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 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.