book/author reviews

Spotlight on Authors

Micheal Crichton is sadly dead. Unceremoniously dead; he passed out of existence with very little fanfare. Here's some posthumous fanfare: “Aw, that's sad. He wrote good.” “Gee, I never knew he was alive. I thought he was a myth.” “Dang! I loved Jurassic Park!” “E. R. was exciting!” “Was that the guy who wrote 'Sphere'?” Fireworks, boom, bam.

That being said, his latest book 'Pirate Latitudes' was a lot like all of his later books, crappy and written primarily with a movie deal in the works. O.K, it had some interesting characters and a plot (sort of) and stuff happened. If that's all that you expect from a book, then this is for you.

Crichton's best work came before Jurassic Park (which wasn't a great literary work, but was a terrific read). He was a staple on the Best Seller's lists for 20 years, and well deserved. He wrote candy for the masses and made millions—we should all be so lucky.

I wish this manuscript had gotten lost in a storm, swept out to sea and drowned. And I hope no more surprises surface over the next post Crichton years. Is that too harsh?

Now, for any Science Fiction fans out there, I give a big nod to China Mieville. His latest book is The City & the City. I read about half of this book before I sent it back to the library. But his earlier books Perdido Street Station, The Scar, and Iron Council are Sci-fi/fantasy masterpieces together or alone.
Together they make up a trilogy of some of the weirdest creatures, landscapes and societies that anyone ever dreamed up. Ask Mieville what he thinks of Tolkien; “the wen on the arse of fantasy literature.” I don't know what that means, but Mieville is Tolkien on steroids. Perdido is Dungeons and Dragons after an 'electric acid Kool Aid trip'. Mieville doesn't stop with Perdido, though; with The Scar he moves out of the city of New Crobuzon into the sea. More creatures and weird machine-people and twisted love. Most writers would be content to create a universe and throw the people within it at each others throats and the throats of evil monsters. Mieville goes beyond that with issues and ups the ante with even weirder stuff and weirder creatures. He caps it with Iron Council—I say caps, but I pray he isn't done.

No, this isn't your father's Tolkien, it's different; it's a fantasy for the new millennium and for grown ups. Don't let your 12 year old read these, but if you grew up reading about orcs and wizards, then you just might enjoy what Mieville has to offer.

Brought to you by the Egyptian Sphinxter and Capt. Generic, bad reviewers of all books; good, bad, evil or indifferent. ha ha, not really.

i want to ride my bicycle

Finally one day--and the sun was coming up over the rooftops, low and blinding--we decided to escape our dreary existence by fleeing into the streets on our Schwinn. It was a bicycle built for two. She rode up front and I followed, pedaling like mad, flying down the avenue like a bat out of hell or some other furry winged creature—but 'like a flying squirrel from a maple' doesn't conjure the appropriate madness of our wheeled behavior.

We were weary of the grind. Work, drive, eat, sleep. Even falling into love on the occasional sleepless evening was mundane. When carryout from the local pizza joint becomes unexciting because it has turned into standard fare, then life is upside down, and recklessness is in order. Yes, you must stand up and throw your arms above your head. You must scream out gibberish from your open window, regardless of the neighbors. Singing silly songs is a garnish for your Boredom Buster, the figurative sandwich of sustenance.

On the streets we gained our freedom, and we brought nothing to weigh us down. Ahead the road curved wickedly, no problem for adept cyclists, but for rusty weekend warriors on an ungainly contraption it proved too much, and down we went. She yelled brakes, I called out turn, and two cooks in the kitchen will sometimes burn the toast. So down we went, mere blocks from our humble abode, into the soft green divider, freshly mown and dewy yet for the morning sun had not begun to dry our little patch of Earth.

Is that enough violence for one day, she inquired while picking tiny blades of wet grass from her skin. The entirety of our left sides had sprouted green fur, but we came out unscathed for the most part.

Indeed, I replied, and we hauled up our torture equipment and escorted it back the way we came, slow and halting with the telling stumble of bruised thighs and supreme ineptitude. Tomorrow we shall conquer the Alps, while roaring Wagner and waving swords. All will flee from our glorious wrath and we will gain the summit.

And monkeys will fly out of our butts. Pizza and Parcheesi it is.

neither here nor there

i feel i've been framed
possibly bought at the dime store
and stuck on a shelf
leaning
forgotten
a face from nowhere
keeping company with
do nothing
no ones--
i'm the glossy one.

crash landing

I have this little capsule
tinted windows and puncture resistant
plastic polymers
for deep space exploration.
Wait, this is valid
this coincides to everyday living
this is Martha Stewart approved.
For in the laptop engine compartment
I will bake a pie.
I will bake a blueberry pie
and now I'll reveal the reason why:
in forty-five years
life within the realm of cornfields
where robin is the springtime harbinger
and a goldfinch appears over fence rails
zipping like a roller coaster
sticking it for the judges, and
the children who clap and play
kick the bucket,
this land where the wafts
link the window sills
and freshly mown lawns
fill evening airs like music
when the racket ends and
the first bottle cap
flies off into bushes
and the chipper wrens in
nitchy nooks sing out
from their filtched string and lint
beds...
no, I've never eaten a blueberry;
they are so blue...
I am loathe to do it.

portrait of a lunch lady

these silly doodles don't really have anything to do with today's story...which is a little convoluted and twisted...beware.

Alice Trudeaux, lunch maven at Hillside Elementary,
has been serving up wholesome meals for the school's
children for more than 30 years.
“I started here back in the 70's, when my own kids
were little. I wouldn't trade a minute of my time here
for the world!”

Lately though the schools statewide have been taking
a drastic hit from budget cuts. The tax base is shrinking
and bills just aren't getting paid. Something has got to give.

This year some Hillside teachers and much of the staff are being laid off. The big heave ho.
“I'm not bitter,” says Alice. “Just because I've been a
faithful hardworking slave to these kids for 40 years, and
with little thanks; I guess it's time I left anyway.”
Alice is washing dishes but not softly. The forks and spoons
are flying. Many years ago her youngest child disappeared
from the school yard; to this day the mystery is unsolved.

Alice reminisces. “He was a good boy, well, he was a pill,
always getting into trouble. It's no wonder Jimmy came up
missing. I ain't knowing how, ain't sayin'.” She weeps a little
tear that gets wiped away with her pinkie. “We was having
money troubles back then, too. But the kids here were never
wanting for food, not with 'ol Alice about, no way. My boy,
I miss him some; he was a giver. That was a good lunch day.”

Hillside has had a long history of tragedy. In the school's
fifty years there have been seven unexplained disappearances.
4 boys and 3 girls, all within the last 25 years.
“Those were sad days, I remember 'em all. My little Jimmy,
and then Jenny and Bobby and Jill and Craig.... You know,
they was all ornery little pills, always underfoot. It's a
shame, but every cloud has a silver lining.”

Hillside Elementary is barely hanging on these days. There
are the money woes and nightmarish tragedies; the state has
threatened to close Hillside for a decade, and if the economy doesn't
turn around soon, then the school will surely go the way of
much of its staff.
Alice isn't concerned. “I'm gonna stick around, you know,
in a volunteer type way. None of these precious little jewels
will go hungry as long as grandma Alice is here to feed 'em.
No way.”

Alice is one of the lucky ones, she'll take an early retirement
and still receive some sort of income. She isn't thinking of
slowing down.
“Oh, they're a good bunch of kids. I love 'em.” One little
urchin runs through, knocking Alice's lunch cart and
scattering a tray across the floor.
“Most of 'em anyhows. Hey you Timmy, you skunk. You get
here an' pick this mess up, and then into the kitchen with you.
I need some lunch ideas.”
She sniggers and pinches his chubby cheek.
“Oh, another good lunch day—no, none of us is
goin' hungry today. And there'll be plenty in the freezer
for a week, oh yeah.”

Who knows, maybe Hillside Elementary can hang on for
another year or two. Maybe, with good folk like Alice
Trudeaux looking over our kids, ready with the seasoning.

oh, that little man in my garden!

I gave the little man in my garden an old Discman and lent him the Dresden Dolls; she sang uh-uh, oh but he disapproved.

“An I be a wee fellow, ya blunderin' tosser, but 'eh, she wails like an banshee! Sure 'nuff.”

Well, I was just trying to make amends for last spring when Toby nosed him up a bit and got his blood roiling. And I told him so. “Please, go easy on the weeds—my old back isn't up to it.” The little man had pulled weeds out of his sleeve that hadn't seen the light of day for a century. Not that that kept the little blighters from claiming every spare centimeter of vacant soil. Last summer I had weeds on top of noxious weeds. I had weeds I swear had feet. I had weeds the like of which chewed my grand-pappy's tobacco and were propagated by the Guinness Book of World Records' long spit! I'll not forget those weeds any season soon.

The little man was out earlier than usual this year, what with the record temps, and he and the William Mulberry tree were forgoing the usual mumbletypeg ritual for a game of toss the catkin. You see, the corkscrew hazelnut is going on a couple years in the dirt, and this year has sprouted the most delightful and fluffiest of dangle firs, like soft little caterpillars, or miniature mink stoles. Apparently Willy covets them; his drooping branches don't seem to flower or seed—not that I've noticed.

“Ah Willy, yer nigkneed flop-ter-sop! Ye's ugly as my baboon's ass; nekid and droopy! Gads—put on some clothes, prevert!”

Will just shrugs and harrumphs a bit, straining to pop out some meager spring foliage betwixt naps.

What's the hurry, summer comes soon enough when the leaves will fill in the empty spaces and hide the bones. Until then a couple or more catkins decorate his lower bits.
I just transplanted a small fir shrub into a fresh location, as its old residence will soon be sporting a new junk habitat, but I have my doubts that it will survive the move. The little man was there as usual to help. “No, you fat bloated ferny goat head! O'er here, now o'er there—k-niggits, you arr one for da astronauts, you blitherin' pie dome! Now lookee, poor lil chap is bummed, no way 'es coming out the other side, now! Foo.”

Sorry, it was either move the fir or get trampled by the installers; “heads it grows, tails it's for the fire pit.”

Oops, did I say that out loud?

“Farg, that's a fine ting ta utter, ya loose twit! Now 'es a cryin', naugh! It's the weed for ya, ya hairy kneed scrum scrubber! Go now and say yer deh sorry!”
Ugh. Not that apologizing will help any; more weeds. Great—I can feel my back tighten up already!

binocularing the fishbowl

Tripping overt the glass menagerie
she caught hell in the terrapin tank.
A man size tun/a red goatee
a throaty serenade of sweaty obscenities,
interpretive fixtures of
monolithic faux corals
teeming with feudal morays
in epic stare contests
who scrabble for the
leftover bonbon cheeses
to initiate dogfight dive and
stalling maneuvers
so for too
grab the goods and go
to town.
Prearranged, the oversight
oxidation committee is out to lunch
and two bits shy of a full roll.
Finally a low tolerance scrum
welled up over the
Mackerel contingent
and stirred a heated
brubbling broil
to a crab celebratorial
bazfaz dip
and how!
Oh look, the snails are converging.

beguiled by night

a 10th daughter of memory entry...

The flatulent ghouls that ran City Finale had cordoned off the last productive avenue in a final effort to placate writhing, demanding citizens.

This is your street, No ghouls are permitted entry. All City business ends at the restricted zone.
Of course, that meant at some point, to do business, every citizen had to leave the street. Most chose to work and run errands in the daylight, but the real business of the City was conducted in the late hours, when the ghouls stirred beyond the sun's stretching rays of radioactive illumination, the element the ghouls referred to as 'fingers of doom'.

Ghouls were the brains, they kept what was left of the world alive with their engineering and scientific skills. They were also keen bureaucrats who knew how to look out for number one. Everyone else was slave labor, or cannon fodder. We knew it, grist for the mill...well, live and love; that was our model of existence. Oh, and 'kill the bastards', but we kept that one to ourselves.

They lived under the highrises, in fortified bunkers that would be untouched even if the buildings could be brought down around them. Without the ghouls our lives would be hard; we'd live like wandering nomads—moving with the seasons and starving. As far as we knew, we were the last citizens of Earth, and so were loathe to change. We let the ghouls lead, and they fed off our ignorance. Literally. We payed the blood tax, and sometimes died. As a go-between I was supposedly exempt, but in the interest of the citizens I often supplied my neck for concessions.

Tonight I made my way into the City to meet with the grand ghoul himself, Monsieur DeLepur.
They called me Frito Lay, as the ghouls often refer to their citizen meat as former food items. My guide Josie was Potato, or as I playfully called her, Spud. She was unimportant to the ghouls and warranted no second name.

“Mr. Lay, what business of the Street brings you into City this evening?” That was the question of one of Monsieur's goons. It slaverly ogled the curve of my neck. There were three of them, and they stood too close to one another. Potato carried a duffel bag and sewn into the sides were chunks of ice that hid the heated contents of the duffel. She stealthily unzipped the bag as the insipid ghouls licked their lips, hankering as they did for the blood rush and an end to their pasty complexions, and as they advanced on me she drove a sun heated spike into the chest of one while tossing a hot spike into my gloved hand. I drove it home while she dispatched the third.

The goons lay about me, and I heard the chortle of Monsieur beyond the death site. He had set it up, planning on weakening me for the negotiations. He was a conniving businessman above all else, and the natural head of the ghoul reich. Without DeLepur we citizens had a real chance of diplomacy; we might live on our own terms instead of remaining trapped like cattle and culled for out precious fluid. The debate among the citizens was that they we needed them as much as they needed us, but I disagreed. At least I was willing to chance it without them. I would give my life to see the people free from this degrading life of siphoned servitude.

It was a step anyway, a first step. And whether the citizens wanted to take it or not, I was about to set them on a course they couldn't back from. I stepped forward, ready to do my ultimate business with Monsieur, ready to meet my end. Spud dropped her duffel and ran, aware her intimate knowledge of the City might not save her from the lurking and famished ghouls. I wished her well.

It strode forward,the king of ghouls, caressing my warm face and leaned in to drink its fill and then do business. But it staggered back having broken the skin of an unscathed section of my neck and taken that first greedy draught. It was enough.

We had our own chemist by luck, one of the few thinking men that hadn't been turned, and he had for the cause injected the serum of radioactive isotopes into my bloodstream. This way or another I was meant to die, why not take one with me?

The ghoul winced and sat heavily down against a brick wall, and I left the gash in my neck open to spill the torrents lose. I hunkered down beside him, slumping over his cold form as the blood pooled around our sunken bodies where the night scavengers would flock to dine, and die.

I hope I have enough to go around.

doodling outside the box

Box measured 3x2x3 and had sidewalls the thickness of heavy corrugated cardboard. Its shiny green sides led up to a 4 flap lid. Now it moved, carried by four squat feet that lifted and propelled from beneath.

It was followed by a half naked and very dirty young boy.

“Joseph? What in the world is that, and have it wipe its feet before coming into the kitchen.”

“Mom, it followed me home; can I keep it?” The box and boy bounced excitedly.
She looked it over good, top to bottom and back up again. “Joseph, will you feed it and wash it and take it for walks? And keep it off your father, you know how allergic he is.”

“Oh yes, mama! Thank you.” Joseph wandered out to the yard, followed by his new friend. Mom could see them from the window over the sink. She washed dishes and watched the dirty boy toss rocks into the air; the young box was agile for its size and flipped up its lid, catching every stone.

“Let's play rocket ship,” said Joseph, and he grabbed the space helmet, which fit perfectly on the small boy's head.

The box opened its top and the boy hauled himself over the side.

“Joseph, no!” his mom called from the window, but to no avail.
“Gulp; burp,” and goodbye boy.
“Joseph, you know you'll spoil your dinner! Wait until your father gets home,” scolded box mom.
“Aw, ma!”

some absurd box doodle comicals

anyone for an appetizer?

Sleep deprived astronauts
en route to Crab Nebulas
win stellar discount lotteries
a land grab
for vacuum packed colonists
freeze dried tourists.
Space folding pilots in deep sleep
hibernated star jockeys
overshoot Crab Nebulas
by parsecs,
enter log jam in the Tarantula Zone
where the Frigate Stop runs low
on Betelgeuse batter
Great Galoshens grow hungry
carbonated crews
vacuum packed colonists
deep fried tourists
in lugubrious profundity
chase away the hungrys.

guess who's coming to dinner?

The real meaning of pancreas
a dilution of a manner of matter
poured from a beaker
and a funny word: spleen.
Come hither, then, young miss
give us a kiss
and deliver unto me
your liver and kidney.
Tra la, I hum
to myself, no one else
in the cellar laboratory
concocting nightly recipes
for frivolities
and my visitors will scream
they are having so much fun!
Oh my, is the winter gone?
So I'll pull down the sheets and
throw up the sash
and feed the stale air
some sun today
and my neighbors will balk
as I offer them sugar
before they even ask.
Ten dollars I have found
in a wallet from the garden
with a worm, and it mentions
maybe a pizza would be nice
a good way to celebrate the dirt
is soft enough to dig
and wiggle
and play.
Even so, well a worm
is good for an idea or two.
And a pizza will do, and
delivery of course,
no toppings, thank you please,
I will supply my own.