Could this be the phase two of vacations at home being the absolutely worst part of the year?
"Con el hilo dental, cuando se tiran un pedo, ¿sale en stereo?"
Rinaldi’s art is angry. Rinaldi’s eyes are hungry and he could have you and me on a slice o’bread. Rinaldi doesn’t think, he destroys. Rinaldi’s long vrouwelijke fingernails tap against the typewriter, cacophonic, silly as anything.
What’s Rinaldi’s new book like?
It’s a thousand pages of mhyrr and semen-scented nostalgia, pages as yellow as Reverend Thomson’s complexion, oh, his poor liver about to implode, a halitosis that could knock out a cow. It’s the sigh of a pugliese eating anywhere but his at his mamma’s, the climax of a platinum blonde klepto, and what to do when the bounty is on the dining table.
It’s nothing like an Iranian refugee proudly parading around in booty shorts through the grachten of Amsterdam, sure of a flying bullet and his scattered brains on the asphalt if he’d do the same back at home. It’s nothing like the shining of dust particles in a bright ray of light in a morning of heavy, boozy breath. It is nothing like a sixteen year old Ecuatorian meisje boasting about her last Caribbean excursion or the rum drunk or the black pectoral muscles she’s inspected.
It’s a lot more like eating a hot dog at Balthazar’s, a lot more like the grinning face of Molly Sanders from her motorized wheelchair, all teeth. It’s a lot more like the spit that superstar Jenna J accidentally ejects at Georgina’s eye, an Australian follower. It’s more like Freya Rodríguez carrying a piece of toilet paper stuck to her shoe to the first cabinet meeting of the German Bond, all praise chancellor Rodríguez. It reads a lot more like Richard Nixon crying alone, in front of the mirror. Maybe wearing a bit of crimson lipstick.
Ill-advised and stupid.