Little New York Bastard Book Review

I must tip my hat to M. Dylan Raskin (MDR) from demonstrating to a tee that life is all about who you know. And he must know someone in the publishing business (Four Walls Eight Windows publishing to be specific) very well to have gotten this piece of pure rubbish to see the light of day.

Little New York Bastard: A Memoir is like a train wreck, you almost convince yourself to look away, but then you pry apart the next page from the rest of this hollow book, convinced something worthwhile awaits you. It does not. Quick capsule review: Angry guy is pissed off in N.Y., drives to Chicago and is still angry there, so he drives back to N.Y. and is still angry- all the while commenting on the fools, "walking cliches," who populate the planet, leaving him "disgusted" and "uninspired." One can only guess as to the level of irony that must be sifted through to try and "dumb down" to this college dropout's level.

The author claims to have read only about three books in his life, and two of those were true crime. He must have learned a few things about blackmail because the fact that this book went to press defies all logic and common sense. People who cannot write and have nothing to say when the attempt to do so should not become published authors. Period. This book gives the term "dumbing down" a new lease on life. I haven't seen vocabulary this meek and redundant since See Spot Run. Really.

Do not be fooled by rave reviews you might have seen or heard from fellow the street-wise New Yorkers that this author is dark and edgy. MDR is kin, and they like reading about places in the city that they know of but probably never visited, such as the library. It is a slap in the face to literature of any kind to compare this slop to Salinger. MDR tries to sing the same song, but has no voice to read the music.

All the words I've used in quotes here appear in the book literally dozens of times, it really crosses into the absurd. "Trust me." MDR should be pumping gas or working in the Wendy's drive-thru he can't keep quiet about. His words don't make much of an impression, not even a dent. You keep waiting for something to happen, it never does. You keep waiting for the real writing to begin on the next page, it never does. The only "financial sodomy" taking place is the audacity the publishers have to ask $14.00 for a book worse than any reality show you'll ever see, Scott Baio be damned!

I do give MDR one star for proving that capitalism plays no favorites to those with artistic talent, while it rewards a twenty-two year old for demonstrating wit and intellect on par with finger-painting.