I have no idea why I’m full of tadpoles and mayonnaise. No idea why this cockroach is psychoanalyzing me. I don’t know what you’re doing with that moose on your shoulder, don’t know why you still don’t love me even after I bought you that pack of gum. I’m not sure where this elevator is going, or how I got on it. Not sure how I didn’t notice the ground beef coming out of every faucet in my new apartment. I have no idea why bagpipes and drums go so well with chainsaw murder. I have no idea what kind of sandwich I want before I commit suicide. I have no idea what I’m doing.
Containing thirty-one stories written over the past ten years, this collection chronicles the total inability of Andrew Wayne Adams to know what he is doing.
Andrew Wayne Adams is one of the best kept secrets in Bizarro. This is only his second book in six years, but the bang for the buck here is enormous. The stories collected here are entrenched in a kind irrealism that few others can manage. Not only are we talking about worlds with dream causality and absurd discoveries, but each time we think we understand that reality, it is once again undermined, resulting in varying degrees of hilarity and existential dread--like the best irreal writing from Kafka to Barthelme to Link. Now, there are a few stories here that make me think I needed to go to more college, which are so rapidly constructed and deconstructed that I'm not even sure how to feel about them. But overall, these stories were delightful, hilarious, heartwarming, and off-putting. I demand more books from Adams before I die.
Irreal. Imaginative. Reading Andrew's work is like having someone explain a really insane dream they had to you. Whether or not that's a good thing may depend on your artistic sensibilities, but Adams is unmistakably one of a kind.