Oh, my old friend, Rick, has written a terrible, terrible--albeit EXTREMELY well-written--book.
No joke. Read this prose, suspend judgement: ""The blood-drained winter sun is an impotent, diffused ball hanging low and idle in the haze of a dawn sky. A light drizzle further filters out her anemic warmth and color. Silence hangs inside the low, settling lake mist. High above the bleakness, morning birds call and wheel as they prepare for yet another uncompromising day of gathering nourishment for themselves and their nurslings. The damp Loch Ness fog offers small counsel and limited guidance for the shadow that is slowly finding its way through the aurorean blur."
There's more. Lots more. Who knew? Though the story is simply awful--as in IT SUCKS--the prose is top-notch. Disturbingly good. I was driven to search for evidence of a ghost-writer, and I came up with nothing. When I told my Snotty Literati better half about my Rick polemic, she said, "Well, he uses big words in some of his songs: 'I played along with the CHARADE. . .'"
Good point.
So, this is very confusing. Rick can write.
The story is truly awful, though. I'm not going into it. The theology/philosophy in it is absurd--and, yes, this is a philosophical novel. Rick has not neglected the Big Questions. As a former student of his every move might suspect, this guy likes to think about the meaning of life.
The problem is that he's like one of those guys you meet at a party when you're eighteen, and you think, "Wow, he's SO deep," and then, when you're like thirty-five and you meet him, you think, "Wow, what an idiot." His world religious thinking has now morphed into this oddball combo of something sort of Buddhist and Deist with a strong hint of environmentalism, a love of the Loch Ness Monster, a bizarre alienesque creature named Merikh that seems a little STAR TREK-ish to me, and a yin-yang/karma thingy. There's also a sexy nun and the gun from PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN starring one of my other old friends, Johnny Depp.
I liked his memoir, by the way. Yes, I read that too. Okay, so I've got problems.
In addition to the wacko philosophizing, there are also way too many references to his KIA (the car) and masturbation (with "Woody"). Dear Lord, Rick is obsessed with his car and his penis. Hold back, friend. Hold back.
But, another note on his surprising talent: Rick also did illustrations in this book! They're pretty good.
A friend of mine put it well when she noted that this is a guy in his sixties who is writing about a guy in his early thirties with the mind of a twelve-year-old kid. I think she was especially referencing his love of all things penis, but I think it goes for everything in here.
One nagging question: Why did the dog have to die?