by Ernest Cline
First sentence: “I started writing and performing poetry in the mid-90s when I moved to Austin, TX.”
Support your local independent bookstore: buy it there!
Content: Chock full of sex talk (no actual sex, though), f-bombs, and other swearing.
I’m going to start a review — granted this is more a reaction than a review; then again, most of my “reviews” are “reactions”, I’m just being up front about this one — the way I’m not supposed to and say: I dislike poetry.
I don’t “get” it, I don’t particularly like it, and even though we have a shelf of poetry books — collected best-ofs as well as the Shel Silverstein/Jack Pretlusky ones parents are supposed to have — I rarely crack them open.
And so when my manager — who usually is spot-on pinpointing taste and books people will like — suggested I give this one a shot (because I really did love Ready Player One) I didn’t jump up and say, “Sure! I’d love to!” It was only as we were paring down the inventory after Christmas when she said she thinks it’s worth a shot, and couldn’t I please give it a look over so maybe we can sell it? Please?
So I did.
It’s Geeky poetry. There’s that.
But I’m not sure I’m the target audience.
And they are really foul. Like REALLY. Foul.
I’m not one to get turned off by language, usually,
but I did this time.
Some of the poems — most notably
“When I Was a Kid” —
made me laugh.
And “Nerd Porn Auteur” was spot-on
about smart girls
even though it made me blush.
But some of it was just
very Geek Gamer Guy
which I’m not.
And I don’t care enough
in order to care enough
about Geeky Gamers
I guess I know who I
can sell it to now.