Monday 24 February 2014

Holy mother*beep* what the *beep* did I just read? - Suicide Ride: The Platinum Man (Suicide Ride #1) by E. Llewellyn

Grasping at straws, his eyes sought the fabled Art Deco marquee, that notorious neon gimmick designed to shill for a modern residential conversion called the Lofts: surely it would not disappoint. The graphic quintessence of California, it would call up everything that Hollywood was supposed to be: nights with stars, golden records, and round turntables ...
   But no. Yawning campily from the opposite corner, it, too, was a huge let-down. Like everything else he laid eyes on, it failed to live up. A vine never to be climbed, the hype out here wound on forever, like Jack's beanstalk, higher than the mortal eye could see and more Byzantine than the most Machiavellian mind could dream.

W.T.F??? Word vomit much? I HATE to belittle any book like this, but WTF? Give me a minute. I'm gobsmacked. Speechless. I think my eyeballs are bleeding. I need to forget I ever read this, my brain is hurting!

I don't know what to say, except that this author obviously LOVES the sound of her own freaking voice, and has MURDERED any chance the plot had of making this a decent read. Total savagery, I tell you. My brain had a hard time understanding what was happening, because the author kept rearing her head every opportunity she could get with her arrogant display of ... well ... what I can only describe as WORD VOMIT. HOW can ANYONE get what ANY of those jumbles of words are supposed to mean? It's a HOT MESS!

I have never written anything so negative before, and I never thought I would, but good lord does this book deserve it. And guess what, my FIRST DNF! Yup! My masochism draws a line somewhere after all! Yet not enough to stay away all together. I heard about this unfortunate book through some friends on Goodreads. There were lots of negative reviews, and then there was the author and her puppies who attacked these reviewers/readers (like, really nasty attacks), and this got my curiosity piquing. Even for great books there are negative reviews, there will always be negative reviews. But this particular author seemed to take EVERY review that was not a glowing 5 star review personally and decided to go on a rage and bully all those that didn't give it 5 stars so that they'd take down their reviews. And her and her muppets succeeded because many retract their reviews. Shame on you, Elizabeth Llewellyn.

Anyway, I heard about the first few chapters being available to read for free on Amazon, so I decided that I needed to see why the author was so aggressively defending her work, needless to say that there is an interview with her here, where she arrogantly boasts about herself and her writing like she's freaking God's gift to the reading public. That was it, I had to see what all the fuss was about. And dear lord, did I get smacked in the head or what. My head is still spinning.

What is it even about? *shrugs shoulders* How the hell should I know? I think you would have to be the author to know. Like I said, it's a hot mess. Okay wait, I got a little of it. It's about a straight guy who wants to be a famous rockstar ... or something ... and meets a gay guy who is a record producer and owns a bar and they meet and get together. The main guy, Johnny, he's like super dark and handsome and mysterious and hot, or something. And the other guy, he's drawn to Johnny because he's like super dark and handsome and mysterious and hot, or something. Whatever. I think that was the gist of it. I'm surprised I understood anything from that mumbo jumbo of words regurgitated from the thesaurus. Oh poor thesaurus. Talk about abuse of the thesaurus. This book was a prime example of that. Would authors please put the freaking thesaurus down? We don't need you to string together a bunch of fancy words that don't even make sense in the context you're using them just so you can sit back and marvel at your creation. PLEASE! It's not a masterpiece if it doesn't make sense! It's supposed to be a STORY! And if the writing protrudes from the page and distracts the reader from the flow of the plot then you are failing to engage your readers, hence, failed storyteller.

I feel if I keep going my reasonably controlled rage-rant will turn into a profanity-laden rage-rant. And when I began my blog, I swore to myself that I would not go down that path. But good God am I tempted with this one. Especially when I recall the author abusing her readers. GRRR!

Let me just torture you with some more examples of thesaurus abuse displayed in this novel.

In this place, even the lampposts wanted nailing, for worry they'd have no takers: everything here could be had, for a price.
Again, WTF? Horny lampposts? LOL. I'm on the floor. Laughing. Crying. Laughing.

At last count, of the roughly seven thousand greenbacks he had started out with, all he had left was a measly sixty-nine hundred--not an altogether mean sum, he reckoned, for a pimpled deadhead hitting the road; but for a newly unemployed twenty-nine-year-old petticoat-mechanic, with not other proper work experience, and now no old man to fall back on? --It was a pittance!
What the hell is a "petticoat-mechanic"???

Seizing a nosebleed seat in the centre of the outermost ledge of semi-circular bleachers, he held a conductor's view of the imposing amphitheater, boiling in the topographical pan of Bolton Canyon like a gutted quarter-egg. Beyond it, the rolling range of burnt-out hills spiked into the crazing blue sky like the helter-skelter EKG reading of a wildly beating heart.

At the fibrillating limit, digging deeply into the domed horizon, the seemingly immovable, iconic HOLLYWOOD sign stood its shaky ground. Disporting its wee Eiffel-Tower party hat and flashing its pearly whites for all the world to see, it lorded its bleaching crowns over the sun-stained local yokels yukking it up down in the browned-out Valley below ...
*scratches head* I think it's talking about the Hollywood sign ...

The Bowl would shelter him in utero, wrap him like a second skin. Dragging his graceless, falling, sin-grimed body inside its reverberating drum and drubbing it clean, it would spin-rinse him dry, then orbit him back out again--pure and white as the high-gloss paint on its crib-like hull, unsullied and as full of unrealized potential as a brand-spanking new baby.
Okay, you really lost me. Totally.

Tortured enough yet? Eyeballs criss-crossed? Thought so. I'm done.


Nora xoxo

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1 comment:

  1. Get yourself a thesaurus, a tampon and a Xanax, darling; preferably in that order.