See, this is what I mean. Bookblogging isn’t all free books and good times. I mean, boring boring boring was free, sent to me by the good people at Featherproof Books who are REALLY VERY NICE! And I’m sure that young Zach Plague (not his real name) seems like a decent guy, but…sigh. If I were the sort of gal who made titular puns, I would say that boring boring certainly delivers as advertised. ZING!
boring boring boring boring boring – Zach Plague
Ok, boring is a giant pile of angst, topped of with a few slivers of roasted ennui. It’s…I’m not even sure…Ollister and Adelaide are this emo-arthouse uber-ex-couple who had this, like, twenty-second relationship that is replayed in a series of flashbacks (which are rather intrepidly labelled ‘The Past’) and Ollister has this friend named Punk (he’s a punk) and for some reason, this super-arch Bad Man (who plots *snicker* in dark lairs *snort* with his…henchmen about *snurffle!* ‘neutralizing’ our hero! And probably Plague is being ironic here, and I’m just not getting it. But oh mercy) and then ALL OF A SUDDEN about halfway through the book there’re these rich college kids, who I’m not even going to name for you because I just finished the book and I can’t even remember any notable things they did besides fall in love with people who were in love with other people, and then have sex in vans. But oh, they were everywhere.
Ok, and the Bad Man is after Ollister because some secret society wants him taken down because Ollister is…too good of an artist? Something. And everyone’s playing monkey in the middle with these ‘grey papers’ which were either not explained or if they were, I was in the loo. And there’s this party to be held by the Bad Man and Ollister’s to be lured out so they can get him and some art terrorists show up to whiz on famous paintings and then the book ends.
The upside of all this is that, after writing the novel, Zach Plague designed the thing as nine enormous posters which were then cut down to make the book, and the whole thing is really quite lovely in my hands. Observe.
The downside to all that is that Plague italicized and bolded and fun-with-fonts-ed the hell out of the thing, so that on any given page at least thirty words have been altered in some way. Which, I get it, you’re being innovative. But I can’t help but emphasize your italicsed words in my head, and it gets a scoosh confusing when a phrase like ‘counter tray’ is all slanty. Because, sigh, you have to use emphases sparingly, and I KNOW! No Queen of Frugal All-Capses me. Pot calling kettle, etc etc etc. But less is more! Not, like none, but maybe less than you’re doing.
And the whole thing was just so aggressively self-deprecating and overwrought and I-fall-upon-the-thorns-of-life!-I-bleed!-esque and yes! Yes, this is the new disillusioned generation and this is probably what they are like and this is why I don’t hang out with teenaged artists who take themselves so terribly seriously. And I know Zach Plague (whose perfectly nice mother is tearing out her hair every time I type that name) is tearing out his hair somewhere and hollering ‘She doesn’t get it! She’s missing the whole point’ and then running off to drink absinthe with some girl in drain pipe jeans. And probably I am. But, dammit, my blog, my misconceptions.