The more I read, the more this book felt like a punishment. He lost me. I enjoy both surrealism and suspension of disbelief, but he didn’t structure the stories or the book overall in such a way that I was willing to follow him. Honestly, what in hell’s name was the need for the shrimp nonsense, the bloody parasols, etc etc etc.

I wanted him to succeed! The voice and the desperation in “Rachel, Nevada” felt by far the most compelling out of all the segments and narrators. Then, circling back to the “Bad Mexican Dog” with another installment should have served as grounding, but instead he used those pages to wander off like a child recounting a fanciful, awful, unedited dream.

If I ever bump into Eika in real life, I’m gonna need some answers. Boo, hiss indeed.