Not actually an album.
I stumbled across this novel in the waiting room at a euthanasia clinic and I have to say that I was pleasantly surprised. Nan was having second thoughts about the procedure, god rest her soul, and I really hate to make a wasted trip. Fortunately, the clinic keeps a few copies lying around for just such a contingency, and after a couple of chapters she was begging me to stop her heart!
Gripping, riveting, electrifying; these are just a handful of the things I would like to do to the author’s throat after dragging myself through his book. Let’s be clear from the outset; this is the worst thing that anyone has ever done with a pen, and I have seen forest fires make better use of a tree. It is only my abject contempt for you, dear reader, that compels me to me spread awareness of this literary plague.
The Blank Album by Vinh-Khoi Le tells the harrowing story of Die$el, a deranged narcissistic retard with purple eyes, and his pet rabbit, Condom. Set in Wonderland, the fictional place that his immortal self created by definitely not plagiarising anyone else’s work, the novel centres around the author, as the main protagonist, plus several dozen other cameos who appear intermittently to help him illustrate fascinating points about himself.
I’d be lying if I said I had read the whole novel, or indeed any of it, but from what I can tell, Die$el follows the the condom rabbit down the toilet and back into Wonderland, where he meets the King Of Hearts, who has enslaved the planet with an evil curse. What follows is a dramatic series of rambling soliloquies, several protracted metaphors about water and a fairly peculiar scene where I slide off my chair and lose a fortnight crying under my desk.
Die$el’s younger brother, Poopie, enters Wonderland on his own and probably gets lost in a forest or some old bollocks, where he stumbles across an ancient mechanical time machine and travels back in time to dissuade me from picking up this book. Tragically I don’t listen, and if I had a time machine myself, I would go back in time and rape myself for being so stupid. Not too far back, mind; I’m not some sort of paedophile.
Offended by 'libellous' comparison.
Tragically, the story continues, and, several clumps of hair later, you find yourself nearing the end. By now you will have been told that he’s Asian ninety-three times, sat through at least three different talking horses and been subjected to fifty-twelve obscure mathematical references. It is a painful read, especially if you punch yourself in the face for having done so, but is nonetheless slightly more entertaining than the Twilight Saga, and it does eventually end.
The author, Vinh-Koi Le, describes himself as ‘an avante-garde genius and criminal mastermind, masquerading as an awkward Asian guy’ (See also: Virginia Tech). He is an inspirational character, having inspired me to write this review, several tomes of hatemail and a documentary about his abduction, and if you’re interested in finding out any more about him or his work, you can read a fascinating interview, plus the first two chapters of The Blank Album here: http://vinhkhoi.webs.com/chapters12.htm
In summary, I am demonstrably less intelligent for having read this book. It would have been better written using a monkey and three tins of alphabet soup. I truly could not think of any suitable use for it that didn’t involve hanging it next to the toilet and using it to wipe my arse. And I bought the Kindle version.
