REBEL REVIEWS: The Boxcar Bop by TC Pescatore

 Rebel Reviews is a new section of Punk Monk written by C.E. Hoffman. Click here to learn more/submit a review request. 

We’re All Mad Here: TC Pescatore’s The Boxcar Bop 

Say Kathy Acker donned a space suit. Kurt Vonnegut watched 2001 Space Odyssey on acid. Horace McCoy broke into the fifth dimension. William Burroughs' ghost rode a caterpillar through a 1930s movie set. 

That’s the kind of whacky, wonderful, wordy weirdness to expect in TC Pescatore’s “surrealist sci-fi(?) hobo novella”, The Boxcar Bop, out from RunAmok Books. 

This wasn’t the review request I expected. I was gifted a word doc by Tom, ever a joy to work with. He apologized (!) about the doc being in boring ol’ Times New Roman, indicating the novella utilizes various fonts. 

Curiouser and curiouser! 

This book’s a feast for the eyes AND brain, though I guess they tend to fraternize what with that optic nerve. One is delighted to find levity amidst the madness, a sort of junkyard space helmet for this topsy turvy rollercoaster of words. 

I’m more inclined to write rambles than read them; Pescatore’s novella was an enjoyable exception. He strikes many a human chord, least of all with, 

“That original grand idea, that first scratch of an idea, that fire wielding, paint brush brandishing thought, the idea that could give birth to human, the frontier, the beyond.” 

A fresh pulse to wake the literary world! 

I’ll admit I lost the plot somewhere between the little girlboys and underwater tornadoes, but gosh was this a nice lift out of my analytical collegiate brainscape. 

Everyone needs to get a little weird sometimes. TC can help you do just that. 

The twenty-something year old Me, the one getting all high and writing to save the world, memorizing Howl and diving into Irvine Welsh before I discovered Elise Cowen or Joyce Johnson or even Wharton or Woolf- that kid would devour this cover to cover, page by page. I still love the weird shit, but now nibble it with nostalgic discernment. This is damn fine writing, anti-pretentious, anti-boring. While it isn’t the style Punk Monk tends to publish (we’re of the less-is-way-more persuasion), no doubt these boxcar-bouncing brutes brim with punk monk spirit. They’re the Fool archetype “high as hell, shivering and smashed.” (Yep, TC’s got me thinking in Hold Steady lyrics.) 

The run-on chapter titles, run-on sentences, run-on paragraphs ripped asunder by a splash of staccato or funky formatting are an attack on monotony. I’m not a fan of the adverbs, but I’ll bet Pescatore employs them ironically. (See what I did there?) 

And oh, the shattered fourth walls! Parentheses! BLAMS! in bold! Wiki entries and police reports. This is Dali-type. Plus it’s got this hardboiled gangster detective drama crime vibe: another unexpectation. (Yep, TC’s got me inventing words.) Poker games, train holdups- I wouldn’t have been surprised if Paul Newman (the later years) showed up. 

I got Vurt flashbacks, minus the creepy-crawly sex scenes (thank god.) There’s something like poetry, too, and not just ‘cause of the line breaks. Something beautiful. 

“Have you ever felt invisible before?” 

I can’t read this book without considering the plight of the unhoused, and if Poem left at Rodman Camp tells us anything, Pescatore felt the same writing it. When are we going to start giving a fuck? That’s the real madness: living in a society that permits homelessness. 

You can skim this book, or not-skim. Read upside-down. Brush your teeth to it. Announce it at parties over an intercom. 

I probably should have printed it out, but ink’s expensive. I bet Braun would get that. Kenneth, too.

So go on, take a swig of Gravitron Absinthe and roll down the rabbit hole. 

This wasn’t what I expected. 

And I’m glad. 

--C.E. Hoffman