Saturday, July 22, 2006

They will try to tell you that King Dork, by Frank Portman, is a book. Do not be decieved. It is a joygasm in a box. Or, well, it would be, if you put it in a box.

It's like this. Excuse me while I get teenaged for a moment: Nobody understands me. Or actually, a lot of people probably do, but they're not talking about my situation, they're off talking about something else that, to be fair, is probably a lot more interesting. Most everyone who writes anything involving the state of living for a teenager these days in an average high school is living in some kind of fantasy world that I can only assume bears little relation to even their own childhood, let alone anything in the past decade. See my John Hughes-related rant from several months ago. Now, King Dork still seems a big exaggerated about certain points--mostly how overt people can be about hostility towards one, and of course about how much sexing the average dweeb royalty gets--but I get the feeling it's completely true in some high schools, just not mine. And the protagonist is me. I don't mean he's like me, I don't mean we share traits, I mean he's me. It's freaking scary. His surroundings are pretty different, but hell, he even has an army jacket he wears everywhere. The book is a surreal mishmash of highschool life, codes, conspiracy, tits, Catcher in the Rye, band names, pseudohippies, and murder investigation, but the plot is essentially incidental to the feel of it, the atmosphere, like an artsy movie. It's like talking to the best friend I never had. Just read the thing.

the monkey and the plywood violin

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