Fante . . . Dante . . . Fanta
I gave John Fante one or two more chances to prove that I didn’t waste my money on some Eye-talian jerk-off author now idolized by the cognoscenti . . .
I don’t care if Bukowski thought he was God . . . so far . . . as of page 44, nothing but little boy lost in L.A. . . . and I was getting ready to close the book and . . . get a Pepsi . . .
Fante was starting to appear as a elitist snob . . . a “writer” . . . and I still think he was . . . an Italian American snob . . .
I skipped some pages . . . did a fast-forward, scanning the pages for something . . and after Chapter 7 . . . after Arturo gets some cash AND some pussy, things got a bit better . . . I settled down and finished Ask the Dust in about 90 minutes . . . yeh, there’s some good stuff, but I won’t be getting any other books by Fante . . . much rather spend my $$$ on orange Fanta at Jack-in-the-Box . . . that’s right literati . . . orange Fanta . . .