I've heard that by the time Bukowski was really into the swing of things as a writer he had stopped reading much of anything because he did not feel that most of what he came across had life. It felt dead and, as such, was worthless. I can't really say for sure because I didn't know old Buk', but I believe he would have felt very differently about the writing in "Shenanigans!" If there was ever writing with life, "Shenanigans!" is it.

In some cases I mean this quite literally. The writing in "Contemptibly, A Hair" blasts out of the page with more energy than a hyperactive toddler on meth, though with much more pleasurable results. It dances, it spins, it screams. In short, it is the language equivalent of class ten rapids.

However, in other stories I mean the above comment a bit more figuratively. In "What We Talk About When We Talk About Lasagna," one of the most humorous Raymond Carver tributes I've ever seen by the way, the prose is certainly lively, but the much more impressive aspect is the way that the emotion seems to pulse with actual, organic life. Really, all that's at stake is what Ben and his wife are really arguing about when arguing about eating a pan of mostly burned lasagna. However, the way that the things that are unsaid are not said, the way the words that are there are laid out, it all seems to work inside the reader to cause the exchange of emotions to happen afresh.

All of these stories have that life, that real quality that we always turn to fiction to simulate for us, though such is not always achieved as well as in "Shenanigans!" Whether concerning a nunchaku-wielding neighbor, the mistrust between man and his best friend over the issue of nail-clipping, or a wedding proposal leading into buying more than a landlord approved number of dogs leading into a parental heart attack leading into a personal unknown health threat, these stories bring forth life for the reader. Truly, you could not ask for more.