Review: Beguilement: Book One of the Sharing Knife

Hugo Award winner Lois McMaster Bujold returns with the first volume of her newest series, The Sharing Knife. Her previous work, from The Curse of Chalion (Eos, 2001) all the way to The Hallowed Hunt (Eos, 2005), walks a fine line between fast-paced action of quest fantasy and character driven stories of romance. Here Bujold pushes the fantasy more to the background, making the developing romance between the main characters of Dag and Fawn the primary story.

This is not to say the novel is without action. The two lovers meet when the wandering adventurer Dag rescues the farmer’s daughter Fawn from a Malice, a powerful demonic creature capable of bending the wills and flesh of others to its own. Dag, part of a tribe called Lakewalkers, uses special knives enchanted upon the death of its owner to destroy the demon. During her capture, Fawn’s unborn child is killed somehow enchanting one of Dag’s blades. This baffling mystery links the two together as they try to find out the secrets of the new special Sharing Knife.
While there is other action and drama throughout the story, good or bad the end result is that the events seem built for the singular purpose to push Dag and Fawn together. This is a big shift for fans of her other books, who will expect layers of political intrigue and thrilling action alongside the love story. This almost total focus on the love story places the whole weight of the novel on Bujold’s ability to make the two lovers compelling characters. The perspective shifts between both Fawn and Dag, allowing us to see from both sides how their relationship builds and grows. While the basic plot does venture into bodice-ripper territory, the book is saved from this by a strong command of language and an ability to deliver powerful emotions in a believable manner.
A side issue seems to be the (very) light feminist touch to the tale. Fawn is an 18 year old runaway, a young unmarried woman who left home when faced with an embarrassing, unwanted pregnancy. While she needed Dag to save her from both the Malice and the trap of her former life, there are hints that she’s becoming a stronger, more independent spirit. Back at home she had no control over her own life, but with Dag she opens up and shows sighs of real intelligence, determination and character. While I doubt a full series like this can be carried based solely around a romantic relationship, I do have hopes that increasing the strength and power of Fawn’s character can. But we won’t know for sure which way Bujold will go until the next volume.

Excelsior.

random links

How in the world did I miss this? Baltimore had a Zombie Prom last weekend? You can see the photos on a flckr account.

Congrats to heb favorite Matt Briggs for winning a American Book Award this year for his novel Shoot the Buffalo. If you haven't read it yet, you really should. One of the best books I've read in the past year.

Author Ed Willett writes one of the better defenses for sf that I've seen for awhile in his essay In praise of science fiction writing. My favorite part:

To tell stories of alternate worlds, you need ways to get to those worlds, or explanations for why they are the way they are -- and that's where the scientifically faster-than-light travel and time machines and telepathy and other such conceits come into play. So why write these stories of alternate worlds? Because by doing so, science fiction writers are able to say things about our own world that, because of the unusual setting, sneak by the defences and prejudices of readers and cause them to think thoughts they might not have otherwise thought.

This round's Quarterly Conversation is really tight, with a Murakami roundtable, a comic book style appreciation of Gilbert Sorrentino, and a review of Clarie Messud's The Emperor's Children.

Rudy Rucker has started a new online journal called Flurb. With initial contributions by Paul Di Filippo, John Shirley, and, yes, Rudy Rucker it looks really promising. Hope it stays around.

Bookmooch looks like an interesting way to trade books around. I'll probably stick with ebay, but maybe I'll give it a try at some point.

Black Holes and Peanut Butter

About a month ago I was asked to participate in a panel discussion on graphic novels in public libraries. The audience will be comprised mostly of children's librarians and young adult librarians for Fairfax County, with a small smattering of adult librarians as well. Some high mucky muck who wrote a book on graphic novels is the primary speaker, but I was picked along with three others in the Fairfax system as someone who reads graphic novels and can speak about them.

We finally had an info meeting this past Tuesday to plan the whole deal, which will happen on Monday. The woman organizing the whole conference, who seems very nice and well-meaning, really has no idea about anything to do with the medium. She uses terms like graphic novel (which is really a term devised by publishing companies more than anything), comics and manga interchangeably. It took some explaining to convince her that only Japanese Manga is designed to be read right to left. But I give her credit for at least asking questions. As word has spread the last couple of days that I'm doing this, I'm finding a lot of librarians who either don't get the phenomenon or even hate it. A coworker today was surprised to see me check out Sorrentino's Mulligan Stew, thinking that I only read comics.

I don't know what exactly will come of the panel, but I hope it will at least dispel some of the misconceptions people have. If nothing else, I hope to convince people that comics are more than superheroes and manga (not that I don't enjoy both of those).

For the panel itself, we're basically being asked the following questions:


1. How did you get started reading graphic novels, and what do you personally get out of them?

2. What are some of the differences between comics created in Asia, the United States and Europe?

3. What are differences between comics and the popular cartoons and/or movies that are based on them?

4. Name one comic you would suggest to a high-school age reader and explain why.

5. Name one comic you would suggest to a younger reader and explain why.

Picking my favorite comics was actually kind of tough. They wanted things the library actually has in stock so anyone interested can check them out, which makes sense. Unfortunately for me, my tastes tend to run more towards the underground and indie side, which the library doesn't carry much of. For a kids comic I think I'll suggest James Kochalka's Peanut Butter and Jeremy's Best Book Ever, which is brilliant because it has stuff that's fun for both kids and adults. But I also I love telling anyone who will listen about James Kochalka. Not only does he create kick ass comics, his name is just fun to say.

James Kochalka.

James Kochalka.

James Kochalka.

For teens my first instinct was Craig Thompson's Blankets, but I think instead I'll go with Black Hole by Charles Burns. Being set in a high-school and the schlock horror touches of mutant plagues and zombies...it just seems tailor made for me to rant about. Problem being I haven't actually read the thing. So I have my weekend cut out for me.

Excelsior.

Saturday With Poe

This past weekend Miss L and I made a little sidetrip to the Poe House in downtown Baltimore, Md. Baltimore is mostly associated with Poe in relation to his death and all the various theories surrounding it. But Poe actually lived in Charm City for a time; itwas his home at the time he first started writing short stories. His very first published story, "Berenice", was written in the tiny bedroom on the top floor.

pic 1-Poe House, image courtesy of the Poe Society

The first thing I'll mention is that the house (pic 1) is not in the best part of Baltimore. Just to the left of the house sits a set of one level apartments. And while the families hanging out on the porch were very nice to us, their homes were in great disrepair. A number of other buildings on the block were completely boarded up. As you approach the door to the house, the first thing you see is a sign on the doorway. The sign warns you about the area, warns you to not give out any money to panhandlers, and to knock to gain entrance. I personally didn't feel uncomfortable or threatened, but some people might.

The inside is just what you might think. An old house with creaky wood floors. The entry room is run both as an entrance lobby and gift shop, which mostly holds pamphlets of critical and historical essays printed by the Poe Society. The nice lady in the black t-shirt who let us in told us the house rules, collected our $4 and sent us on our merry ways.

You go up one level and find one of the key features of the museum: a video display, which is really a collection of interviews of curator Jeff Jerome conducted by various local news teams. Most of the interviews seem like they were done near Poe's birthday and talked extensively about the unknown figure who leaves licquor and roses on Poe's grave every year. Although they do give a good bit of background on the house, they look like they were taped right off the t.v. and like they've been played hundreds of times. If there are any budding filmmakers in the area it's a venue that could really use some talented and kind soul to volunteer some hours with a camera and a studio to give them a real professional video.

Up one more level, and you arrive in a small room ringed with Gustave Dore's illustrations of Poe's "The Raven". There are also a few display cases holding an assortment of items, everything from the medalion off of his 2nd grave marker (pic 2) to a newspaper ad Poe placed to solicit submissions for a literary project he was editing (pic 3). Probably the crown jewel of the collection is the writing lap-desk donated to the museum by UVA (pic 4).

Pic 2-Poe's 2nd Marker

Pic 3-Poe Advertisement for Penn Journal

Pic 4-Poe's Lap Desk

To get to Poe's bedroom you climb up a set of narrow, high stairs to the top floor. You can't actually go into the bedroom itself (it's roped off) but you can look in enough to get an idea of his living circumstances at the time (pic 5). The conditions were, in a word, spartan.

Pic 5-Poe's Room

After leaving the house we made the short drive to Westminster Church (pic 6), now Westminster Hall, which is the home for Poe's decomposing body. When Poe was first buried in 1849, he was placed in an unmarked grave. By 1860 he was given proper recognition with a full tombstone labelled with the epitaph "Hic Tandem Felicis Conduntur Reliquae", which translates roughly as "Here, at last, he is happy". The stones were damaged several years later by vibrations from a nearby train rail. A few years later school children in Baltimore collected money under a program called "Pennies for Poe" to give a new marker (the same one kept at the house museum and shown in pic 2 above). He was later exhumed and reburied under a larger monument, between the graves of his wife Virginia and his mother-in-law Maria Glemm.

Pic 6-Westminster Church

Both Miss L and I have an affinity for graveyards. Miss L for her sense of history and me because of my morbid curiousity. The grounds are small, but still nicely kept (pic 7). Much better kept up than the Poe House itself. One thing that surprised me is that Poe rests not far from the gravesite of his own grandfather, David Poe (pic 8).

Pic 7-Graveyard at Westminster Church

Pic 8-David Poe's Grave

Pic 9-Poe's Original Grave

Pic 10-Poe's Current Grave

It seems a museum trapped within a very narrow definition and an even narrower budget; perhaps with a little vision and some funding it could envigorate itself with outreach programs and fun events. I know these aren't easy things, though. I am, admittedly, somewhat of a Poe fan. I'm no expert but I return to his poems, essays and short stories at least once a year so I enjoyed treading the steps he did. The two stops aren't the best tourist sites in Baltimore but probably worth the $4 admission if you like Poe. If you're really a fanatic about the gloomy bard I'd actually suggest heading down to Richmond and checking out the Poe House there. They have a better tour and a much broader range of artifacts.

Excelsior.

random stuff

John S. Hall, frontman for the band King Missile, has new book out. One of these days I need to write up and post my story of meeting Mr. Hall.

Librarian.Net offers up some thoughts on libraries in DC and Baltimore

Matt Bell reviews the lit mag Hobart, story by story. Never heard of the mag myself, but it looks promising.

If you're a Lovecraft fan, this should keep you busy. Free ebook versions of all his stories, in English and Spanish.

Yet another publishing award. This time for the Hottest Hottie? And we needed this why?

Both the Kenyon Review and One Story have blogs up and running now. I'll be curious to see what they do with them.

Residents of Loudon County rejoice! With Firefox as your browser and the proper downloads, you can use Amazon to check what's available at your local library. I had heard Amazon was going to start offering this, but hadn't seen it implemented yet. Full story here, courtesy of DC Metblogs. The page for the Loudon County Library is here if you'd like to try it.

Review: Forbidden Cargo

This debut novel from Rebecca Rowe blends the high concept sci-fi storytelling of Robert Heinlein with flashy visual descriptions and action-packed sequences that recall anime films and videogames as much as William Gibson’s cyberpunk classic Neuromancer (Ace Books, 1985). In 2110 Xerkler, the inventor of a complex machine that grants access to the entirety of mankind’s knowledge, finds himself pulled into the service of a government council to prove the existence of the Imafofas, a race of advanced humans developed through illegal genetic experimentation. But Xerkler already knows of their existence. Along with a few other humans, he sees them as the next step in the evolution of mankind. What follows is a politically charged thriller that careens the reader across Earth, Mars and the nebulous world of cyberspace.

Rowe’s inclusion of Eastern philosophy, mostly through the enlightenment-seeking character named MAMintelligence, works as a thoughtful and interesting thread. She also works in a lot of word-play references, particularly through character and setting names, to Anime films and Manga comics. I found it pretty amusing, but the references will obviously be over your head if you're not familiar with these areas.

The beginning of the novel gets a touch bogged down in explaining the background of the large cast of characters; so much so that I almost gave up on it. But once you work about 1/3 of the way through, the novel transforms into an action-packed page turner that will satisfy sci-fi fans searching for a fun and quick read.

Excelsior.

Dinner With the King

I've always been fascinated with Elvis. Perhaps it's because we share the same birthday. Or maybe it's because it was the only music I can remember my mom and grandmother ever agreeing on. But it's really more because he was the first super star to rise from nothing, completely fall down on his fat face and have the progression carefully recorded by video and audio tapes. He was a great talent and an enourmous ass, all rolled into one.

Today is the anniversary of his death, and I usually mark it with a list of facts or random stories that please me greatly. But this year I share just one story. The story of the Fool's Gold Loaf. It's one of my personal faves, probably because it's a great but relatively harmless example of his love of excess in all things. Although it's been recorded in a few other books, this particular version comes from the book The Life and Cuisine of Elvis Presley by David Adler.

The evening of February 1, 1976, found Elvis home at Graceland entertaining two favored guests in the jungle room. Capt. Jerry Kennedy was a member of the Denver police force, and Ron Pietrafeso was in charge of Colorado's Strike Force Against Crime. Elvis had met both men several years earlier during his period of extreme interest in law enforcement, which culminated in his surprise drop-in visit to President Nixon, who named Elvis a "special agent". Tonight, as Elvis sat on his Kon Tiki throne chair in front of the jungle room's babbling waterfall, the discussion centered on law enforcement in Colorado. Elvis however, was reminded of something else. Colorado was the home of the absolutely delicious sandwich, the best Elvis had ever eaten: the Fool's Gold Loaf.

Elvis had sampled the sandwich only once, when after a concert he was invited to a restaurant called the Colorado Cold Mine Company in the Denver suburbs of Glendale. He ordered the house specialty, which was named Fool's Gold Loaf because of it's outrageous price -$49.95. The first bite alone was enough to make a lasting impression on Elvis.

Now, months later, Elvis was reminded of those sandwiches. Both of his guests from Colorado were very curious about this extravagant treat. The King's policy when enteraining in his rock and roll palace was to grant his guests' every desire - your wish was literally the King's command, be it a game of racquetball at four in the morning or a down-home Southern breakfast at midnight. However, the "Fool's Gold Loaf", since it came from a restaurant in Denver, would stretch the limits of even Elvis' notion of hospitality.

Elvis gazed across at his guests, who were comfortably ensconced on the Hawaiian armchairs, cushioned by the rabbit's fur throw pillows. The conversation continued to revolve around the sandwiches. One of the guys impulsively remarked, "Boy, I wish I had me one of them now!"

Elvis knew what he and his guests wanted and the thousand-mile-journey to the Fool's Fold Loaf would not deter him. Elvis looked at his friends and shouted, "Let's go get 'em!"

Before the lawmen knew what was happening they were seated inside Elvis' stretch Mercedes along with another couple of Elvis' buddies, and whisked to the Memphis airport. Elvis' personal jet, the Lisa Marie, was waiting for them on the tarmac. As the four jet engines roared for takeoff, the excitement inside the plane revved even higher as Elvis and his guests were about to be flown the two hours to Denver for Elvis' favorite sandwich, the most mouthwatering sandwich known to the King.

Once aloft, Elvis, the lawmen, and the rest of the gang gathered in the plane's dining room, around its leather topped table with surrounding bucket seats upholstered in aquamarine plush. Though Elvis often snacked on the Lisa Marie, in anticipation of the filling treat to come his only indulgence was a bottle of his vine de table - regular Pepsi.

At the Colorado Gold Mine Company, the scene was frenzied. The call had come in from Memphis at midnight. The cooks had less than two hours to prepare the "takeout" order of their lifetime. The massive griddle was scrubbed clean in order to fry up the huge quantitites of bacon required. The loaves of bread were quickly hollowed out and then briefly browned. The other ingredients were always ready. Miraculously, the staff completed its creation in the nick of time. The restauranteur, his wife, and a waiter sped off for the Denver airport with twenty-two loaves. As requested, a case of Perrier and a case of champagne accompanied the sandwiches, along with a chest of cracked ice.

Elvis' plane touched down at 1:40 am at Stapleton Airport and taxied to a private hangar. The owner of the restaurant personally brought Elvis and his party the order on silver trays. For two hours in the Denver night, the feasting went on. It was typical of Elvis' generosity that he insisted that the plane's pilots, Milo High and Elwood Davis, join the fun. Elvis, as usual, avoided the alcohol, instead washing down the sandwiches with the Perrier. It was yet another night of dining Elvis style on food fit for the King.


This was no ordinary PB&J, folks. Eat at your own risk. For the curious, here's the recipe:

Fool's Gold Loaf

INGREDIENTS

o 2 T margarine
o 1 loaf Italian white bread
o 1 lb / 450 g bacon slices
o 1 jar of smooth peanut butter
o 1 jar of grape jelly


METHOD
Preheat the oven to 350F/180C. Spread the margarine generously all over all sides of the loaf. Place it on a baking sheet in the oven.

Meanwhile, fry the bacon in a bit of oil until it is crisp and drain it thoroughly on paper towels.

Remove the loaf from the oven when it is evenly browned, after approximately 15 minutes. Slice the loaf lengthwise and hollow out the interior, leaving as much bread along the walls as desired. Slather a thick layer of peanut butter in the cavity of the loaf and follow with another thick layer of grape jelly. Use lots of both.

Arrange the bacon slices inside the cavity, or, if desired, layer the bacon slivers between the peanut butter and jelly. Close the loaf, slice and eat.

Serves one if you're Elvis. Serves 8-10 if you're a regular person.

Excelsior.

The Future in a Can of Coffee

I made a run to K-Mart of all places yestertoday, to pick some necessities they had on sale. Unfortunately, I went before I had breakfast and my stomach guided me though the snack aisles. Ding Dongs. Beef Jerky. BBQ Potato Chips. Nearly everything looked like ambrosia to me at that hour. But one thing in particular caught my eye. A can of self-heating coffee.

It's easy to work. You turn the can over, push a button on the bottom to start some chemical heating reaction, turn it back over and wait. Five minutes later a spot on the side of the can changes color from red to white, letting you know the coffee's at premium drinking temperature.

These have been around for some time. NASA developed them quite some time ago so space travelers can have something hot to eat. Japan's had them for a few years, but mostly in the form of cup-o-noodles. But I had never seen one myself. I can remember reading SF stories as a kid I always thought that was pretty cool. And while a cup of coffee is not a turkey dinner or even a cup of noodles, it's a nice start.

The whole thing got me thinking about technology and how damn hard it is to predict. SF, in fact, has a pretty bad overall record with it. Just look at the big ticket items. If you believed the SF written in the 50's and 60's everyone would have their own spaceship, flying car, and jet pack by now. Instead we have videogames, myspace, and real dolls.

And then there's computers.

"A Logic Named Joe", a lone short story written in 1946 by Murray Leinster, is not only the first but one of the few pieces of SF to predict the personal computer and the concept of large computer networks. Tech changes our lives in random, odd ways we can't predict. 50 years ago, how many people would have guessed so many of our jobs would depend on computers? Not many.

What's the point? When it comes down to it, it's the little pieces of tech that come around to make our lives easier that really stand to change the way we live. The microwave. The light emitting diode. The self-heating can of coffee. These are the small things that reshape our lives and moves us forward into some other way of living. It's just not quite so fancy or fun to write about as a time machine, but they can make great background color for a writer with a creative mind.

And that can of coffee? It wasn't bad, but I think I'll still stick to making Folgers for awhile longer.

Excelsior.

The Lone Piccolo Player

This past weekend Miss L and I celebrated our fifth year together. Yes, believe it or not, even though we live in different states somehow we've managed to stay together as a couple. Each year we switch off who puts together the celebration. In the past we've gone to places like St. Mary's and Williamsburg, but my commitments to grad school this summer forced us to stay within the confines of Charm City. This year was Miss L's turn, and she decided we'd go to dinner and a concert in the city.

We started with dinner in Bolton Hill, at a little bistro known simply as B. It's a nice little place with good food, a nice wine list and prices that aren't too outrageous. After gorging ourselves on risotto and ravioli we made the mile or so walk to the Meyerhoff Center to take in the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. It turned out they were playing Beethoven's 9th.

First I have to give high marks to the Meyerhoff itself. The building design is perfect for classical music. Even though we were very nearly in the highest seating tier of building, we didn't feel that far away from the stage. The acoustics are also well designed, so we managed to hear every instrument quite clearly. On that scale of things it was by far a better experience that other classical concerts I've been to---most of which have been limited to sitting on the lawn at Wolf Trap and trying to hear over people shouting while they chug beer to Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries".

Early into the performance Miss L leaned into me and whispered in my ear. I thought she was going to say something provocative, or at least romantic, to go along with our anniversary. But it wasn't meant to be. Instead, she said, "Hey....take a look at that! What's he doing?"

She pointed a finger toward the center of the stage. Tucked in neatly between three cellists and three flautists was a lone man just sitting there. Slumped deep down into in his seat, we couldn't tell whether he sat in deep thought or just patiently waited for something to happen.

The man continued sitting there through each act, while inbetween he would interact a little with the musicians surrounding him. Who was this man? Why was he just sitting there doing nothing? My mind went wild with ideas. Maybe he was a star musician who broke his hand and couldn't play, but had enough clout to still sit on the stage. Maybe he was a janitor pulled in at the last minute to fill in an empty chair. Or maybe, just maybe, he was there to murder the conductor. The countless possibilities were driving me crazy.

And then we got to the finale of Beethoven's Ninth, a segment so recognizable even a dolt like me knows it. Full of wild variations on one central melodic theme and supported by a chorus and operatic solo singers this finale is more widely known as Beethoven's "Ode to Joy". About five minutes into it Beethoven's score shifts into a near military beat---the rat-a-tat-tat of drums kicked in and, finally, the lone do-nothing man finally did something.

He pulled a piccolo out from under his seat, lifted it to his lips and played. The sharp sound had links to small fifes used in military marches, so it worked quite well in the section. Being the lone player in that high-pitched sonic range, his little piccolo cut right through the music of the rest of the BSO and gave "Ode to Joy" a bit of color and character none of the other instruments could achieve.

I've been in some bands in my time. A couple of really crappy ones in high school, a couple that were a little better when I was at JMU, and a really crappy one after that. I would have been pissed if someone asked me as the bass player to sit out for 95% of show. But that piccolo player took in stride. He may have sat there and sat there and sat there through most of the performance, but when his moment finally came he did, in the end, shine. And that's all that really matters.

Excelsior.

My New Experiment

Lately I've been really dissatisified with my fiction writing. Particularly my descriptions of people. For whatever reason, they seem weighed down by surface details and severely lacking in anything else. So I started a new daily project, for any day I'm working at the library.


1. Before leaving for work, pull a number out of a hat. This number is the library patron I will write about. Meaning if I draw 19, the 19th patron I help will be my subject for the day.

2. Spend no more than 10 minutes jotting down notes on the subject.

3. Start with, but don't limit myself to, physical details. If I noticed the patron before helping him/her, include those details as well. If helpful write about what help they needed (ie what books they checked out, needed a library card, etc). Feel free to make inferences and guesses on the subject's personality and history based on appearance, demeanor, etc. The use of dialogue is encouraged but not required.

4. If I help multiple people at the same time---ie checking out books for a mom with two kids---I may write about the entire group but the focus should be whoever hands me the library card or directly asks me for assistance. In the event I can't determine who the subject is, flip a coin.

5. The end product should be between 50 and 100 words. Edit and modify as needed to make it readable.


The rules might be altered slightly as I go, but I doubt by very much. I want to keep the choice of who I write about relatively random. It's easier to write about colorful characters---the wacky ones who are so much easier to write about. This exercise is partly about writing about normal people and making them interesting and distinctive. We'll see how it goes. If any turn out unusually well, I might post them.

Excelsior.

Abandon The Old in Tokyo

Japanese comics are best known for the phenomenon of manga. With its wide-eyed heroes and cute storylines, even the most serious of them still present the world as a generally happy place. But manga has a darker, less popular cousin named gekika. Much like the indie-comics movement of the US, gekika started in the 1960’s and continues today, striving for more realistic stories with a general theme of how difficult life can be.

Yoshihiro Tatsumi is one of the more respected practitioners of gekika and this new collection Abandon the Old in Tokyo brings together seven short stories created during 1970 when he experimented with ways of merging it with the lighter manga. With characters struggling through everyday situations of horrible jobs, lost love and alienation he uses black humor to create thoughtful allegories and reflections on life in modern-day Japan. The opening tale “Occupied”, for example, features an artist for children’s books. Intensely bored with his job he finds new inspiration in one of the most unlikely of places: the scrawled graffiti on a bathroom wall.

In “The Hole” a disfigured woman sets a trap for and captures a man hiking through the woods. As the tale unfolds we learn the reasons for the hiker’s capture are not as random as they first appear.

With spare dialogue and very little narration the stories rely quite heavily on Tatsumi’s ability to tell the tale through his imagery. The black and white artwork places sketchy, manga-like figures against a densely shadowed backdrop of towering, intimidating cityscapes and forests creating nice visual echoes with the storylines.

Much like Murakami's novels, these tales have a magical, fable-like quality. Even the oddest story---an almost surreal tale of woe about a failing business who is so despondent he is only able to make a connection with a dog---carries with it a message about the difficuties of reaching beyond your ablities and wishing for what you can't have. While definitely not for those searching for light entertainment, Tatsumi’s work will appeal to fans of the more offbeat and grim side of independent comics.

Excelsior.

Friday Link-o-Rama

Scott McCloud's Story Machine is a wonderful tool if you're stuck on a writing project. Especially if you're stuck in that "what am I going to write about" mode.

Matt Cheney on extensive exposition. Or as SF people often call it, Infodump.

A new anthology celebrating the work of Robert E. Howard is looking pretty cool. Great line-up for SF and Fantasy fans.

The NYT on authors doing their own Audio Books.

TVV on the history of women illustrating for comics.

I'm not entirely sure what to make of Library Thing. Sharing what's on your bookshelf sounds interesting on the surface, but it seems like yet another way to communicate with people about reading and writing without actually doing it. And I do enough of that already.

New issue of Beltway, the DC-based online poetry journal, is up. The focus this time is on places within the DC region and has work by peeps (both local and non) like Elizabeth Bishop, Gregg Shapiro, Richard Peabody, and Sterling A. Brown. It's a fun tour of the region, whether you've been here or not.

Feminist SF-the Blog! writes on issues of race and gender in the multiverse of Joss Whedon.

I'm Not So Radical

This past weekend Miss L and I ventured to the Center Stage in the heart of downtown Baltimore for the Radical Bookfair, hosted by Charm's City's own radical bookshop Red Emmas. The fair brought a number of small presses and radical bookshops to promote and sell items; it also featured special workshops, mostly focused on DIY techniques to publishing and running an indie bookshop, although there were others like making your own feminine hygiene pads using scraps of sewing material (really).

Not surprisingly, most of the dealers were selling political material. I think what was most surprising to me is how little the extreme left end political thought has progressed---not that it's progressed really in other groups either. Much of it was based in communism and pretty much every publisher and bookshop offered some sort of version of Marx's writings or critical interpretations of them. Others extended into anarchy and social independence, and there were a couple of presses specializing in feminism.

Most of the people attending were in their early 20's and were either dressed for a punk rock show or donning t-shirts with the hammer and sickle symbol or a big portrait of Che Gueverra. Needless to say, both Miss L and I were a bit out of our element---fascinated, but out of our element. Neither of us could be confused for Republicans, but we felt kind of like we were walking around in that environment.

Not that all the dealers were selling political material (although most were). A few tables were selling indie zines and comics on everything from punk rock to working crappy jobs. There was one publisher with a table full of vegetarian and vegan cookbooks ---Miss L bought one that looks pretty good. A interesting magazine called Spread was also there; it's a quarterly mag on the sex industry written specifically for people in the industry (strippers, prostitutes, escorts, etc). Miss L bought a copy out of sheer curiousity, and it covers everything from health concerns to running a business. We both wondered if the two women working the table were in the biz itself, but we didn't get up the nerve to ask. I also learned that the Baltimore City Library system stocks, catalogues and loans a large number of indie zines, most of which they get through Atomic Books. One of these days I'll have to dig into their catalogue and see what they actually carry.

The one thing I bought was a novel entitled An Open Entrance to the Shut Palace of Wrong Numbers by Franklin Rosemont. If you're not familiar with Rosemont at all, he was the de facto head of the U.S. branch of Surrealists during the 60's and 70's. Although he wrote a lot of his own material, he's probably most widely known for editing various collections of essays by founding Surrealists members like Andre Breton and Paul Eluard. If you have a copy of the Surrealist Manifesto anywhere in your library, take a look---Rosemont was probably the editor.

Strangely, the table I found the book on was packed with books by Rosemont. More than I ever thought existed. The young man behind the table looked like he had stepped out of a 1950's movie. Dressed in a sweater with alternating green and black stripes, small-framed glasses and a black beret on top of his head he was certainly ready to play the part of the token beatnik. i honestly didn't know how seriously to take him, especially since he was at a table filled with Surrealist texts. We had a nice chat, though, about the current state of writing and the lack of solid political thought in art today.

Would I go again? I honestly don't know. I'm still digging through all the various freebie magazines I walked home with, which is partly why this post is so late. A lot depends on that, but I feel like the whole event kind of cemented something I've long suspected about myself---as much as I love radical artwork I don't really subscribe to the whole radical lifestyle for myself, no matter how romantic the image can be sometimes. For those that do follow the lifestyle: go for it. We need people on the fringes of thought to keep the rest of us moving.

Excelsior

Into the Scrublands

This new collection debuts the bizarre, wacky and occasionally bawdy work of South African writer and illustrator Joe Daly to American readers. Most of the strips are short stories and vignettes of just a few pages in length, taking characters like the bantering Steve and Kobosh, the dog-headed boy named Dorfman and Joe through strange and mundane adventures across the cities and deserts of Daly’s native land. The more ordinary threads of hanging out in record stores, grocery shopping and making rent recall Peter Bagley’s take on slacker youth in Buddy Does Seattle. These tales slip quite casually from quick jabs of Beavis and Butthead style of humor to philosophical nuggets; the oddness of these slacker characters spouting insightful words only makes what they say all the more surprising and profound. Some storylines contain occasional drug references and hallucinogenic artwork (at one point the wall in Steve’s apartment gives birth to a small baby boy), displaying a strong influence of independent comics masters like R. Crumb. A separate storyline entitled Aquaboy tells the story of a teenager who---despite his unusual ability to breathe underwater---experiences very real-to-life problems like divorced parents and the rough but magical entry into puberty.

The centerpiece of the collection is “Prebaby”, a 70-page narrative about a spirit traveling from conception to birth, enduring bizarre encounters across a beautifully surreal landscape along the way. All masterfully told without the use of any text, Daly’s artwork of biomorphic shapes done in deep umbers, warm oranges and earthy browns give this story a complexity that’s fresh and surprising. Fans of more arty side of indie comics will love this section, but it will likely baffle general readers in its non-traditional approach.

Personally, I loved this little collection. In looking up info on Daly (he’s put together a couple other collections in his own country and has done some animation work) I found several reviewers put off by his style of humor. Admittedly, there is a ton of bodily humor, and jokes centered around sex and drug use. So if that style is too lowbrow for you, avoid Daly. But if you can get past---or like me enjoy---the humor you’ll find Daly holds a strong ear for dialogue, delivering layers of meaning in just a few words. But it’s more the rich, vibrant artwork and Daly’s unique flair in telling the story visually that will keep me reading this title and looking for others by him again and again.

Excelsior.

Hob-nobbing at the Gala

Sunday night I ended my theatre career by working the Annual Gala at Ford's Theatre in downtown DC. Ford's does one of these every year around this time, and it's pretty much a D.C. society event. Aside from the theaterati of DC the attendees included CEOs from companies like Lockheed Martin and DHL as well as politicians like Senator Bill Frist, the First Lady Laura Bush and President Bush.

Most of my actual work was prior to the performance. I was all decked out in my rented tux, standing about halfway down the block in case people attending the show managed to get lost between the corner and the front door. Since the president was attending, security was high. The road was blocked off to all vehicles and after a certain point your name had to be on the list to even walk on the block. Secret Service guards, Park Police Officers, and DC Police were stationed all over the place. The freakiest part was seeing the Park Police snipers arriving, in layers of teflon and carrying extremely heavy bags of surveillance equipment and weaponry. I was stationed with a DC Police Officer, and we chatted a bit making fun of all the fashion boo boos people made. Being a fashion illiterate guy I didn’t notice many myself, but she was quick to point out what did and did not work for each person. She was a nice person and I was grateful to have her their with me to help pass the time.

The performance itself was entertaining in a variety show kind of way. Tom Selleck hosted, and acts ranged from comedians like Kevin Nealon to musical acts like Lonestar, Heather Medley and Renee Olstead. The highlight for many was Steve Bridges, a professional George Bush impersonator. I give him a lot of credit for doing his act with his target sitting right there in the audience. He wasn’t insulting, really. Just playing off Bush's now legendary lack of public speaking skills. Bush himself spoke briefly at the end, and seemed to take it well by saying he was a really good looking guy but could probably do with some more public speaking. None of the musical acts blew me away but none were bad, either. My favorite was probably a song performed by Kevin Clay and Mike Mainwaring; they sang "Why Am I Me" from the musical Shenandoah. They were talented, and I was probably mostly impressed because they were kids and sang with a fair level of power and commitment. If any are really interested, it was filmed for television and will air on various ABC stations on July 4---because of this, there were numerous references to Independence Day and fireworks.

Below here are two really crappy photos from inside the theatre. I was seated in the very last row of the Balcony, so the quality is not the best. The first is just a shot to give a general impression of what the set looked like. The second shot shows the very end of the evening, right after that talent gathered all together on the stage and took a bow. Bush impersonator Steve Bridges is the one with gray hair, and the other is not a two-faced demon but a poor image of Gil Cates, producer for the program.

Most of the guests and talent were invited to a dinner at the Reagan Building after the performance. Unfortunately the deluge of Sunday night started right before the performance ended (for those outside the area we’ve been under assault with rain storms the last few days….this particular storm brought 6 inches of rain in two hours in some areas). But instead of heading to the dinner people huddled in the stairwells and doorways, hoping the rain would stop. My friends and I braved the continuous downpour and made the 4 block walk, getting pretty well soaked despite our umbrellas. Although about 400 guests were expected, I’d guess maybe 100 actually made it. Which only left more cream pies, coffee and red wine for me, so I was quite happy. The highlight for the dinner for me, aside from the food, was looking two tables behind me and seeing Kevin Nealon sitting there with his wife. I’m used to seeing well known politico types around DC, but not film and tv stars. It didn’t feel quite real.

I’ll be back to the regular programming of reviews and more arts-related stuff soon.

Excelsior

Oh D.C.--How I Will Miss You

This is a special week for me, because it's my last week working with the theatre. After four years and three months I'm finally moving on. I finish my current job on Sunday by helping out with a massive fundraising performance (more on that in a later post). I start right away on Monday with a circulation job at a public library five minutes from where I live in Fairfax County. This is all good stuff...aside from getting professional experience in my new chosen field working there will cut my tuition costs in half and make me eligible for some small scholarships next year. I'm more than ready to move on, but even still there are things I'll miss. Wacky co-workers. The places to eat. On and on and on.

But more than anything, I'll miss D.C. itself. For almost a decade now, ever since I finished undergrad, I've worked in D.C. It's not like I'll stop coming downtown just because I don't work there anymore (see, I'm already saying there not here). I'll still be taking classes and doing research at Catholic University and I'll still come down to museum hop or catch a reading from time to time. But this job move will change how I feel. Even though I haven't lived in D.C. for several years I still felt like it was my city. I won't feel that way anymore. Now whenever I come downtown I'll feel like a vistor, a (dare I say it) tourist.

So before I let out a brief man-cry here are the top ten things I'll miss most about D.C. (in no particular order)

The mystery of the black squirrels.

Reading on the metro (yes, really).

Nutty Mr. Chow in the Lincoln House Bar and Deli, who without fail always tries to sell me a lottery ticket when all I ever want from there is a dirt-cheap cup of coffee.

The gorgeous view of the monuments you get from the metro train when you cross the Potomac River on the Yellow Line.

The cute redhead I always exchange smiles with on F Street on my way to and from work. She's more reliable than a digital watch---when I see her I know I'm on time. Even though we've never spoken I should probably stop her today and tell her I'm quitting. Otherwise she might think I'm dead.

Popping into the National Gallery of Art or the Hirshhorn on my lunch hour, just because I can.

Laughing at the tourists and all the crazy, everyday things they photograph.

The odd old man I see in Metro Center all the time in sunglasses, a full black suit, poorly dyed hair and moustache, and flip-flops. And did I mention he paints his toenails black? At least I hope they're painted.

Indie bookstores like Chapters and Ollsons.

Bingo Bob, the homeless man in the neighborhood who panhandles for money so he can buy books, read them and then pass them out to other homeless people.

Leaving work, looking to my left down Pennsylvania Avenue and seeing the Capital Building ten blocks away. It never ceases to take my breath away when I stop and actually look...especially when the sunset transforms the dome's color to that of a neon blood orange.

Excelsior

Friday Link-o-Rama

Miss L reminded me last weekend that I hadn't done one of these since I came back from my final exams break several weeks ago. So while I can't say it's back by popular demand, someone demanded it.

Podcasts from Balticon have been updated. Mostly a number of interviews with Neil Gaiman. Interesting stuff. The main page has casts of interviews with other talents like Peter S. Beagle and Lisa Snellings-Clark. For a more humorous interview with Gaiman at Balticon, check out the interview conducted by DC horror host Count Gore.

Ninth Art reviews Can't Get No, the new comic by Rick Veitch on 9/11.

Author David Louis Edelman explains why SF isn't always so good at predicting the future.

Ah, memories. Snopes reminds us where the tech boom came from. Worth it just for the photo.

Scott Esposito on The Steinbeck Copywright Controversy.

I ran across this a few days ago, and I'm still rubbing my hands together. Looks like Heb fave Thomas Pynchon has a new book coming out in December.

Help Shelley Jackson with her upcoming novel by taking the Mutatis Mutandis test. Apparently I have an undeveloped twin living inside of me as a small tumor.

Very interesting dialogue between Lance Olsen and Lidia Yuknavitch on language.

For some new fiction take a look at the newest issue of JMWW, edited by Baltimore writer Jen Michalski.

Finally, author Alexander Nephew is blogging his new writing project The Chronicles of Chilly Debby. I'm not sure where it's going yet, but as of right now I really want to know. Hope he keeps going with it.

Excelsior

Wrestling with The Sandman Papers

I just sent a review of the anthology The Sandman Papers to Strange Horizons. The review was a real struggle for me. Part of the problem was probably that I've never reviewed a work of criticism before. I had a little trouble writing about it and keeping it interesting. But it's primarily because something about the book kept nagging at me. Overall the book is pretty solid, and examines Gaiman's work on The Sandman in a variety of fun and interesting ways. But I kept thinking something was missing. It kept nagging at me and nagging at me, and I didn't figure out what it was until late last night.

Aside from two essays, the book barely addresses the visual side of comics at all. What a lot of people don't know is that a skilled comics writers, Gaiman in particular, does more than just write the narrative. They often give specific instructions to the artist, the colorist, the letterer, the panel designer to control the overall feel and look of the book. This puts Gaiman in a role similar to that of a film director, working with a variety of artisans with specialized skills but giving them guidance on how to use their talents. Not talking about the artwork in comics is like not talking about the acting in a film review.

It's a shame, really. Because the various critics do a really nice job discussing the narrative elements. I suppose it's because most of them, being english professors and librarians, are more familiar writing about narrative. Writing on the visual side probably just didn't occur to them, and the majority of exceptions to this rely quite heavily on Scott McLoud's book Understanding Comics. Nothing against McLoud, he's a great critic, but his book should just be a starting point for getting your head around the art of comics. Unfortunately, not writing about the visual side is an omission I see a lot in reviews for comics.

One critic I really think does it well, even in small review form, is Douglas Wolk. Aside from his own book Reading Comics he's done reviews for the Washington Post's Bookworld that are really quite thorough and well thought out. Here's a sample from his review Joann Sfar's Vampire Loves (taken from May 28 issue of Book World, page 9):

Sfar's got a charmingly distracted, scribbly visual style-even his panel borders seem perpetually on the verge of wriggling away-and his stories have a habit of meandering off on one tangent or another....The funniest sequences here, though, follow the strangely familiar social entanglements and petty frustrations of the undead; girls always go for the obnoxious werewolves, it seems.

In two short lines Wolk's given the reader a very good sense of not just the style of the story, but also the artwork and how the story flows. He's an excellent critic--far better than I am--but it's a level that anyone writing on comics should aspire to.

As to The Sandman Papers? I still recommend it if you enjoy criticism. Just be aware of the book's limitations.

Excelsior

Remembering Leary

I've had an on again/off again obsession with Timothy Leary ever since his book Design for Dying came out.

He was a brilliant man, if somewhat misguided and charmed by the cult of celebrity from time to time. What many often forget is that his early experiments with LSD were meant for rehabilition of prison inmates and were financially supported by the feds. There was nothing in Leary's mind so much as the advancement of humanity. Even after LSD and other drugs turned out not to be the panacea he hoped for he still clung to a firm belief that techology and science would, one day, save us all. So it's no suprise that when the 80's rolled around he focused more on computer technologies and space exploration and started hanging out with like-minded folk like R.U. Sirius. He dreamed of a day that everyone could plug directly into a computer and have direct access to every bit of information ever written, proved or even dreamed of. Certainly many, maybe even most, of his ideas are dated but his general sentiment of always looking forward is something that I wish more people would adopt.

Nick Gillespie just reviewed the new bio on him by Robert Greenfield for the Washington Post. Quoting here:

The biographer seems far more interested in deconstructing his subject's voluminous self-serving assertions over the years than in explaining his enduring significance to hippies, straights and cyberpunks alike. In a real way, Leary helped conjure not only the '60s counterculture but the '90s high-tech counterculture, too. A clear theme of individual fulfillment runs through all of his thought, and it's a shame that Greenfield didn't discuss his ideas more seriously, much less put them in a richer social and intellectual context. "Someone told me," Greenfield writes, " 'Those who love Timothy Leary will hate your book. And those who hated him will never read it.' " That's about right, and it reflects poorly on Greenfield's framing of the material. While his account of Leary's "most improbable life" is a fascinating read, that has more to do with subject matter that would make Philip Roth jealous than with the perspective Greenfield brings to it all.

It's unfortunate, because there are few icons out there as misunderstood and misrepresented in the public memory as Leary. Most people associate him solely with LSD and picture as some hipster doofus of a mad scientist handing out acid tabs to William S. Burroughs and Ornette Coleman at a pool party that would make Hugh Hefner question his own morals. And while those kinds of things happened, it's only a small part of Leary's story. It's been long enough that a serious, thoughtful and objective treatment of his life come together. But it doesn't appear to be this book. As an alternative, Leary's own autobiography, although a bit pompous, is a wonderful introduction to his ideas and persona. At points it's very thoughtful and often quite funny.

Excelsior.

Miss L's Trip to New Orleans, cont.

The following continues and concludes Miss L’s recap of her recent trip to New Orleans. If you missed part one, or just want to look at it again, either scroll down the page to yesterday’s post or click here to go to it directly.

Wednesday brought us to two more homes. These were both in Lakewood. In the first, the father showed us around a house overwhelmed by toxic gray dust and infested with that cockroach of a fungus, black mold. We only lugged out furniture (including a devilishly wet mattress – oh, how putrid!) because the wife wanted to go through the remains. I am still not sure what we she is looking to find. Every paper, toy, garment was destroyed. The family had already attempted saving their film and negatives. Rows of film canisters, lined up neatly on a table, lying on top of their wrinkled envelopes was striking: a futile but important attempt to save memories. We spent the afternoon in the father’s parents’ home, trying to remove decades and decades of life turned to debris. His parents were pack rats. Bags and bags and bags of plastic utensils, neatly folded cereal boxes, and piles of magazines and catalogues were removed. We took apart furniture, including chests, bed frames, and tables. We took up the carpet. I don’t know if this family will stay or not. The parents had moved to Atlanta to be near the father’s brother, and I have a feeling that this family will follow. Their children were the youngest, and the wife was not taking the aftermath well.

All of this left big questions that I feel unqualified to answer. Should people stay and rebuild? What should happen now? How much money should the government invest? How can the levees be fixed? Should neighborhoods be taken over in eminent domain and people reimbursed and moved elsewhere? What will prevent this destruction from occurring again? Are things any better? I don’t have a single answer.


The woman who organized the mission did attempt to answer the last question. She had also organized the December trip. Things, she said, were better and worse. Many stores and homes had re-opened, and people were slowly returning. However, a new “normal” had nearly cemented. People were growing used to what had happened and the current incapacitation. Not that you can blame them. How many months can someone live in a state of anxiety and action? A person has to adapt. The same things that shocked our group had become routine to the families we met. There was a stagnation lurking.

I spent the final working day of the trip on a more upbeat project, helping to reopen a rehab and shelter. Flooding and looters damaged the shelter following Katrina, but it had been restored, repainted, and was almost ready to re-open. Our team assembled bed frames, box springs, mattresses, and dorm-style fridges in about fifty rooms. After all the debris removal, it was uplifting to actually build something. We spent the afternoon shopping and the evening at the jazz clubs: our way of helping the local economy.

Being from Memphis, I am familiar with southern hospitality, but nothing prepared me for the gratitude people showed for us. Even at the jazz club, in between sets, the band thanked us for coming down and volunteering. On the plane ride back, I jokingly complained about all my lovely bruises (it really does look like someone took a baseball bat to my legs… okay, well, maybe just a softball bat), and the woman in the seat behind me gushed over us and over the other teams from Seattle and North Carolina that have visited and assisted her. The mother from Monday’s family brought me to tears. Monday was her twenty-third wedding anniversary, and she considered us to be the gift. I don’t think I have ever felt as honored in my life as I did at that moment. Though, to be honest, I pray that I never have to feel that way again. It may sound naïve and innocent, but I sincerely wish for an end to these sorrows. These were all wonderful people, and I wish I could have met them under different circumstances. However, I am just glad to have met them at all. There is also a promising sentiment that if something horrible should happen in Baltimore, there are incredible people ready to assist. May we never need them.

Viva la Nouvelle Orleans! Laissez les bon temps roulez!

Excelsior.

How Miss L Spent Her Summer Vacation: Or A Report From New Orleans

Today and tomorrow we’re deviating from the regular program of talking expressly about art, writing, book reviews and my evolving life. Last week my girlfriend Miss L went to New Orleans as part of a volunteer clean-up crew. My job prevented me from going, so she offered to write on her experiences. Her essay is broken up into two parts; the first you see below, and part two will appear soon. The writing and photos are all hers, and begins now:

Last week I descended on New Orleans with a group of volunteers from Baltimore through Jewish Volunteer Connection. The week we shared in the Crescent City was a strange, sometimes turbulent, often remarkable one. Though everything is still digesting, mentally, I feel that it is important to share what we encountered.

Nearly ten months after Hurricane Katrina swept through the gulf coast, the devastation in New Orleans is still overwhelming. (For a good demonstration of exactly what occurred when and where, I recommend visiting www.nola.com for a flash interactive of the water swarming and the levees breaching. Scroll down about half-way down the page for the link to the flash video. As a point of reference, F.Q. stands for French Quarter). The first thing you notice flying into the city are the blue tarps covering half of the roofs. This is an improvement over the first group’s journey in December. At that point, every building was covered in a blue FEMA tarp. Without exception.

Once we landed we immediately toured different parts of the city, including Lakeview and Congregation Beth Israel, the 17th Street Canal breach, and the decimated Lower Ninth Ward. Miles and miles of the city are still uninhabitable. Even as we drove along I-10 to get from place to the next, the boarded windows, blacked-out traffic lights, and bent street signs stood as stark reminders. The initial surge of water knocked down blocks of wooden homes in the Ninth Ward. Floodwaters of toxic sludge left thousands of other homes in a mess of poisonous black mold. Spray-painted signs informed when a home was visited, how many bodies were found (Only a handful of homes had numbers but to imagine those lives… To be honest, I just cannot), how many animals were found and if they were alive or dead, and if the home was revisited at a later date.

Taking in everything was beyond difficult. The only references I had with me were a tornado that ripped through my neighborhood in Memphis about thirteen years ago and a fire that destroyed a neighbor’s home a few years later. Katrina magnified both of these tragedies on a citywide scale. Even after visiting New Orleans I still have difficulty comprehending the extent of the destruction.

Broken into teams, we faced the devastation one family at a time. My team assisted three different families; each lived in a different area of New Orleans, and each had a different reaction to Katrina.

On Monday my team met a family who lived in the Broadmoore neighborhood. Their 1919 home was once beautiful and had never flooded before. In our respirator masks and gloves, we spent the day removing waterlogged, moldy furniture, gutting the kitchen, and bagging up all the mildewed ephemera that had been this family’s life. (Fortunately, the fridge was already duct-taped. You do not want a ten-month old unplugged fridge to open on you. Imagine the worst smell and slime you can think of and increase it ten-fold. You’ll almost get the idea.) While the family had yet to decide if they would gut the home and rebuild, I have a strong feeling that they will. Both parents work at universities, and one of their daughters just started at a new charter school. They were excited at the new community spirit blossoming. They have something to stay for.

On Tuesday, we went to a home in New Orleans East. This home had already been gutted and was down to the studs. We spent the day performing mold remediation by power-sanding the beams. The power-sander is an evil instrument that is hell on the hands and back, making this process horrible. Furthermore, none of us could reach the top of a seven-foot beam. Besides, there was no sense of progress. We couldn’t tell if we were sanding a beam someone else had already sanded. However, things changed mid-way through the day when the family came to visit. Suddenly, this wasn’t just a building but a family’s home. The mother was an upbeat woman with an infectiously energetic attitude. Her family was staying. They were rebuilding. Why am I using past tense? Her family IS staying. They ARE rebuilding.

Part two of Miss L.'s essay will appear soon. It covers the third day of her experience as well as some concluding thoughts.

Excelsior

Technical Stuff

If you look to the right, you'll see a few changes on the page here.

I've added a link to my official MySpace profile. Some people I work with convinced me to set up the account awhile ago and I haven't really done much with it. I don't know what the hell I'll be doing with it now but if you have a MySpace account and feel like adding me, send me an invite. I might send out bulletins or something highlighting special events or kick ass books to read. Just let me know you know me from the blog, because I tend to ignore the Myspace sluts just trolling for more friends. At this point I'm mostly amused that I have online horror host Count Gore as my top friend.

I've also added a link for an RSS feed. If you click the link it allows you to add this blog to your My Yahoo or other type of newsreader. Makes it easier to know when there's new content, so you won't get annoyed when I go through my light posting phases.

Also added links to some new (at least to me) blogs. Feminist SF-The Blog! is pretty self-explanatory. But it's a subject I'm interested in and the blog itself looks promising. Visions of Paradise is similar to mine: a mixture of book reviews and self-pontifications. I've been lurking and reading there for awhile now, so I felt like I should add the link. Finally, Madam Mayo is the new blog for D.C. author C.M. Mayo. She's a very busy writer and part of readings in the area almost constantly (like the reading for Enhanced Gravity this weekend). She offers a really interesting perspective, so her blog is well worth watching.

Excelsior

Castle Waiting

For whatever reason I’ve been tripping over a lot of fiction this past month with a strong bent of feminist theory behind it. The first of them is the least obvious and probably my favorite.

With its quiet blend of fantasy, folktales and character-driven storytelling Linda Medley’s Castle Waiting is one of the most charming series in comics to come along in years. Published both through numerous publishers and independently over the last several years, this new collection brings the first twelve issues of this Eisner Award winning comic book series to a wider audience.

The collection opens with "The Brambly Hedge", a story that gives the origin of the castle itself. In a comic retelling of the classic Sleepy Beauty fairy tale we see a medieval castle and its loving inhabitants abandoned when the sleeping princess wakes up, finds her prince charming and rides off in the sunset with him forever. The castle transforms into an outpost of sorts for the unusual, the unwanted, and those just needing a place to hide from the world at large. Talking chivalrous horses, pregnant mothers on the run and nuns who were once bearded ladies in the circus are just a few of the wonderfully colorful inhabitants of the castle. The stories then enter the lives of the castle's inhabitants, and we learn about their unique backgrounds and what made them an outcast from society at large.

Medley’s stories are not the normal adrenaline-pounding action tales of comics, but character driven stories dealing with real life issues that range from the touching to the hysterical. One of the main characters Lady Jain, for example, is with child and on the run from the father. In another story we see a nunnery with worship based around a sainted bearded lady. All together the book raises thoughtful questions on women’s roles in society, both past and current, as mothers, friends, workers and lovers. But because it lacks the dogmatic speech that all too often accompanies stories with a feminist bent, the message will go to people not normally open to such ideas.

A very interesting aspect of the collection is that we witness Medley's storytelling become more assured and complex as the series progresses. The initial story is a fairly straight-lined narrative. The following stories become more complex, using flashbacks and stories within stories in a manner that’s not just clear but also creates an effective rhythm of pacing to her tales that’s both fun and gripping.

Prior to her work on CW, Medley worked as a children's book illustrator and colorist for mainstream comics like Batman. Medley brings in experience from both fields by using hard-edged lines with simple forms, creating black and white artwork that melds nicely with the fairy tale feeling of the stories. Highly appropriate for all ages, CW is a unique creation that’s fun enough for young readers but filled with enough layers and depth to satisfy readers looking for a bit more.

Excelsior

What I Did on Rapture Day

On the off chance you missed all the headlines, not to mention the promos for the new version of the movie The Omen, today was 06-06-06. Depending entirely upon who you believe today would either mark the birth of the antichrist, his/her rise to power, or the rapture. So if you believe any of this, and you're reading this post, you missed the bus. Or the train. Or the helicopter. Or whatever it is your supposed to ride in to get to heaven. You're stuck here with the rest of us. Sorry.

In the far future you'll be able to sit down with the grandkids and talk fondly about where you were when the rapture came. It'll be our generation's version of the assasination of JFK. When there's a lull at a party you'll look over at the co-worker with the ineffectual combover and ask, "So, where were you?"

And they'll know exactly what you mean.

On the day of the rapture I had a job interview.

This was an interview for an entry-level job in a public library. Part-time at that. While I'd actually be making less money than I am now if I get this job it would hopefully lead to other things as I go further along in library school. The weird part was that for this relatively low-level, low-paid position I was interviewed by a panel of five people. I felt like I was up for review at a law firm. Or up for paroll. Their questions were prepared ahead of time, and were read directly from the script they all held in front of them. Apparently they couldn't deviate from the script because there were no followup questions, and no real dialogue. The interviewers looked at their scripts with their red-rimmed zombie eyes while they read and took notes with their craggy fingers while I spoke. I barely even made eye contact with any of them during the whole process. If they decide to hire me they can't possibly even remember what I look like. It was a painfullly dry ordeal. The interview started at 5:00, so when 6:06 rolled around I started praying some of the interviewers would be pulled up through the rapture but not one fled to the great reward. Apparently librarians are just as deviant as the rest of us. Hell, apparently the whole area I live in is pretty deviant. With all the traffic jams I ran into afterward it took me 30 minutes to make the 5 mile drive home.

So I guess while rapture day for me was a little odd, it wasn't at all scary. No demons, no hellfire, no curses. In fact, the only scary thing about today is that Julia Stiles is in a movie that doesn't make her dance.

Excelsior.

Welcome to the City of the Dead

In a not so distant future a deadly virus called the Blinks rapidly kills off every human being on earth. The lone survivor, a wildlife specialist named Laura Byrd sent on an expedition to the South Pole, finds herself stranded and alone. These are just the opening pages in Kevin Brockmeier’s unusual novel The Brief History of the Dead (the companion website is also really interesting with interactive maps and character bios).

We quickly learn that the dead move on to another life in a fantastic city on another plane of existence; there the dead live out a second life free from aging and disease until every person on earth that remembers them dies. The chapters of the novel alternate between Laura and the city of the dead, the latter giving us not just pieces of the touching backgrounds of the dead but often how they connect to Laura. The residents of the city-showcasing everything from a religious zealot who uses the afterlife to support his beliefs to the former newspaperman whose life's passion is turning every incident into a wacky headline–provide countless layers of theme, thought and levity to the narrative. The elegiac, thoughtful tone of the city is balanced out by Laura’s adventure-filled travels across the frozen landscapes of the South Pole as she hopelessly searches for signs of any other survivors.

A crisis develops in the city of the dead when the ones who remain finally realize that the only reason they continue to exist is that Laura still fights for her own life on earth. The very city itself begins to fade away, thrusting age old questions of the meaning of life and death back into their hearts and minds. The back-and-forth chapter rhythm does get a little wearing, especially since Laura’s realistically developed adventures (based pretty heavily on the Ernest Shakleton expedition of 1914) read more compellingly than some of the sections on the imaginative city of the dead.

Brockmeir’s style, with its elements of fantasy mixed with a strong sense of character and a wonderfully lyrical ear, reminded me a lot of David Mitchell, author of the immensely popular novel Cloud Atlas. Although lacking some of the far-reaching depth of Mitchell, Brockmeir’s haunting and reflective reminder of how connected each person is to another will appeal to readers of fantasy yearning for a bit more depth than the normal fare.

Excelsior

Balticon 40

Saturday Miss L and I journeyed to lovely Hunt Valley, Maryland for the 40th annual Balticon Conference, an annual conference hosted by the Balticon Science Fiction Society. for whatever reason I always seemed to miss it. So when it came around this year on weekend I actually didn't have to work I didn't let the head cold threatening me to stop my going.

Overall it was a great time. The focus was on SF and Fantasy publishing moreso than film or television. So in many ways I felt right at home. Yes, a lot of people came dressed as Klingons, Faerie Folk, or Doc Brown from Back to the Future. Yes, I witnessed an embarrassingly heated arguement between two people over the color of the planet vucan's sun. But the panel discussions and general going-on were interesting, fun and well worth the time.

The first panel discussion we attended was on artistic collaboration. The panel featured Neil Gaiman (author) , Gene Wolfe (author), Lisa Snellings-Clark (artist), Lorraine Garland (musician), Malena Teves (musican), Adam Stemple (musican and author), and Marc Hempel. Interestingly, all of the panelists had worked with Gaiman in once capacity or another over the years. Much of the discussion revolved around striking a balance between collaborators so each makes signifigant contributions to the work. The end goal should be a piece that's truly a joint work separate from the work normally done by the inidividuals. Never having done one myself, I found the give-and-take ideas of a collaboration very interesting. With the right person it could be a lot of fun and very successful; with the wrong person it could certainly be extremely painful. Gaiman also took part in another panel discussion with Peter S. Beagle. Probably most widely known for the novel The Last Unicorn, Beagle has written dozens of fantasy novels as well as scripts for Hollywood. Much of their discussion revolved around the differences between writing a novel and writing a script and what it's like to see your work adapted to the big screen.

Miss L and I then went our own directions; she hit a few of the seminars on fantasy art while I flowed in and out of readings given by various authors. Even just wandering the hallways I overheard people discussing things like character development, tackling social issues, and what exactly makes a good story. I even saw local horror host Count Gore involved in some discussions of his own, although he was incognito in a simple black t-shirt and without a cape or make-up.

The only real letdown for me was the dealer room. I went hoping to find a variety of books by small preses and possibly even some magazine that I've never heard of. But the spaces were taken up mostly by shops selling merchandise, not individual publishers trying to promote their new material. An large amount of first printings of older books, while most of the newer books . Several other dealers focuses solely on gaming, which I shouldn't have been surprised by. It's such a huge industry now.

Although Balticon continued through Monday, health, money and other obligations only permitted me to go on Saturday. It really was the SF event of the region, though. I hope to go again next year.

A number of the readings and panel discussions will be available online in a few days in a podcast form here for anyone interested.

Excelsior.

A Little Revolution

I've had kind of a love-hate relationship with the lit mag Tin House for awhile now. I often find really great stories in each issue, but I find some of their editorial choices very odd. They often have theme issues Great in concept, but the trouble is that I often fail to see the connections of several pieces to theme (look at my review of their obsession issue for more detailed examples of what I mean).

Their newest issue is dubbed "The International Issue", and as a theme it seems to work better for them than one based on content. The issue pulls in works from writers in Europe, South Ameria, Asia and Africa, all of it of very high quality. While some writers like Saramago I've certainly read before others like Ismail Kadare I've never even heard of. The only contributions by US authors are short essays about writers in other cultures, but those are also fascinating and provided me with even more authors and magazines to look into.

Aside from all this great material the one essay that's continued to stick with me is a critical piece entitled "Prizes of the Fall" by French author Dominique Parent-Altier. The essay looks at the culture of literary awards and prizes and, at least partially, blames them for the lackluster literature currently dominating the scene in France. Parent-Altier blames the very organization of the awards system itself. The winners are often the same year after year, and if they are different they are often from the same set of publishers, making the choices often fairly conservative, fairly safe, and entirely unoffensive. Kind of like American Idol.

Parent-Altier writes, "What's impressive about this year's major prizewinners...is the number of elements their books have in common: an emphasis verging on obsession with a narrator whose personality so approaches the author's that it is often difficult to distinguish the two; general absence of meanigful dialogue; carefully labored prose that supports neither character, nor plot, nor theme, and seems to exist for no other reason than to call attention to its carfully labored nature" (80)

Parent-Altier stated in much better terms than I can what I don't like about a lot of contemporary US literature. I often think of European lit being separate from the work written in the US but it sounds like it suffers from much of the same wordy self-confessional first person accounts. While some are fabulous most come off to me as whiny, self-indulgent and lacking any real sense of drama or conflict. The style dominates literary magazines, from high-end ones like the New Yorker all the way down to the smallest student managed university zine. A number of small presses fall prey to it as well. Parent-Altier contintues by writing that these types of works have a severe "incapacity to provide either the least resonance with life in France today, or a satisfying escape from it" (80).

What are the possible solutions? How do writers, readers and critics combat this issue (assuming they agree it's a problem)? Dan over at Barrelhouse points to critics, that instead of just slamming books that are bad to offer up alternatives. It's not a bad suggestion; aside from promoting work that might be a bit stronger it can also give more concrete advice to writers. Another direction is through education. The Now What blog focuses on teaching students the traditions of innovative fiction by introducing them to writers like Pynchon, Barth, Acker and Burroughs alongside the normal fare one receives in a literature class. With participation from big name experimentalist like Lance Olsen, L. Timmel Duchamp, and Doug Rice they are already having some pretty provocative conversations.

What it all comes down to is this: real innovation in art is rarely rewarded and recongnized when first created. It's something made on the margins because something about it---whether it's the content, style or substance of the work---does not mesh with the majority culture. When everything does mesh with the majority things become stagnant. And I think that's where we're at in many cases. I don't know what the next big event will be to jar us out of this and seek out different voices, but I have a feeling it's coming soon. At least that's my hope.

The Tin House essay concludes with a battle cry of sorts to seek out, find and create work that is truly revolutionary. As a reminder Parent-Altier states that "revolutions are not wrought by institutions of any kind, not by prize juries or labor unions or political parties, but by individuals spontaneously connecting with one another. This experience, where an individual links profoundly to another, is precisely what literature accomplishes" (81). I couldn't agree more.

Excelsior


Bibliography

Parent-Altier, Dominique. "Prizes of the Fall". Tin House. Volume 7, Issue 3. Spring 2006. 72-80.

Saturday Surprise

I fully intended this post to be about the launch party for The Portal Press held on Friday night. I wanted to write about the artwork in the Warehouse gallery, about the books The Portal Press is putting out and the really nice conversation I had with a gentlman from Fantagraphics on the poor state of criticism of graphic novels. But instead I have to write about something else that happened to me yesterday morning.

When I work Saturdays I often drop by my local grocery store to treat myself to a lunch that's something other than peanut butter and jelly. I looked through the aisles trying to make my choice between pumpernickel or rye bread when I heard a loud crash coming from the front of the store, followed by a lady's scream. I darted down the aisle towards the front of the store and saw an angry looking man standing at the counter of the mini-Chevy Chase bank.

Although only about 5'5", he was stocky with broad shoulders and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off showed his thick, tree trunk arms. His face and head were covered with a wild, thick hair the color of black storm clouds. He held a large sledgehammer in his hands, carefully balancing the scuffed up iron end in his right and cupping the other end of the wooden handle with his left. He stood like a statue in front of that counter, frozen in time. It was like someone paused him a magical remote control and then suddenly pushed play. When that play button was pushed, he heaved the sledge behind him and swung, bringing it down hard on the desktop separating him from the frightened bank employeee. He struck the desktop again and again, puncuating each hit on the desk by yelling, "Gimme the G-D money!"

That was the strange part. He actually said, "G-D money"; that's not my editorial slant to prevent offending readers. The odd duplicity of this violent, angry man robbing a bank still being careful enough to not use offensive language was really odd to me. Not that the sledgehammer wasn't odd enough.

The frightened woman behind the counter finally got over the shock enough to empty out her cash drawer. She handed the paper bills to him in a big handful. The man grabbed them, shoved them into the pockets of his jeans and bolted out the front entrance. The police arrived a few moments later. While they did a pretty good job calming everyone down and interviewing all the witnesses (myself included) they were too late to catch the guy.

Although it's been a full day now, I'm still not sure what to make of it: the man, the sledgehammer, the whole event. I imagine I'll work it into a story at some point but it will probably be awhile before I figure it out. From what I heard he couldn't have stolen more than a few hundred dollars. I just wonder what drove him to it.

Excelsior.

The Best?

The NY Times Book Review asked roughly 200 authors and critics to nominate their choice for the best work of fiction published in the last 25 years. My notations to the side indicate that I've read it (R), that it's on my shelf to read someday (S), that I've neither read nor bought it but have considered doing so (C), that I've never thought about reading it (N), or that I've never even heard of it (H).

Overall Winner:

Beloved by Toni Morrison (R)

Runner-up:

Underworld by Don DeLillo (R)

The rest listed received nominations from more than one judge:

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy (C)

Rabbit Angstrom series by John Updike (R)

American Pastoral by Philip Roth (N)

A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole (S)

Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson (H)

Winter's Tale by Mark Helprin (C)

White Noise by Don DeLillo (R)

The Counterlife by Philip Roth (C)

Libra by Don DeLillo (R)

Where I'm Calling From by Raymond Carver (N)

The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien (R)

Mating by Norman Rush (N)

Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson (H)

Operation Shylock by Philip Roth (C)

Independence Day by Richard Ford (C)

Sabbath's Theater by Philip Roth (C)

Border Trilogy by Cormac McCarthy (C)

The Human Stain by Philip Roth (R)

The Known World by Edward P. Jones (N)

The Plot Against America by Philip Roth (S)

To be honest, I haven't been paying that much attention to the NY Times Book Review lately. I just haven't had the time. I found out about the list, being published in the May 21 issue but currently available online, through various listservs and newsgroups I'm on for different genres of writing (sci-fi, fantasy, and experimental lit). Most are complaining about the list, about how their favorite genre is under-represented. Or not represented at all. A quick look at the list of judges will tell you why.

Out of the 100+ judges listed only a handful can really be considered experimental (Ben Marcus, Lorrie Moore, Rick Moody, and maybe Jonathan Safran Foer). The numbers drop even more if you ask about genre writers, with Stephen King as the only true genre writer and afficionados like Jonathen Lethem and Andre Dubus III thrown in for good measure. The playing field's also greatly narrowed by the judges' ties to geography; a gross number of the writers listed are fully immeshed in the NY scene supported by the mags like the New Yorker. They will, naturally, pick books they've read and talked about within their own world. It wouldn't occur to them to nominate a book outside their area of knowledge. So I don't fault the judges at all for the narrow selection; I fault the NY Times for not seeking out a broader spectrum of judges.

I have no personal problem with anything chosen. The books listed are certainly well crafted and many have been very influential. The winner, the runner-up and a couple of others would be on a list of my own if I had to make one (I wouldn't). The list does, however, point out a continual bias with the NY Times to support certain types of literature and certain styles of writing.

For any attending Book Expo this week, they are holding a seminar Thursday afternoon discussing the choices. If anyone happens to go, I'd be curious to know what they say.

Excelsior

DC Dark and Dirty

Once when I went to Cleveland for a writer’s conference I met a lot of people who were surprised and even mystified that I lived in DC –at the time I lived near Dupont Circle. To these people DC was the capital city of the nation, the seat of government and a home for shady politics. Several didn’t even know that people actually lived in DC and those who did asked me how often-not if but how often-I saw the president. I told them the truth: that I see him every night on the TV news.

It’s not necessarily their fault that they have all these misunderstandings about DC. The way the city is portrayed in literature and movies it’s easy to think DC is little more than the capital building, the National Mall, and the Lincoln Memorial with the swanky houses and restaurants of Georgetown squeezed in-between. With all this skewed coverage and perspective it’s nice to see an anthology like DC Noir pulling together stories that create a much more realistic-albeit dark and gritty-portrait of DC.

Edited by local crime fiction author George Pelecanos, the book does a phenomenal job presenting the different neighborhoods and wide variety of residents of DC. From congressional aids on capital hill to petty thieves in Hill East, it shows that DC is a city where people live, struggle and die every day.

As a whole the book holds up a pretty grim view on life. Life for the average person is hard and it only gets harder when your life intersects with the criminal world. College students confronting big time drug dealers, a reporter covering the riots in the Mt. Pleasant neighborhood, a store owner defending his business from teenage vandal are just some of the gritty yet thrilling challenges. The one story that goes against this is Laura Lippmann’s “A.R.M. and the Woman”; a divorced housewife decides the only way she can hold onto the lifestyle she’s grown used to is by killing her ex-husband and collecting on the insurance money.

Many of the authors in the anthology are not known for fiction; aside from pulling from the normal channels of novelists and short fiction writers Pelecanos used his contacts in television and journalism to bring in writers who carry in their own unique experiences and styles to the page. Each story, regardless of the writer’s background, is taught, grim and thrilling fiction. My only complaint is that one major facet of DC is missing: tourists. Focusing on the local residents is great, but love them or hate them tourists do make up a large part of the feel of our beloved DC. But perhaps wanting to see some naïve tourist get caught up in something dangerous is my own issue.

Excelsior

New Press on the Block

We've got some new kids on the block, kids calling themselves Portal Press. With two books already lined up as well as poster art and a line of very fun alterna-holiday cards, it looks like they've got their act together. So pay them a visit and look around.

To kick off their new press, they're putting together an official launch party tied to opening night of Book Expo on the night of May 19 (if you don't know Book Expo and you read books, you really should at least be aware of it). The party will be held in a hip art gallery downtown and features a number of live bands and roving models dressed in vintage fashion. I can only assume eats and drinks will be available as well. They're certainly doing things right, because there's no better way to appeal the literati of DC than overloading their senses and filling their gullets full of alcohol and caffeine. Check out their site for all the details. Should be a fun time, and although I'll probably be late I still hope to be there. Being just a few blocks from where I work, I really have no excuse.

Excelsior