A distressing picture of the unhappy situation of the losing class within a classless society. Grace is a 37 year old female loser within this losing class. She lives at the edge of a self-consciously wealthy Palm Beach ghetto of sectional wealth. She has a teenage bitch-daughter with a whine. She has an old dildo.
We meet her behind the cosmetics counter telling a very important hag that no product on earth will fix her face. She is summarily fired from this last of a series of pink collar jobs, after an earful of wise advice. Go to funerals. Find a very rich very lonely very old man. She does.
There are women who stalk Jewish funerals, offering to dispose of the dead wife’s clothes. Grace imitates them. She is good at it.
She finds a vital, vulnerable, well groomed well off Jew. She models the old clothes on her young shikse body. The rest is elementary.
Your average everyday Mohammedan maniac, trained
by your friendly neighbourhood terrorist, puts on a baseball cap,whistles
‘Freebird’ and disintegrates the 14th street bridge, the Dallas-Ft Worth
Airport, and suburban D.C. before his Tourist Visa even expires. Welcome
to America, stay as long as you want, come back anytime.
Very rye, very laid-back, low-brow, funny in a way only a Goombah from
NJ reading words with more than one syllable can do funny. Ferrone does
dumb Goombah so well you laugh twice at each joke: once at the reading,
once at the punchline. Burglar Bernie Roudhenbarr is trying to quit burgling.
Now he is selling used books, eating lunch with his lesbian dog-cleaner
friend, and thinking about what he read in jail. All of which would be
fine, and would in fact keep him out of jail, if only people stopped dropping
by and asking him to steal…
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)