Reviewing the Reviewer: Part Two

Rather than Dan. Stronger than Stan. And Van the Man.

While ruminating deeply over the exquisite consistency of Santa Cristina Sangiovese and making friends with my radical sign [which is Capricorn/Pisces for you ladies] the deja vus of The Cold Room where I sit draw me here once again. I've also had lunch with my Colleague of Sorts who is doing fine pre-arranging the candy plot twists and sweet characters in his next confection and novel resurrection.

With new Moleskins in hand and a new favorite band, we lunched at the North Beach Coppola Cafe Zeotrope where you can still buy a copy of One From the Heart and consume Carbonara for late Saturday breakfast. He departed on the train that evening headed for The Big Valley reading a killer Germanic book of despair. You can review his long journey into blight on the literary location mashups soon to be provided with Google's Where You At, Ishmael? program on Facebook if you like.

Meanwhile staggering over to the point, let's get our theme on here because it's totally sick, dude. With grand aplomb, my researchers burst in with big chests heaving and thongs snapping this afternoon so excited about their find and rightly so. Bidding them a seat together on my ample beanbag chair at the foot of my desk, I asked them to explain rather than writhing together in bliss.

"POETRY COLLECTION! ECCO! Bukowski! The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993! 576 pages! 1.8 lbs! New York Times! Written by Harrison!"

Throw in a dinner with Jack Nicholson and Orson Welles as background material reading from The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand. Now watch the Legends of the Fall guy try to tackle the Dirty Old Man on his own turf in his own house. Though Jim's need to conveniently consult a seemingly serendipitous fictional Frenchman to explain his Celine shock and awe filled me with surprise making me surmise that his head's going bad perhaps worse than his eyes, I totally buy Jim's overall take and love his Milosz quote because these are my guys. It's mostly a question of style and baby they've got it.

The girls got bored, said they were thirsty, and immediately needed to watch America's Top Model, leaving me with the parting words: "Shut up, Daddio! Read it you creep! Analyze in your sleep!" So follow their advice my friends. And call me if you're up late at night in mourning.