Did you ever notice how sometimes good reviews make you want nothing to do with their subjects and bad reviews of things make you fall in love? No? Maybe it's just me. Like, I read a great review in the New York Times of a guy who plays the bass fiddle and uses his wonderful voice to sing sparkling, witty lyrics about being seated on an airplane next to Leonard Bernstein. For no reason, my heart recoiled and shriveled within my bosom at the thought of entertainment so very sparkling and witty - though I am fascinated by Leornard Bernstein! And the more sparkling and witty and smart and elegant yet accessible and devil-may-care the reviewer made everything sound, the more appalled and repulsed I became through no fault of the actual artist being reviewed, who is probably fantastic. On the other hand, I read a crummy, prissy, disdainfully sniffing Publisher's Weekly review of a novel called HOLLYWOOD by Charles Bukowski. Here's part of it: "This book deteriorates into juvenile satire in which familiar, real-life figures appear with the letters of their names shifted slightly: the famous director Jon-Luc Modard, the philosopher Jean-Paul Sanrah, Frances Ford Lopalla and an obvious Norman Mailer stand-in called Victor Norman." I mean, come on! Though I am a far, far cry from the world's most ardent Bukowski fan - I wouldn't call myself a fan at all - I knew I had to have it. Frances Ford Lopalla! (Back to random illustrations for now.)
