SPOON ME will keep you up like a line of cocaine on the Queens nipple, put you down like a vomiting baby, move your sofa like a friend with a bad back, decline your invitation like it conflicted with a tour of a chocolate factory, offer you advice like your own mother after two shots of tequila, spur your advances like a date with the Pope, and make sense of all your Mustang Ranch marriage licenses like a Nevada judge. Written in gold silk from the melted remains of Egyptian gods by an eighth century mystic on the quills of an extinct peacock species and then recovered on the bottom of the ocean by a shark-bitten surfer, SPOON ME is that rare work of fiction that comes along suddenly and ends up in your bed, curled around your body, keeping you warm, snuggling and nestling against you so you feel that rare sense of perfection in the moment as it is actually happening. It is a book that whispers to you, that you can whisper to spoon me
