Book Review of "Jaihoo's Trip To The Future"

After an inverse political vortex (ongoing since history missed its bedpan by about a mile, post-2010), shanghai leftism (Univision babies) slid us upside down and subsumed evangelical censorship, permanently and gloriously stranding (worthy) art much remote from either spectrum (till everyone forgets again and drowns in comfort), exposing many a party stalwart (artists bask in a bared ass, and sometimes the spectrum picks you, allowing a partial shoulder for rebellious lingual counterstrikes to blubberingly borrow whichever cheat code might beat this social justice boss, the lesser (for now) fad of two evils (method votes for and elects itself), far right to pervasive left – the personal ain’t political on a page, that’s boomer recruitment reverse psychology judo: join us or you’re a coward, etc.). The few excellent, biting novels of this age will not only be reviewed nowhere (by a non-entity such as myself), they’ll struggle to find publication, even on demand, existing just by the gumption of their authors, in spite of company decisions against ninety-nine percent of uncivil expression, brand and content having finally embarrassed quality stimuli.

Who can shape their work mean the longest, especially as everyone else’s output becomes a rewarded flocculence? Former icons of the extreme stopped watering their genitals a decade back. When we needed him most, Gaspar Noé kowtowed to sincere sentiment, personal tragedy, flimsy indulgence (indulgence, a redundant word in regards to art I would never use lightly, but it finds application around the twentieth boring minute of dancers being interviewed inside a bookcase), medical conditions and overdoses. Michael Haneke’s Amour upped his estrogen. He’s had more heart than art ever since (at least it’s not the uber-popular, flat, realist diary prose the young take up to minimalize literacy between hangouts (I value instinct over cognition due to my low IQ, but there’s a goddamn limit), trend-bred from alt (lit) to auto (fiction) – Noé’s still placing a camera somewhere outside his own drool (Vortex sounds like a plain-faced slog, a direct remake of the better film that destroyed him), though I await a return to form with unconditional clemency). Then Darren Arnofsky centered a bunch of sophisticated shit-lib commentary (the smart kind that expertly denies what it’s doing, or that it exists, at your expense) around his movie mother!, yet had the tenacity to confound himself by making a masterpiece (conversely, Noé hasn’t talked the same poisonous shit, but a blockier crime speaks volumes with his art’s deadening). Lars Von Trier also maintained dexterity while spouting corporate newspaper-dumb invective. Part the tremulous pietist from the beautiful result. Worse, Tim and Eric, the topmost important, influential skit-makers of the 2000s (Damon Packard smoothed over), facilitated (alongside soy, clickbaiting journalists) Sam Hyde’s deletion during the “Nazis in the bushes” and metoo coups sweeping once-great [adult swim]. It quills my foreskin to think how these shows are a safe third of what they were. Life is a third of what it was, and the rest will be stomped out (rope-a-doped gradually, then suddenly). I sure hope to take some of you with me, and, standing Jurassic in the spirits of that loogie, read and write (in vain) for a response (and watch TV and movies, because hardly a literary contemporary has involved him, her, or themself anywhere I can stomach). Substitution of my culture with one this anemic is theft – not pining nostalgia, not vestiges formed from a long-anticipated death, but an infringement requiring self-defense.

Jaihoo’s Trip to the Future, Hyde’s tribute to vehemence, an opus punctilious as it is merciless, proves willing to take us all with him, revenged against our time, past massacre and into glory. This crowning Juvenalian kamikaze clears rooms with a blunderbuss, redditry cultivated (the bathroom wall rearranged hieroglyphic, an icicle of piss through every virtue signaler’s badge) against (against all, pure art) cancellation. Hyde’s grotesque epic INTERACTS more than Sterne – Rabelais eating the feather off his pen, Tobias Smollett meets The Camp of the Saints, Macauley’s A Secret History of Time to Come rewritten by Bruce Wagner, Dan Jenkins if Burroughs had had his way with him, Brautigan with David Ohle curbing the hippy parts, the future dropped on spikes. How Hyde took the Lynchian register of skits further abstract matches the method by which he surpasses satire, chortling the net’s sickest nomenclature, achieving an uncut carnival, Herostratus indeed (the word as arson). The prose does what Hyde calls “psychic driving”, dense buckshot screamed into a menu (Ryan Trecartin with sharper narrative thrust). To hear him read immolates the eardrums (he grinds you nice between his canines – divine id, not stupid: singing, chewing gum, burping, raking his sinuses, shouting himself peaked across meta asides, a stunning, athletic performance). Mind the aesthetic, neon vomit ad graphics, Alasdair Gray painting Robert Burton, a demented ingestion of blood red pills and self-helpism, not an intention invalidated reactionary, but mockery by the molecule, lingo shat into a palette, Punch and Judy with labia for parachutes, Nikolai Evreinov’s theatre for oneself, but for none, absurdist comedy of menace with machine gun memes, kitsch Theatre of the Ridiculous with a vaster abundance of clots in its scat, Andy Kaufman’s post-irony pranks turned terrorist and viral, Ted X brilliantly invaded and unmasked as the billfold synergy new ageism it is. Tim Robinson (halfway edgy just in avoiding divisiveness for superior craft) and Eric Andre (Ionesco Tom Green) are all the mainstream has to compete (the too-amazing-to-be-widely-known-yet, podcast as art, Joe Frank-esque, Ghost Jail also nails millennials to their nerf cross). Hyde’s style disappears, conceptual backdrops weighted into a narrative sneer and teeming behind prose purposely stacked in on itself. Standard turns of phrase pile atop each other, seized by the syllable. Jaihoo’s dystopia is ours bitterly exaggerated, so sci-fi as to accomplish realism. When the protagonist is made a cyborg simp from tendons to skin (as are we all, the big tech buck break) – college usury through feminist belugas looming, Jack Womack stereotypes clung to chaos, liberty feinting replacement of its own system – pathos dwarfs proportion and hysterical depravations ensue (note the tiers: scorn at unacceptable decibels, intentionally corny jokes to off-put, “all three of them” choked atop the cliché “glass ceiling(s)”, intertwined with acute viciousness, sincerist naiveté worked on a world darkly ironic and vice versa, simultaneous orgasms of hate – the book isn’t postmodern or post-ironic, it’s post-mass shooter, the volley as medium):

“This all appeared to Jaihoo to be the result of childhood neglect and trauma; he had no idea what supernatural forces and higher-order chessmastery were really at play. His primitive ape logic circuits would never grasp why it was a good idea to use her real legal name while selling soiled panties and socks online, but as she’d explained many times before, Jupiter (consciousness of the greater realms, expansion) was in the twelfth ecliptic zone which meant that a great transformation (Pluto) was coming to shock Jaihoo’s core values and ambition (Sun). These super-intelligent hyperthoughts whizzed over his head like stray cosmic rays. It all sounded worse than random noise to him, and yet the smartest person he knew based her major life decisions on charts and pie graphs drawn up by miserable old ladies whose only source of income was this spiritual Ponzi scheme. Even though it all looked obviously fake as hell, he knew it was true, because Kaileesi was a Mensa-plus-level genius who’d defied the odds to cripple the glass ceilings (all three of them) and excel as a W in a M’s world. Her story was so inspiring, many Fortune 10,000 companies wanted her to be a Brand Ambassador, which is the highest honor awarded civilians, but she declined nearly all of them because of her artistic integrity.”  

The Cosby mickey leftism slipped the culture is one the right wing coulda contended with long ago had they had a tad more CIA backing. Maybe WASP God switched preferences and found a better neuter. Good party members keep their theories plain as possible to increase readability for wider indoctrination potential, comrade. (Theory beats style every time.) Metaphor is forwarded to the spam folder now. Where wry dandy William Guppy can bitch about R. Cam writing too elegantly, thus further flattering China somehow, everyone concurs that trying too hard, reading too much, and writing with adjectives sure sucks. (Cowper displaces Lyly, Browne, and Taylor / Saintsbury and Logan Pearsall Smith abandoned for simpleton Elements of Style) How many characters to your series of tweeted jokes? Too long; didn’t read – a path I recommend for every side of the political gamut. Luckily, the right’s social realist Bukowski beer shit proved too plain for this book. Never the dreaded experimental word salad (a rhetorical lie of an insult often given by people who can’t read, or who hate reading and prefer math and philosophical arguing) adhering to and mocking the propaganda against writing we all must obey because a thesaurus, or grammar tangled beyond one clause, can’t be pulled up in ten seconds by lazy journalists – all citizens are mandated journalists, suspiciously backed – or your hymen is handed back twice torn. Careful, hyphenated expression (John K.’s Ren and Stimpy collapsed contortions, how each facial tic can develop into its own vestigial cartoon) and labyrinthine concepts (amphetamines Borges juxtaposed antithetical and laid over minimalism, competing layers) matching the sentence teased to a point of abuse with Lishian consecution and brought lyrical again with a touch of avant pop postmodern irreverence are, I pray, in resurgence! Might prove difficult for people who want to make a nonstop point and have never been creative in their lives (the bravado of online self-lovers – the right gym latent homo lifters who think reading is gay, and the left who see themselves as the Cagliostro of your rectum, will banish and redecorate anything not a woke commission anyway – so, really, no one has room to read Hyde’s fantastic book. The right might purchase a copy because Hyde speaks to them from his wrongful persecution, then they’ll go on to roundly eschew any effort of actually enjoying the words because – god forbid – there are too many complexities at play. The left, who use academia to make elegant writing a parody of itself, can’t connect the trend to accept Hyde's (and his gendered body's) existence or popularity. With my puttering apolitical comprehension, I pawed and savored through the best satire of my age, and here conclude, sans agreement anywhere, that I appreciate style foremost. The dunking on is universal, for once.

Roundly dismissed towards words we’re allowed to avoid, chastised beyond psychosis by fellow writers – snakes denying the very grass that hides them, blind even to their own desuetude and obscurantism – I’m no longer allowed to breech this flummox because they’re exasperated (as if losing publications and being shadow-banned roundtable invigorates me (it does, because I hate better)) with the issues they invented and continue to enforce. It must be my misconception, controlled by opposing forces, combating the restrictions these leftists in disguise established and grew bored reiterating. They’ve moved on to huff the next sphincterial ring, not for the morbid fascination of its fashionable stink, but to gain rank and keep their efforts to do so vague as possible. I can just about forgive being openly called anything, which is how the right often operates. Their laws and religion were fun to tussle with long ago. Mutual respect could occur. But democratic (commonality) fiend Iagos (too flattering a comparison – this is how they see themselves) of the woke brain (critical race theory / social justice / snowflake (I’ll deploy every idiom, each slur) dumpling Jon Stewart bugmen, who, again, think they’re Hannibal the Cannibal nibbling your lobe with nothing shy of a retreating critique), tend to stick around a decade, the kind of lover (they mistake buddies for lovers) who leaves only to be flattered by your suicide. We spread for new gods that fit the moment. Any semblance of a cognoscenti with contestable fustian won’t be eaten free of its tire necklace. (Right wing shills and their CIA reverse commie obsession with fifth grade reading level language, and their academic left wing dry experimental nemeses, fucking deserve each other.) The most elaborate skit-maker alive just blessed us with an insane elegance from divides we can’t remember, thus transcending the butt. Adapt Shaft’s “do you think that makes me less dangerous…or more dangerous” approach to being fired, and pack the canon underground with its bloodiest martyr, its fractal jester. His cap and bells will cure your fistula upon impact.

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Sean Kilpatrick