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A review by mrsthrift
Godspeed by Lynn Breedlove
3.0
Geez. What did I think of this book?
This is the filthy gutterpunk account of Jim, a speed freak, unemployable bike messenger, genderfucking dyke-ish person of indeterminate gender and sexuality from the Bay Area (of course) who is forced to choose between the love of her life (a stripper, of course) and drugs (of course). It's totally trashy, escapist literature. I wish I had read it on a plane or a beach in long stretches of time, instead of little bits of lunch breaks and bedtimes. It probably would have been more enjoyable if I could have sunk into the whole world of Jim & not been distracted by everything else in my life.
It's almost a love story, but not really. There is a lot of self-absorbed, redundant, pedantic addict rambling. Then Jim goes on tour as a roadie with a dyke/feminist rock band, ends up in NYC living in a squat and becomes a different person, basically. Jim throws all the personal growth of NYC away and returns to the West Coast and then the book ends. The first 3/4 of the book drags on and on, in that annoying way like... I mean, have you ever tried to have a conversation with a speed freak? It's like that for about 220 pages, and then there are some lovely moments in NYC where everything seems possible, there is a queer revolution bearing down imminently; rise up brothers and systers: the world seems bigger than the next little balloon of drugs. So, there's that quickly-fleeting relief of redemption and possibility, which is nice.
The characters are not especially likeable and the plot is not especially intriguing. It's very much like some Michelle Tea books I've read in a lot of ways: the way it's paced, subject matter (urban life, violence, family issues, drugs & pussy), relative apathy to whether the reader can differentiate between reality and drug-induced paranoia and hallucinations, etc. There are some really classic tropes of Extreme Dyke Lit in this book, and I wasn't sure if they were predictable, overwrought clichés or a postmodern intertextual reference to the predictable, overwrought clichés. I mean, it's Lynn Breedlove. It's impossible to be certain.
This is the filthy gutterpunk account of Jim, a speed freak, unemployable bike messenger, genderfucking dyke-ish person of indeterminate gender and sexuality from the Bay Area (of course) who is forced to choose between the love of her life (a stripper, of course) and drugs (of course). It's totally trashy, escapist literature. I wish I had read it on a plane or a beach in long stretches of time, instead of little bits of lunch breaks and bedtimes. It probably would have been more enjoyable if I could have sunk into the whole world of Jim & not been distracted by everything else in my life.
It's almost a love story, but not really. There is a lot of self-absorbed, redundant, pedantic addict rambling. Then Jim goes on tour as a roadie with a dyke/feminist rock band, ends up in NYC living in a squat and becomes a different person, basically. Jim throws all the personal growth of NYC away and returns to the West Coast and then the book ends. The first 3/4 of the book drags on and on, in that annoying way like... I mean, have you ever tried to have a conversation with a speed freak? It's like that for about 220 pages, and then there are some lovely moments in NYC where everything seems possible, there is a queer revolution bearing down imminently; rise up brothers and systers: the world seems bigger than the next little balloon of drugs. So, there's that quickly-fleeting relief of redemption and possibility, which is nice.
The characters are not especially likeable and the plot is not especially intriguing. It's very much like some Michelle Tea books I've read in a lot of ways: the way it's paced, subject matter (urban life, violence, family issues, drugs & pussy), relative apathy to whether the reader can differentiate between reality and drug-induced paranoia and hallucinations, etc. There are some really classic tropes of Extreme Dyke Lit in this book, and I wasn't sure if they were predictable, overwrought clichés or a postmodern intertextual reference to the predictable, overwrought clichés. I mean, it's Lynn Breedlove. It's impossible to be certain.