J.D. Graves is truly a generous soul. I feel lucky to have gotten the chance to talk to him over the past year. He not only read Dillo, he took the time to write about it. I owe you, J.D. Check out the whole review below. When you get the chance, check out J.D.’s mag the Econoclash Review, which is fighting hard to keep gritty indie fiction alive in the States.
It took me a few tries to fully understand this book's rhythm, but once I relaxed and let it take me where it wanted to go—I couldn't put it down and I was thankful for the ride.
Max Sheridan’s Dillo is a phantasmagoria of quickly paced prose. There’s rarely a word wasted in this quirky pulp travelogue. The pages almost turn themselves as scene builds on scene and a murderer’s row of memorable characters crawl across the page. Each richly described with an economy of detail.
As far as plot goes, it involves a weirdo father/son relationship and a 2,000 mile trek across the country. Revelations surface like pimples on an unwashed face--some more powerful than others leaving acne scars on the soul. Like a Huckleberry Finn for the 21st century. Unbound by social mores traveling along with its own internal logic at high speed. Each new introduction creates more trouble for our duo until confronted with the weirdest of the weird.
Early on our hero says:
“Then something else came stirring out of the glare. It was a living girl. She was slapping down the road on heelless sandals the color of the dividing line, regular as a mule. There wasn’t much traffic on Highway 290 that I could see, but you could tell she’d been offered rides going in both directions on account of the fact that she went around with bare arms and legs and those legs just about touched the heavens.”
This book is a masterpiece of the American Idiom and should be thoroughly read by all.