First off, this is not a novel. A novel has conflict, rising action, and a climax in which the lives of the characters are irrevocably reversed. Eighty pages in and I nearly threw this in the recycling. I feel bad. I wanted to like this. I did not.
This was a very long blog to me. A dull, overly-nostalgic account of nights out and hanging with friends. I really don’t need to read about every person encountered on a night at the bar, what was said and irrelevant details about him/her. I don’t care who smoked you up, dude. Ultimately, this was boring.
A taste: “We spoke about how great it would be to buy a similar warehouse and convert it, but such buildings didn’t come cheap in Montreal. We joked that perhaps if the band’s success kept growing, maybe they could soon afford one.” Wow. Riveting. This is why we write in our journals–because our day-to-day lives are exceedingly dull and should be kept to ourselves.
And reading about someone watching a found family vacation 8mm? Come on man! Move the story forward–give us some sort of action. Girls/sex/relationships–Rastelli again just skims the surface. And some of this is just too warm and fuzzy. “‘You know, there’s magic in doing.'” Ugh.
The closest thing to action/excitement was dying kittens…
There was a funny bit about Leonard Cohen and some interesting observations on city living (but, on the whole, not enough insight or depth in these observations for me).
I liked reading about the ice storm in Montreal and comparing it to the blackout in Toronto. I had a couple of beers one afternoon and kind of got into it…maybe this is better enjoyed drunk?
I’m sorry. I feel bad for not liking this. I’m sorry. (Mitch Adams)
by Louis Rastelli, $21.95, 328 pages, Insomniac Press, 192 Spadina Avenue, Suite 403, Toronto, Ontario M5T 2C2, insomniacpress.com