BABEL REVIEW BY VICTOR THORN

REVIEW: CRAZY CARL ROBINSON’S FAT ON THE VINE

Back in the heyday of Babel magazine, one of the heavy-hitters who stepped to the plate each week was Carl Robinson. As the editor of this publication, I got to stand back and watch what type of reaction each writer received, and the feedback for Robinson’s no-holds barred catharsis was predominantly positive. But what I enjoyed even more were the comments from those who were outraged, offended, or disturbed by the words Carl laid on the page.

Why, you may wonder? Because literature is supposed to evoke a reaction. It’s supposed to get under people’s skin, strike a nerve, push their buttons, and make them squirm uncomfortably as they consider the schizoid world around them. And that’s exactly what Robinson does in Fat on the Vine. In between howling with delight at his antics, obsessions, crimes, loves, and out-of-control habits, the reader also sees things that aren’t normally discussed in “polite” literary circles. I could spend hours listing them all, but that would spoil half the fun for you. I mean, how many times have we read a blurb that says a certain novel is “hilarious” when in actuality it’s not funny at all? But I can say with 100% certainty that no book has ever produced for me as many laugh-out-loud moments as this one in an ultra-cool Sam Kinison kind of way (and you can’t get a much better compliment than that)!

Indeed, evoking visceral responses is Robinson’s most endearing strength, for once you start flipping through the pages of Fat on the Vine, any previously held notions about “literature” being safe, sterile, or far-removed are immediately dismissed. Instead, Robinson gives you “blood real” art that is stark, direct, and as compelling as our most private fantasies (you know, the kind we cherish, yet surreptitiously hide from respectable society). In other words, forget about all the status quo authors who want to keep their work at arm’s length. As you’ll discover, this book is impossible to remain separate from, for every crazy tale becomes indelibly marked upon our psyche like a backroom tattoo.

Why? Because it demands intimacy. Whether the reader consciously decides to or not, they’re very alluringly drawn into a world that is quite likely far different than their own. And, of course, this heightened sense of the extreme which transports us to realms never before experienced is precisely what differentiates quality story-telling from that which gets tossed by the wayside.

What we’re talking about here isn’t just another standard, run-of-the-mill throwaway book like thousands of others published each year. No, Fat on the Vine is worthy of a single word of praise that I wouldn’t bestow on many novels. It is IMPORTANT, and it is a book that deserves to be recognized as being important. If literature/prose expects to remain relevant in George Bush’s post-illiterate 21st century; or if it wants to be respected and recognized; then creations that are real such as Fat on the Vine need to be at the forefront. Forget about the academic automatons, pretentious poseurs, and formulaic phonies who currently sit on your local corporate-owned bookstore shelves like pretty little paper posies. I think its high-time we let a few of the unruly weeds run rampant in the garden to strangle the precious breath out of the more refined creations. Yes, I’ll take low art over high art any day of the week, and few push the envelope further than Crazy Carl Robinson.

The late demented visionary Friedrich Nietzsche once maddeningly declared, “The greatest enjoyment from life is to live dangerously,” so anyone who still values the printed word should throw caution to the wind and get their hands dirty, because this book is alive, vital, and miles ahead of anything else out there. My only regret is that I’ve already read Fat on the Vine (twice), because I’d give almost anything to be able to re-live (virgin-like) once again this dark, exhilarating masterpiece for the very first time. That’s how good it is!


-Victor Thorn, Publisher and Editor of Babel Magazine