My rating: 1 of 5 stars
Bookshelves: abandoned, cult classic, dnf, literary fiction, satire, too highbrow for my peabrain, ugh
I just got done moving house and I’m still unpacking, and came across my copy of Still Life With Woodpecker, which I would have thought I’d ditched ages ago. But here it is, cluttering up my book boxes.
I adored Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. Cowgirls is one of my lucky 13 stranded-on-a-desert-island novels. It’s definitely a bizarre book, though, and I remember feeling a bit apprehensive when I bought Woodpecker, thinking, “Is it possible for me to get lucky twice with a writer as off-the-wall as Tom Robbins?” And don’t get me wrong; I generally think off-the-wall is a good thing. The book then sat around, being shuffled from one TBR pile to another, and then when my daughter made me watch 50 First Dates with her, and I saw that Woodpecker is the book Drew Barrymore’s character is reading in her endless Groundhog-Day loop, it occurred to me I might not like the book because I can’t stand Adam Sandler, because that’s how the whole guilt-by-association thing works.
Apparently so. I tried to read it and to like it, but it was just too out there for me. Random and screwball, kind of like pinballs whizzing around a pinball game except those follow the laws of physics, whereas this book didn’t seem to follow anything remotely resembling any laws of plotting. I didn’t finish it. I’d like to blame it on Adam Sandler, but I can’t.
Now that I’m aware I still have it, it’s in a small pile of other books I still have for some reason, and they will all be donated to a battered women’s shelter along with a couple of cell phones I’m still hauling around.