Weekends are hell. If you do them right. That's the subtext of the
columns scrawled by Wiley from various states of semi-consciousness
as he slinks out of the woodwork and insinuates himself into the
soft underbelly of Southern California consciousness. Wilier than a
coyote, badder than Santa, Gonzo'er than Dr. Duke, the Wilester
lays waste to everybody in range, not least himself. There are two
tributaries to the flow of "The Way of the Weekend Warrior" a
normal (more of less) plot of a demented outsider snarfing up the
media scene, and the content of the columns he writes and
broadcasts as his weapon against normality and status quo. Taken
from the syndicated cult column of the nineties, these passages
snidely sneer, raucously rant, surrealistically swoop, and
otherwise amaze and amuse. If you can get get through a chapter
without laughing out loud, you get your money back. Well, not
really, but you at least have our sympathy and scorn. Wiley is not
for the meek and weak... he is THE WEEKEND WARRIOR. Read him if you
dare.
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