I'm feeling a bit desperate today. For some reason this always seems to happen on Thursdays. I'll spend my lunch hour trolling the Internet for agents I haven't yet queried and tips from people who managed to break in while I'm just breaking out. (Seriously, I'm getting anxiety zits like a 13-year-old boy.)
Normally, this very low day would be the perfect one on which to rant about James Franco and his book of short stories. After all, the thing did just come out the other day. But I'm on the edge of feeling sorry for Franco. The bastard is getting horribly sour reviews. You know that smell of cantaloupe when it goes bad? Not the actual flesh, but when you stick your nose in that little depression and take a whiff and you know that you missed out on something that could have been really good? That s#i% fills my nose when I read one of his reviews.
"... after finishing "Palo Alto' one feels the urge to not so much review it as grade it. And not highly."
Sorry Franco. But a bad review is still better than no review at all.