“Garth Miró is the misanthropic voice of humanism, here to help us travel on this meat cruise called life. The Vacation is his sun-soaked dark comedy that plops your brain in a blender, spins it with essential truths, and liquifies your concept of narrative into piña colada.
Bon voyage, you might not return from this journey.”
–Jon Lindsey author of Body High
“Garth Miró’s The Vacation is a surreal nightmare.
An American fever dream of failure, sloth, and paranoia. Wildly funny and original. Cronenberg on a cruise ship
(if he had a sense of humor and sickly-sweet drink in hand.) I gulped down the unhinged second half and loved every moment. Uneasy and provocative entertainment from an exciting new voice.”
–Richard Mirabella author of Brother & Sister Enter the Forest
“Fast paced and dynamic, Garth Miró’s Vacation is a secretion of literary and material sun, water, and the unavoidable viscera of the portent, sea-translated, imminent lay flat culture. Don’t drown under the commanding narrative binding Miró’s nautical imagination.”
–Vi Khi Nao author of The Vegas Dilemma
“A brilliant blast of demented fun, Garth Miró’s The Vacation asks what it means to wreck your life in an already-ruined world. What if leisure were an actual cult (and is it)? The tetchy, twitchy comedown on a cruise ship quickly turns into an existential whirlpool. By twists darkly hilarious and disturbing, Miró walks us down one man’s hell, the guided
tour with a perverse star map of unhinged riffs and surreal disorientations, where laughter, dread, and insanity become indistinguishable.”
–Nate Lippens author of My Dead Book
If not for love we wouldn’t know how to want. An event, a book of the dead, a toast to unsung travesties and unprecedented majesties. This is thematic supremacy. An escapism, a reveille. Characterless joints, disembodied questioning narratives. We’re sacrificing all the leaden baggage of the written word to save it. We’re leaving personalities behind and we must never return. All hits, no skips. Courage after fear. A relic out of time, built different for a fallen world. A unitary panpsychist’s map. A nuclear winter’s blanket, deep space dressed to the 9s, the patron saints of radio silence reach for the ether like deities of oblivion. We’ve got binders full of unsaids, unclassifiables and unknowables. The process by which we obliterate the form is unfathomable. Our curation is unimpeachable. An atemporal doorstopper to dissociate with or recite to music and psychoactive spirits. The most found words distilled as communion wine for the lost. Break ranks, come to the center, overthrow a utopia. The world needs to wake up and dream again. The page is a swooning rictus, a maw-shaped washed out tumble-dry saturation of living. It bends toward a European girl-flavored son favored, a silent disco prayer for affinal dilettantes. The next generation of liars, bitcrushed and blown out in breadth and ineffable grain.