A dick-lit version of Weetzie Bat is a good description, and one that makes me laugh. Both are the sort that make me roll my eyes at the all so apparent hipness of it all, but I can't help but love 'em all the same. I've read a couple of reviews comparing Gifford to some sorta modern day Faulkner, but on that I'm not so sure I can come to agreement. In any case, I can never stop myself from falling good and hard for any sleazy Southern road novel. I think Gifford really pulled me under once he labled that one Bunny Sweet gal of smelling of Florida water and cigarettes and a wave of my own panhandle-young love-road trip nostalgia won over any eyebrow-highbrow reservations I was trying to hold on to. A great big Florida water smelling memory wave of chasing Tom Wolfe on motel TV sets and sitting in an empty deserted living room staring at backyard orange trees. Also childhood days of Jimmy Swaggart television sermons and a real strong craving for fried oysters and coleslaw. Feel like I should make some sort of mention about the Lynch movie, but don't much feel like bringing any comparisons except I kept thinking about Harry Dean Stanton's hounddog eyes for every forlorn Johnnie Faragut chapter. They're both fine and good standing together and fine and good on their own. Bought the Sailor & Lula: Complete Novels version, so I'll keep rolling through Gifford's series.

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