A record of my life as a reader, writer, and father (not necessarily in that order).

My review of the book boring boring boring boring boring boring boring is up over at PopMatters.

Anyone who has had even a passing experience with the “Art World” or seen a documentary such as Who the #$&% Is Jackson Pollock? would know that it is ripe for satire. In that aforementioned documentary, for instance, maddeningly flimsy arguments are made against a work’s authenticity which prevent it from being taken seriously by the “Art World Establishment” despite forensic evidence to the contrary. It illustrates all too well how arbitrary definitions of art and literature can be. This is not necessarily news, but the material is nearly endless for anyone taking on this subject and its peculiar yet all-too-human vanities.

Though set in the Art World, the novel boring boring boring boring boring boring boring is not the book to do this…