A Critic's Meta Review: 4/5
Mark Twain - or, as I like to call him, Sammy Clementine (yeah baby, we’re going full on citric right off the bat - what, is pageantry a crime now?) - was one sardonic brother. I mean, aside from maybe the inventor of the art of satire (at least as it is modernly understood) himself, the great Irish fancier of a funny Jonathan Swift, there has been no one more dedicated to the art of the snark than the one they called Mark. Marky Mark. Well, not the one they called Marky Mark. Actually, I mean - theoretically, somebody may have called him that. It is certainly possible, and we can’t afford to just be ruling out things like that, especially not this early on.
Anyhoo, I feel I would be remiss without explicitly acknowledging the fact that I have a particular fondness for the work of Mark Twain, on account of reading The Adventures Of Huckleberry Finn during my sophomore year of high school pretty much being fully responsible for - or at least the most notable catalyst in - the development of my love for all things literary. Indeed, were it not for the work of Samuel Clemens - or, as I like to call him, Marky Mark (see - it is a good thing I did not leave any room for error here; it was simply bound to happen) - I would likely not be writing this review right now. As a matter of fact, let’s ditch this “likely” business: I most definitely would not be writing this review right now. There is no denying this fact. I would probably be sitting in my mother’s basement in Austin, TX (rather than roughing it out in an RV in Reinhardt, TX, where I have perenigrated to for the purposes of self-pedagogy; namely, where I have come to learn to the lost art of gypsy guitar, a la Grant Green - in a polka dot parka playing ping pong with a parakeet in my pestilential dreams. Or something like that.
You know what?
Forget about it.
We will fix it in post. For now, worry not, my friends. Everything is going to be fine - why would I lie to you?
If you read the essay, then you would know the answer to this question. It ain’t no riddle. It is meant to jog your memory. Oh - your memory sprained its ankle and has to, as a result, walk a little slower?