The Fast Talker
By: Larisa Sunderland
Issue date: 9/25/08 Section: Entertainment
I have a new favorite book and it's called Yum Yum I Can't Wait to Die, by a guy you've never heard of-Sam Pink. I regularly find new favorite books, frequently by care of the Barnes and Nobles bestseller table, or by word of mouth, or by my mother's mandates ("Read Love in the Time of Cholera!" slipped in neatly between "Clean your room!" and "Get a Ph.D!") and, more recently, off of Jenny Pyke's course syllabus (as it turns out, Robinson Crusoe is pretty baller.) But Yum Yum I Can't Wait to Die didn't exactly happen like that.
A friend and I were strolling through Thornes, when we happened upon an empty store-empty but for a couple of paintings, a small pile of pamphlets and a very sleepy looking man slumped over a cardboard table. It really could have been the entrance to Diagon Alley-it was just that surreal. As I began to seriously question the effects of Herrell's rainbow-sprinkled chocolate-malted ice cream (which I highly recommend, by the way), my friend approached the weary-eyed man and demanded, "I'm sorry, but what exactly is this place?"
So I guess this guy takes over empty Northampton commercial spaces and uses them to promote a few as-of-yet-glorified, but wholly talented artists, like Sam Pink, author du jour. Yum Yum I Can't Wait to Die, should really be titled Yum Yum I Can't Wait to Read This Over and Over and Over Again! because the title is a bit of a downer-bad advertising for good material. Who could hate a line like: "Being alive on earth makes me feel like a spoiled kid on a sleepover at someone else's house?"
It's really about the messiness and spontaneity of life-its metaphors are vague, it's diction is casual, the punctuation is totally kaput, and so it feels completely appropriate that the find was unanticipated. I really didn't go out looking for a new favorite book, just some ice cream. Its shabby look and feel on the exterior mirrors its content, which is something that just works for me. I guess when I feel that something just works, it's like I'm piggy-backing the artistic process by appreciating the work all of my own accord. And that really does make me feel like a spoiled kid on a sleepover at someone else's house.
Sam Pink's not really a part of the Great Literary Canon…yet. Actually, I doubt he'll ever be part of it, thank goodness, because his book is beautiful in its shoddiness. The margins are incorrect and so sometimes sentences get spliced; it's construction paper-backed; it has yet to be reviewed by The New Yorker (or whatever). Sam Pink is only great because I say so. I really like the book- just 'cause I do.
A friend and I were strolling through Thornes, when we happened upon an empty store-empty but for a couple of paintings, a small pile of pamphlets and a very sleepy looking man slumped over a cardboard table. It really could have been the entrance to Diagon Alley-it was just that surreal. As I began to seriously question the effects of Herrell's rainbow-sprinkled chocolate-malted ice cream (which I highly recommend, by the way), my friend approached the weary-eyed man and demanded, "I'm sorry, but what exactly is this place?"
So I guess this guy takes over empty Northampton commercial spaces and uses them to promote a few as-of-yet-glorified, but wholly talented artists, like Sam Pink, author du jour. Yum Yum I Can't Wait to Die, should really be titled Yum Yum I Can't Wait to Read This Over and Over and Over Again! because the title is a bit of a downer-bad advertising for good material. Who could hate a line like: "Being alive on earth makes me feel like a spoiled kid on a sleepover at someone else's house?"
It's really about the messiness and spontaneity of life-its metaphors are vague, it's diction is casual, the punctuation is totally kaput, and so it feels completely appropriate that the find was unanticipated. I really didn't go out looking for a new favorite book, just some ice cream. Its shabby look and feel on the exterior mirrors its content, which is something that just works for me. I guess when I feel that something just works, it's like I'm piggy-backing the artistic process by appreciating the work all of my own accord. And that really does make me feel like a spoiled kid on a sleepover at someone else's house.
Sam Pink's not really a part of the Great Literary Canon…yet. Actually, I doubt he'll ever be part of it, thank goodness, because his book is beautiful in its shoddiness. The margins are incorrect and so sometimes sentences get spliced; it's construction paper-backed; it has yet to be reviewed by The New Yorker (or whatever). Sam Pink is only great because I say so. I really like the book- just 'cause I do.