Without you I’d never have known who Lupe Velez was – let alone how she met her unsanitory end!
If, like me, you grew up sometime in the 60s, you’ll be imprinted with the Johnny Weissmuller ‘Tarzan’ films of the late 30s and early 40s.
I remember them playing on TV again in the late 70s and then they just seemed to disappear. Umgawa.
None of us knew what happened to Tarzan, Jane or Cheeta. Even fewer of us cared what happened to that arrogant little shit, Boy.
“Me, Cheeta” changes all that.
Written by the only surviving member of Tarzan’s family this book will have you simultaneously longing for an era you never grew up in, pining for black and white people you never met and wishing you could fly out and meet the chimp himself before he goes to the great escarpment in the sky and there’s no-one left to tell the tale any more.
This book didn’t so much jump off the display at me as perform a backflip while smoking three Luckys and knocking back a cocktail or two.
I had to buy it. I advise you to do the same – it’s great. Ah, the old days….
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