the jar of mayo rolling around inside, the bag of peaches falling off the top…. There’s nothing like two cops, fucking. But its a signature love scene, painterly, pointilistic, confessional. Mushrooming metaphors. And very very good.
Warped, lusty, utterly female voice of this slut-goddess kicks you in the groin, cuffs you to the radiator, and feeds you sex and ham sandwiches. “You belong to me, D-o-l-l” she says to Steve Carella. And you do. Or want to. As does Steve Carella, detective and good guy of the 87th precinct as this pungent and powerful, crook, girlfriend of crook, tortures him, addicts him to heroine and milks him for information. Incredible unequalled performance by a girl.
Aristotle says that there are three sexes: men, women, and short women.
This book is about that third sex: short, married, murderous women with
happy helpful husbands and perky breasts. The kind who play tennis in the
morning and spend the afternoon decorating the guest bathroom. The
kind who think that wife #3 means she gets 3 furs. These women may be found in
“… Shelter Magazines – the ones that feature homes of couples so rich you know they don’t sleep together.”
But something goes very wrong in the life of one member of this sheltered sex. Something not very motherly, not very wifely, and the handsome, widowed 50 year old Elizabeth who happens to be in love with a cop, finds out what it is. In short, a fun, amusing murder in the suburbs.
Incongruous, unlovable, post-Vietnam:
a weatherman and a reporter make the Minnesota TV newsroom hummm. Dixie
Quinn locks into the weather and doesn’t let go. Rick Beanblossom, burn-victim,
works behind the scenes, behind his mask. Their curious, uneven characterizations
are ambushed midway by a grim, hopeless plot.
Quotes: “Y’all take care now” (The weatherman’s last words)
Jesus Mary and Joseph in Rocksburg, Pa. Heartflipping. Smile wrenching. Honestagawd. Self-conscious, thoughtful, slightly misaligned human being, good son, and Detective Sergeant Acting Chief, Rocksburg Police, Rugs [”because some people think they can walk all over me”] Carlucci, falls in love while investigating death of sociopath baseball legend. Utter-fuckingly wonderful. K.C. Constantine does Dego America, Pa., talking.
Connor O’Brien, our man in Pluto, does Tanenbaum, and all of his staggeringly brilliant, souls: Butch Karp, ex pro basketball player & New York A.D.A.; Mar-LENE, his smart, sexy, Sicilian one-eyed private eye wife; ex-cop Dead Harry, who props up the depressive position; Tron, Viet Cong assassin & Noodle maker, who helps Mar rid harried, scared and stalked NYC females of pathologically hostile lovers and wife-beaters when he’s not reading Rimbaud; Posie, simple jolly slut and full time pot-smoking nanny of the Karp twins, Zik & Zak, diplomat and gun-nut; Lionel Waley, Ace defense attorney, wizard of legal motions, who wins the final basketball game in court. Swish.
Publisher: Chivers North America,Pub Date: p2000.
The Pushcart War between elevator operators and rich prick fathers with beautiful daughters.