Ham on Rye

Ruth

Rating: really liked it
So what is a middle-class old woman who seldom drinks and never fights doing reading this book?

Enjoying the hell out of it.

Glenn Russell

Rating: really liked it


I was sixteen, tan, blonde and good looking, catching waves on my yellow surfboard along with all the other surfers, handsome guys and beautiful gals, each and every day that summer. Little did I know this mini-heaven would quickly end and hell would begin in September. Why? My smooth-skinned tan face turned into an acne-filled mess. I suffered pimple by pimple for three years straight; many fat red pimples popping up every day. Oh, yeah, on my forehead, temples, cheeks, jaw, chin and nose. Unlike Charles Bukowski, my father never beat me as a kid but this was one thing I did have in common with Bukowski – being a teenager with a wicked case of acne. You can read all about his in this novel, Ham and Rye. Bukowski said, “The gods have really put a good shield over me man. I’ve been toughened up at the right time and the right place." Maybe this was part of my own toughening up, those three teenage years of enduring the red face fire of acne.

Anyway, this is one of my connections with Bukowski, the king of the hill when it comes to American raw-boned, hard-boiled, tough-guy writers. And this novel of his years as a kid and teenager growing up in a house where he was continually beaten with a leather strap and receiving a torrent of emotional abuses, particularly at the hands of his callous, obsessive father, sets the stage for his alcoholic, hardscrabble adulthood, an adulthood where, other than drinking, his sole refuge from childhood memories of cruelty and his ongoing life on the down-and-out edge was sitting at his typewriter composing poetry and fiction.


Ham on Rye. Every single sentence of this book is clear, vivid, sharp and direct, as if the words were bullets shot from a 22 caliber rifle. Here are just a few rounds: ““Words weren’t dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.” Again, “I didn't like anybody in that school. I think they knew that. I think that's why they disliked me. I didn't like the way they walked or looked or talked, but I didn't like my mother or father either. I still had the feeling of being surrounded by white empty space. There was always a slight nausea in my stomach.” And, again. “The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing.”

Ham on Rye. There are funny, belly-laughing scenes and scenes that will make you shudder, scenes that are tender and scenes filled with pain, but through it all, you will stick with Hank Chinaski aka Charles Bukowski, the ultimate tough-guy with the heart of a poet.

Vit Babenco

Rating: really liked it
There is this eminent poem by Philip Larkin:
“They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had and add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn by fools in old-style hats and coats, who half the time were soppy-stern and half at one another's throats.”
And everything in Ham on Rye develops under this scenario…

So, that’s what they wanted: lies. Beautiful lies. That’s what they needed. People were fools. It was going to be easy for me.

So the mournful bitterness of his childhood turned Henry Chinaski – that is Charles Bukowski – into an impenitent and cynical insurgent for life.

I was like a turd that drew flies instead of like a flower that butterflies and bees desired.

Ham on Rye is a merciless and graphic story – a real death sentence to smug philistines.

At the age of twenty five most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.

And there is always the one who wants to stay outside the herd…

Jenn(ifer)

Rating: really liked it

Up until recently, all I knew about Charles Bukowski was what I learned in one of my all time favorite films, ‘Barfly,’ staring the incomparable Mickey Rourke as our antihero Henry Chinaski. If you haven’t seen it, you should remedy that immediately: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrpTDa...

This is a world where everybodys gotta do something, gotta be something... sometimes I just get tired of thinking of all the things that I don't wanna do.. that I don't wanna be

***

Henry Chinaski is a bit of a dick. He doesn’t care about you, your causes, your morals, your dignity… he doesn’t give a shit about anything but Henry Chinaski. And I’m not even so sure about that…

I know it might sound odd coming from me, but I can totally relate to Henry. Don’t get me wrong, saying I can relate to Henry doesn’t mean that I approve of him and all his bravado, but I can relate. I can relate to his shitty childhood and his asociality and his lack of drive to “be somebody.” I’ll refrain from getting too personal here, but I can say that he can thank his lucky stars for one thing: he wasn’t born a girl.

Ham on Rye follows our dear Henry from a childhood scarred by abuse and isolation through the muddy waters of adolescence to young adulthood. He eschews mainstream culture and all that it stands for, and really, who can blame him? By the end, part of me wanted to forget about all of this ‘responsibility’ nonsense and join him at the bar. Why? Because f*ck you. That’s why.

Bukowski isn’t for everyone. Actually, let me go out on a limb here and say Bukowski isn’t for most people. But if you’ve been lucky enough to have struggled through childhood and adolescence and come out on the other end a little stronger, a little smarter, a little thicker skinned, then maybe, just maybe, Bukowski is for you.

Then again, maybe not. I'm sure Bukowski doesn't give a shit either way, and honestly, neither do I.

***
I raise my glass to you, Henry. To you and all my frieeeeennnddds!!!!!!!!!!!(Barfly joke).

***

Watch this scene -- when Henry walks over to Wanda, look who he passes at the bar: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E5OLVi...

Wanda: I can't stand people. I hate them. Do you hate them?

Henry: No. But I seem to feel better when they're not around...

Elyse Walters

Rating: really liked it
Update: $1.99 Kindle special today --- Its not for everyone -- but I thought it was fantastic! -- I own it -- and couldn't pull away from it the first time I read it. I'd suggest reading high and low reviews. Then trust your gut! Its 'based' on a true story --but written as a novel.


"I had begun to dislike my father. He was always angry about something.
Wherever we went he got into arguments with people. But he didn't appear to frighten most people; they just stared at him, calmly, and he became more furious. If we ate out, which was seldom, he always found something wrong with the food and sometimes refuse to pay. "There's flyshit in this whipped cream! What the hell kind of place is this?"
"I'm sorry, sir, you needn't pay. Just leave."
"I'll leave, all right! But I'll be back! I'll burn this god-damned place down!

Yep, a real mensch of a father Henry Chinaski had.
From a very young age -- Henry was spoon fed...."children are seen and not to be heard". ( one of the more 'kind' things that came out of his father's mouth).

"Ham on Rye" alternates between being hilarious and horrendous.
The beatings from his father were so awful -- that just saying "this kid survived physical abuse in his insane - crazy dysfunctional household is not enough...( I felt so angry)!!!
His father was fucking brutal. The son-of-a-bitch deserved to be locked up for life.

So? What was hilarious?
Having acne and a gutless submissive mother--who can't stand up for Henry or herself isn't funny....
but Henry's cynicism is often funny...
It was very funny ( and cute), when Henry's little classmate, Lila Jane, ( a pretty girl), was proud of her clean pink panties - or blue ones--wanted to offer afternoon 'show and tell' for Henry's pleasure ....
however...this was the depression era in America ---Henry wasn't allowed to fulfill his other desires ... so he was often sexually frustrated. ('not' so funny)...but human.

The storytelling is wonderful ... It has everything...hitting us with a wide rage of emotions.
Terrific coming of age book involving family, school, other kids, teachers, struggles to survive --barely escaping poverty...Henry's anger, aloneness, rebelliousness, soooo much sadness it hurts....but also something beautiful was developing: Henry's love for literature. His time spent in the library reading D.H. Lawrence, Sinclair Lewis...etc.... 'He did that'!!! Awwww and what a phenomenal writer Charles Bukowski is. I'm aware this book is loosely based on his life story...but I read it as fiction!

The humanity in this book is extraordinary!!!!! I loved this book!!!!

Matthew

Rating: really liked it
It is true that Ham on Rye lacks a serious plot. It is also true that Mr. Bukowski writes in a crude, whiskey soaked style. However, the novel makes up for its deficiencies with a well-honed theme on the bullshit realities of middle-class existence and the ugly truth of how our society deals with those who reject that path. Such a novel should necessarily cause the reader to taste a tinge of bile in his or her throat. If you don't finish the book weary and angry, then you missed the point. As to the comments below that disparage Mr. Bukowski as a mean-spirited asshole, I ask you to consider four possibilities: 1) you misread his skid row saintliness as something distasteful; 2) you forget that Mr. Bukowski wrote a novel, not a memoir; 3) you judge his offensive comments in a vacuum instead of its time and place; or 4) you are comfortable with the mediocrity shit can of existence that he laments.

Robin

Rating: really liked it
The ultimate non-conformist

Wow. This is really something else. I was somewhat prepared for this after seeing the film "Barfly" which was based on Bukowski's alcoholic, pessimistic lifestyle - screenplay written by Charles Bukowski himself. But wow.

Bukowski, with Faye Dunaway and Mickey Rourke on the set of Barfly

Instead of Ham on Rye, this book should have been titled: "How I Became a Raging Drunk". Heavily autobiographical, this novel follows Bukowski's literary alter-ego Henry Chinaski through childhood and adolescence, and it isn't pretty.

“Everything was eternally dreary, dismal, damned. Even the weather was insolent and bitchy.”

Described as "the godfather of dirty realism", and fitting into the category of "transgressive fiction", Bukowski is a miserable sonofabitch who you can count on to a) not fit in, b) be unemployed, c) be drunk if at all possible, and d) get into a fist fight with someone double his size at any opportunity.

He's lazy, he's depressed, he's mean, he's negative. He puts close to zero effort into life. And let's not even start on his attitude towards women.

“But I didn't want to be anything anyhow. And I was certainly succeeding.”

At the same point though, you can't help but feel for the guy, because you can see why he became the person he is - he never got any love. His father beat him for no reason. His mother never protected him. His world was so harsh, poor, with no soft place to land, no light at the end of the tunnel. In his adolescence he suffered terribly from acne. No one wanted to look at him, let alone touch him.

In addition to the pathos, there's humour in these pages too. You sort of can't believe what you're reading - these crude, frank remembrances of a boy who calls it like he sees it. On family, poverty, the bleakness of working life, the salvation of the written word.

The miracle of all this is that someone so entrenched in his alcoholism and pessimism, someone who was punched in the head countless times, someone with no interest in being part of society and who had in fact, tremendous distain for those who were... the miracle is that this person, born a century ago, has had such a lasting effect on the literary world. I'm boggled that he was able to accomplish anything at all. The reality is, Charles Bukowski was a prolific poet and writer and, love him or hate him, his voice resonates for many. His disappointment with life, and people. His refusal to conform.

I'm glad that he didn't completely throw in the towel. I'm glad that time and time again, he turned to his typewriter, even if it was just to express another lament:

“Why is it always only a matter of choosing between something bad and something worse?”

Seemita

Rating: really liked it
Ham on Rye is flanked by sauces of happenstance and its delectability depends on the preferences of one’s reading tongue. Mine, for one, could not bear its sour, unsavoury ingredients.

In this bildungsroman, which is semi-autobiographical too, the protagonist, Henry Chinaski loads his bag of dilemma and expletives, and throws its weight around with nonchalance and non-disruptive disdain. The backdrop of the Great Depression, fuels the negative sentiments and Chinaski finds its shackles, throughout the novel, difficult to break away from.

This was my first Bukowski and it didn’t go entirely uneventful, thankfully. His brazenness and indifference met in a heady concoction, sending a mild swagger across the reading eye. His treatment of his family, friends, school, job and life at large, wasn’t without a stream of empathy which was successfully evoked with some explosive arrangement of words. Of his hopeless friends, he said,

It looked like it was my destiny to travel in their company through life. That didn’t bother me so much as the fact that I seemed irresistible to these dull idiot fellows. I was like a turd that drew flies instead of like a flower that butterflies and bees desired.

The charms of the initial dilemmas and Chinaski’s attempts (or non-attempts) to fathom them, drowned into a sea of booze for the better part of the book. Nothing mattered as long as drinking was an option and the young Chinaski held nothing beyond the tinted bottle. Purposelessness pervaded the pages like a rigid plague and Bukowski’s pen remained, painfully, under-qualified to bulk up nothing. A case of plot and prose, pulling each other down.

It appears that Bukowski’s life was way bitter and the taste nailed anger and anguish into his deepest cores. But perhaps, he didn’t write this book to shed those rusty flakes. He wrote to keep them alive. Almost like a protest, like a defiance. And under my reading lens, that defiance grappled without inspiration.

Lyn

Rating: really liked it
A masterpiece of ennui, isolationism and vulgarity.

Charles Bukowski’s 1982 semi-autobiographical coming of age story made me laugh, cringe and contemplate humanity – sometimes all on the same page.

Using as a vehicle his pseudonym and literary alter-ego Henry Chinaski, we follow the early years of a boy and young man who is outcast from society. Born in Germany after the first world war, he moves with his family to Los Angeles. The Chinaski’s are poverty stricken as are many during the depression years and young Hank grows up tough due in large part to his social ostracization and violent father.

What Bukowski has done is to reveal in Hank a universal dissatisfaction with the world order, an affirmative rejection of society and a determinism to escape what he sees as a hostile, meaningless culture.

Yet Bukowski does not so much embrace nihilism as just a robust resistance to a world that does not want him. He finds escape in music, literature, alcohol and casual violence. Though he longs for seedy sexual adventures, Bukowski describes Hank’s deep-seated ideas about right and wrong and even a fundamental propriety.

Not for everyone, but for those who are not easily offended, a hidden gem.

Tristan

Rating: really liked it
“At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.”

― Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye





Reading Charles Bukowski in public is a rather curious thing. Every once in a while, you come across some line or paragraph that is suffused with such a potent strand of open misanthropy it makes you chuckle. You think to yourself: "Surely this man is exaggerating here, merely going for comedic or shock effect?" What do you do? You decide to test his theory. You look up, take in your surroundings, watch ordinary humans go about their daily business and return to the passage you just read. Then it hits you. "Oh shucks, he's kind of right here. What does that say about me? Am I turning into a -toned down- Bukowski myself?" The ones who appreciate Bukowski have this experience often, I presume (also hope).

Ham on Rye tells of the formative years (1920-45, roughly) of Bukowski's alter ego Henry Chinaski. In effect it is a loosely structured, even somewhat sloppy autobiography. Writing this book surely must have been emotionally punishing for Bukowski though. There is some serious, unresolved pain here, one supposes most of it not dealt with through any professional channels. Which would have been very unlike him, of course. Bukowski is the quintessential lone wolf, he dealt with his pain on his own terms. It wouldn't have given him the venom he needed, nor made him the figure he turned into.

He goes into lengthy detail about his horrendous childhood. The domineering and abusive father, the spineless mother, and the soul-crushing social alienation he experienced as a child and young adult. Dreams are shattered, any sense of self-worth is ground into the earth at inception and even the tiniest hint of human warmth displayed is slowly being squeezed out. Unsurprisingly, the only route open to the character is direct revolt and nihilism. A rejection of all social conventions, common "wisdoms" and, above all, expectations.

Yet for all the abject misery this is a supremely funny and vigorous book, if you know what to look for and share Bukowski's brand of humour. What really did surprise me though was that there is a tenderness here that I didn't find in either Post Office , Factotum or Women. At the ending of the book Bukowski seems to have found some degree of peace, some acceptance of his present state and past. Considering the tumultous, unpleasant life he had led up until then, this is one hell of a miracle.

You can level many accusations against Bukowski, both as a writer and as a person. Sure, his writing is blunt, unrefined, perhaps too reliant on cheap gross out effects. He was an alcoholic, a misanthrope, even a thoroughly vile man when he got you in his crosshairs, but what he surely wasn't was unfeeling. Underneath all that bravado and machismo there beat the heart of a disappointed, yet true, romantic. Sadly, that person never had a chance to flourish. That is the source of Bukowski's greatness and tragedy both.

Arthur Graham

Rating: really liked it
"The first thing I remember is being under something."

So begins this chronicle of the dirty old man's humble beginnings, his formative years, and the myriad oppressions he endured throughout his childhood, adolescence, and early adult life. In the most literal sense, this opening line represents baby Hank's first concrete memory, but it also sets the tone for the entire memoir to come. Dedicated to "all the fathers," Ham on Rye is both an indictment of and a tribute to every boss, bully, teacher, preacher, and dictator (foreign and domestic) to leave their mark on Chinaski's (Bukowski's) coming-of-age experience, charting his own way forward if only by counterexample.


"My father liked the slogan, 'Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.' But it hadn't done any of that for him. I decided that I might try to reverse the process."

Each loosely connected chapter finds Hank at some point in his troubled youth, from his earliest memories of Andernach, Germany, to the first of many rented rooms in Los Angeles, California. Most of the intervening narrative deals with his abysmal home life throughout his equally trying school years. Whether at the hands of his father or his peers, young Hank takes his lickings and learns to give a licking or two in kind. He fights back, carves out his niche, thinks about girls and yearns for safe haven.


"R.O.T.C. was for the misfits. Like I said, it was either that or gym."

As with any semi-autobiographical work, one has to wonder how much of it is true. Hank loses more fights than he wins, and his descriptions of failure should ring true for anyone accustomed to the experience. If Bukowski were to fictionalize anything here, you'd think that he might actually get laid somewhere in these 283 pages. Having said that, it's probably not much of a spoiler to reveal that he remains a virgin at least up until the bombing of Pearl Harbor, but anyone who's ever read Bukowski knows that he more than made up for this later in life (see Women, etc).

There's got to be some scholarly work out there that unpacks the fact from fiction, but if one exists I am not aware. With Buk and his parents long since dead, I suppose I could call up Linda Lee to ask. Stupid idea, I know, but maybe I could convince her to adopt me the same way she adopted Hank all those years ago. Despite their famous squabble, I have no doubt in my mind that she added at least an extra decade to his life, without which he may have never lived to see the publication of this book in the first place. But I digress, and my glass needs refilling. Goodnight...

For further reference:

"The father never leaves"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_v1fc...

"That's called growing up"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WiuJGh...

Peace out, bitches!



This review is dedicated to Lila Jane.

Tony

Rating: really liked it
My life did not resemble Henry Chinaski's. No abusive father here. No ritualized beatings. No helpless mother. No culture of fighting. One lost fight was enough to teach me the purposelessness of all that. I liked school. Not that I go to the reunions. Sure there was the pimply phase, but nothing like the scourge of boils that rendered Henry a monster.

And yet...and yet...

Something rang so true reading this book. The sense of alienation. The understanding of the absurdity of it all. The rejection of class and mores. The resort to isolation. Somehow I got to the same godless, cynical place, where I can look back with a sense of inevitability.

You know how you pick a book up, flip a few pages, read the first sentence, perhaps, or a few strands of dialogue to get a sense of whether it will be worth the effort? I did that here and thought this would be trite, unsatisfying and nihilistic. But I bought it anyhow, couldn't put it down and feel that I've learned something about myself from reading about someone who isn't like me at all.

Lori

Rating: really liked it
I feel like this kid is someone that I've known well, not just read a book about him.

Dave Schaafsma

Rating: really liked it
“I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me”—Hunter Thompson

“And my own affairs were as bad, as dismal, as the day I had been born. The only difference was that now I could drink now and then, though never often enough. Drink was the only thing that kept a man from feeling forever stunned and useless. Everything else just kept picking and picking, hacking away. And nothing was interesting, nothing. The people were restrictive and careful, all alike. And I've got to live with these fuckers for the rest of my life, I thought. God, they all had assholes and sexual organs and their mouths and their armpits. They shit and they chattered and they were dull as horse dung. The girls looked good from a distance, the sun shining through their dresses, their hair. But get up close and listen to their minds running out of their mouths, you felt like digging in under a hill and hiding out with a tommy-gun. I would certainly never be able to be happy, to get married, I could never have children. Hell, I couldn't even get a job as a dishwasher”—Bukowski

If the above paragraph offends you—and I admit it could maybe offend on various levels—then Bukowski is not for you. But this autobiographical novel focused on Henry Chinaski’s early years up until Pearl Harbor, has a kind of breathless drive and hilarity, with fresh working-class boy language. Henry is bullied, beaten by his bastard father, gets into multiple fights, lusts after girls, gets in trouble in school constantly. He grows up poor, with severe acne that develops into boils, so he’s early on looking like a loser with only losers for friends. Later he becomes a good boxer, but early on he fails at sports. He makes it through high school and college, but barely, as an English major, though he sometimes gets kicked out of classes:

“You are thirty minutes late."
"Yes."
"Would you be thirty minutes late to a wedding or a funeral?"
"No."
"Why not, pray tell?"
"Well, if the funeral was mine I'd have to be on time. If the wedding was mine it would be my funeral.”

It’s for a time mainly fighting and drinking that give him any kind of solace:

“Getting drunk was good. I decided that I would always like getting drunk. It took away the obvious and maybe if you could get away from the obvious often enough, you wouldn't become so obvious yourself.”

Chinaski finds reading as a resource, and he reads everything, respecting mainly straight-shooting guys like Hemingway. Unpretentious writers not of privileged classes.

“First paycheck I get, I thought, I'm going to get myself a room near the downtown L.A. Public Library.”

Finally, he finds solace in writing, which gets him thrown out of his house by his father, but:

“It was a joy! Words weren't dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.”

But he is still deeply cynical, hates almost everything and everyone:

“The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole goddamned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.”

So Chinaski sounds arrogant in his loathing everything around him, but he saves a great deal of tie self-loathing, too:

“I often stood in front of the mirror alone, wondering how ugly a person could get.”

and

“I made practice runs down to skid row to get ready for my future.”

“Maybe I'd be a bank robber. Some god-damned thing. Something with flare, fire. You only had one shot. Why be a window washer?”

Bukowski in this book is Hunter Thompson without the political black humor, with even greater nihilism, maybe, humorous without principles, living an early life of darkness shaped by his father and getting beaten up by everyone. This guy may not be the best American writer, but he is a very good one, at his best. At his best he is astonishingly honest and unsentimental. It was a great read. I laughed a lot.

Susanne

Rating: really liked it
Review to be posted on blog: https://books-are-a-girls-best-friend...

Dysfunction that Breaks the Heart Ten Times Over. Knowing, however, that You Can Break Free from the Chains.

Ham on Rye: My first read by Charles Bukowski, came highly recommended.

A semi-autobiographical coming of age story about a young man named Henry Chinaski.

There is angst, desperation, dysfunction, heartache, and pain and then there is hysterical laughter.

Growing up during the Great Depression, this is the story of a young man who learned to question his existence, during a time when such a thing was not acceptable.

A father who is an abusive, alcoholic and is also mentally unstable, from whom Henry learned the finer points of alcohol. A mother who is unable to stand up for herself or her son.

Bullied, covered in acne, and terrible with girls, Henry sort of becomes a bully himself. Can’t say I blamed him, all things considered.

Then there is Henry’s personality. His cynicism. His sexual frustration. His adoration of Panties (yes, I said panties) and finally, Miss Gredis’ classroom - thump, thump, thump. That, my friends, is where the hysterical laughter comes in.

What makes this novel so wholly realistic is the writing, which is inflected with honesty and sincerity and clearly comes from a place of both pain and salvation. From knowing that there is more to life than the hand that Henry Chinaski was dealt.

What is astounding is that at such a tender young age, Charles Bukowski as Henry Chinaski, was wise beyond his years, asking pertinent questions, including what he wanted out of life. Pushing boundaries, and rejecting social conventions, making others do the same. Though somewhat crude, rude, and brash, “Henry Chinaski” was also brave, going where others had not gone before.

While I didn’t quite love this book, due to the way it was told, it resonated with me for a variety of reasons. At first, I found the writing to be a bit choppy though, thankfully it evened out as the story got going. Bold, and daring, Henry Chinaski is a “character” I won’t soon forget as he is one I identified with in many respects. Sadly, his parents, unfortunately, were quite like my own in many ways. The fact that this novel is semi-autobiographical broke my heart.

I have heard that Mr. Bukowski has written several other books that are a bit more profane, shocking, and vile. That remains to be seen.
3.85 Stars

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