Its too hot to do anything but drink iced tea and read Weetzie Bat and pretend that you are some slinkster Lanka with snarl-ball hair and rolerskates. Trying to describe Weezie Bat to someone is near impossible, nothing can do it justice. There is no way that the magic of the story can be be explained. The closest I've come is to say that it is like the fairy-floss you buy at Luna Park as a kid, only caught in it is dried rose petals, stars, tiny plastic goats, feathery wings, fake flowers and silvery charms.
If you haven't already, please, do yourself a favour, make up a pot of iced tea and read it, you wont regret it.
"The reason Weetzie Bat hated high school was because no one understood. They didn't even realize where they were living. They didn't care that Marilyn's prints were practically in their backyard at Graumann's; that you could buy tomahawks and plastic palm tree wallets at Farmer's Market, and the wildest, cheapest cheese and bean hot dog and pastrami burritos at Oki Dogs; that the waitresses wore skates at the Jetson-style Tiny Naylor's; that there was a fountain that turned tropical soda-pop colors, and a canyon where Jim Morrison and Houdini used to live, and all-night potato knishes at Canter's, and not too far away was Venice, with columns, and canals, even, like the real Venice but maybe cooler because of the surfers. There was no one who cared. Until Dirk."
Francesca Lia Block, Weetzie Bat .
