Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the mailbox

Oh, how upsetting.

And here I was gearing up to announce an end to the hostilities.

The evil Reliance people dropped their mailing frequency to once per month and then it had been so long I thought it was all over. Thought they'd surrendered. Alas, not so. But while they're down and barely kicking I shall deliever this blow. I pray this will mark the end of the struggle.

Not at this address! Resident has shrunken to one millionth her former size. Now living on a fibre of Dick Beddoes hat at the Hockey Hall of Fame along with seven dust mites named Spiggles, Xorb, Loof-loof, Dusty, Sneebleshnorpenl%%r, Grumpy and Doc. This letter is too big to be received there. Get your Shit together people! It's too big! Write a smaller letter!

FWG's nugget o' wisdom #51

Someone really should invent a new kind of soft drink that's yellow and tastes like cough medicine and give it a messed up name like Blue Moose or Red Bull or something.

If that wouldn't wig people out enough to wake them up, nothing will.

Why buy the product when you can buy the promise?

A hypothetical question:

Imagine, if you will, that you’re a man needing a new dress shirt. You go to the mens clothing store and rifle through the packaged shirts – each folded in the standard way and pinned to the standard cardboard and wrapped in the standard clear packaging. You find one that’s labeled your size and you love the colour and style. So you buy it, take it home and unwrap it – and you find that it’s not actually a shirt after all. It’s just coloured paper folded to look like a shirt and on this extravagant pin-striped piece of paper is an elaborate advertisement promising that such a shirt is coming soon – to a menswear store near you. You realize you’ve just purchased nothing more than an advertisement for the very product you thought you had just bought.

What do you do at that point? Is that the point where you finally come to terms with the complete and utter retardation of society? Is that the point where you sell everything you own and buy a king-size suicidal ball of crack or – better yet - a nice thousand-year cryogenic vacation package?

While browsing through used books yesterday I took a gander at some previously-enjoyed movies on DVD. One elaborately packaged title was The Animatrix and promised nine mind-bending short films from the creators of The Matrix. This intrigued me greatly as the movie The Matrix holds a very dear place in my heart being the one and only film to ever approximate my own living experience; my own relationship to humanity.

Imagine how impressed I was after popping in the DVD, watching a sixty-second advertisement for itself, struggling to figure out what was wrong with my DVD player that the menu revealed nothing but dead blackness, then realizing finally that all I had purchased – at standard price – was an advertisement for the product I’d just paid for. Imagine how joyful I was at this.

So – my questions are:

1. Who wants to buy my truck or my jewelry?

And 2. Do you have any message you want me to give to your great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great grandchildren?

‘Cause I’ve pretty much had it with this place. I’m ready for the rabbit hole.

Short fiction: The Re-Match

Okay, we've established that poetry time is not the cat's meow here in FWG-land. Let's toss some prose up and see if it flies, shall we? Here's a little vignette I spat up spur-o-the-moment yesterday evening - just to explore an idea that was on my mind. It's rough draft. I'm posting it here because it will likely never find life anywhere else - being too vague about a subject too rare for there to exist any mainstream appeal. Also - my short fiction is almost universally abandoned after the first draft. The working title shall be:





The Re-Match



The chamber was round as was the table that stood in the centre of it. Square in shape were each of the twelve windows spaced evenly throughout the single encompassing wall and square was the board that lay on the table. The board was further divided into sixty-four smaller squares each identical in size but alternating in appearance. Every other cell was carved of white marble, the remainder, black.

Small simple figures carved of the same two materials, eight of each, faced one another across four vacant rows of the playing field, each shoulder to shoulder with the others of their breed. Behind the whites, stood a row of slightly taller white figures, formed in the shape of regal or clerical persons, of horses and of castle towers.

Well behind they, in a great chair, sat a figure dressed in a suit of white silk. Opposite him, behind the array identical but black, sat another who might have been the brother of the first, so similar was his face, creased with age below waves of grey - nearly white - hair. Each wore shiny shoes on their feet and shiny gem-encrusted rings on their fingers which, for their appearance might have been crafted by the same fine jeweler that forged the ornate fruit-filled bowl flanking the game board to one side or the two jeweled goblets that together with a crystal carafe flanked on the other.

Gold clinked dully against gold as fingers found the stems of the goblets and rich wine was brought to each man's lips. The movement of the gems on fingers and vessels brought a subtle but swift shifting of coloured light rays refracted and scattered throughout the room and into the conical ceiling as a dusk-bound sun pierced the room through four of the windows, lighting the gemstones and the men's faces and some of the more easterly of the twelve tapestries that hung between every window threading together scenes of battle both gory and of glory; each a fray of man, beast and blood.

In the beams of sunlight dense seas of dust particles flowed through the air in united rhythm like the stars of galaxies. The men withdrew the golden cups from their lips and returned them to the table; the motion bringing harsh disturbance to the floating galaxies of dust, stirring unfathomable havoc; sweeping small worlds away on their whim.

"Bishop to king's bishop five," said he who sat behind the dark ranks. He crossed his legs, clad in black trousers, knee over knee, in the manner women tend to do with ease while many men can not. Pinched between weathered thumb and weathered forefinger, he tugged at the cuff of his red silk jacket, first with one hand upon one sleeve then the other hand upon the other sleeve. He rested his hands then, palms down, the first upon the higher knee and the second upon the first. His limbs all carefully stacked, he dropped his goatee-covered chin, lowering the stern gaze he cast at his clean-shaven opponent.

The man in white sat squarely, forearms capping the arms of his chair. "King to king's knight," he said. Between them the game board and the four ranks of pieces remained untouched and in symmetry.

"Bishop to king six," said the man in red. "Check."

The man in white smiled briefly. "And so begins the inevitable conclusion."

The man in red did not return the smile. "You'll lose the plateau, you know. And soon."

"I know that, Lorcan."

"And there'll be no mercy for your men. They'll be eradicated."

"I realize."

"And the entire hinterlands are doomed to follow. You realize that too."

"So it would seem."

"And there'll be no mercy, Dugan. Not even for the women or children."

"King to king's rook." Said Dugan, looking down at the motionless chessboard.

Lorcan reached down and lifted a blood-red apple from the fruit bowl. He held it by the stem between finger and thumb and twirled it slowly back and forth, setting the apple gently spinning. He held it before his eyes. The reflection of a sun-filled window remained fixed in position as the apple's slick surface moved back and forth. A tiny shadow intruded upon the reflection. Lorcan turned his head toward the window where a dark starling had just alit on the sill. It stared back at him.

"One of yours?" asked Lorcan.

"No."

"Nor mine. Bishop to king's bishop five." Lorcan offered a deliberate laugh. "What would your servants say, I wonder, should one walk in here now, and see us together?"

"Not a likely scenario. As you've no doubt observed, there's no door to this room. King to king's knight."

"They'd fall dead from the shock, I expect."

Dugan slipped a hand beneath the breast of his white jacket and pulled out a dagger. He held it out, over the chessboard, gripped at the very base of the blade, spinning it forward, proffering the handle. "And what would your people think, knowing we were here together?"

Lorcan reached out and gently took the long knife's handle into his grip. "Bishop to king six. They’d not be surprised at my presence here. Of course they’d never understand why I don't kill you." He held the blade to the apple and pierced the skin. "Check," he said. He began to peel the skin from the apple in a single narrow strip.

"King to king's rook. Tell me, is there much profit in the annihilating of a civilization?"

"None," said Lorcan. "The order won't come from me." He finished baring the apple. A long single coil of skin dropped through the air and just prior to hitting the floor, it vanished. He began carving off pieces of fruit and delivering them to his mouth on the point of the knife where he removed the morsels using his teeth. "Bishop to king's bishop five," he said between bites.

"King to king's knight."

Lorcan finished with the apple. "Delicious," he said. He dropped the core and it too dissolved into the air. He placed the dagger down on the table. "Bishop to king six." He issued a long sigh. "Check."

"King to king's rook," said Dugan.

"And thus we weave yet another stalemate. How dreary." Lorcan rose from the chair. The bird on the sill fluttered instantly away. The man strode to a standing coat tree and removed the long black cloak that hung from it. With a great sweeping gesture he pulled on the garment.

"One day I'll defeat you, Dugan."

"Of course you won't. Why claim such a thing?"

"I will and you know it. Why deny it?"

Dugan frowned. "Are you speaking of chess or the war?"

"Both are trivial. I speak of neither."

"Oh," said Dugan softly, rising from the chair. He moved toward the other man. "So you speak finally of that which we've never dared discuss. That contest which you won already long ago. Though perhaps you never realized it."

"You mock me."

"I don't. My people are wholly defeated in that arena."

"If that were true, I would recognize the despair in their thoughts."

"No, Lorcan. You won't. I told you. They are defeated in that arena. They no longer recognize themselves. They're wholly defeated and wholly deceived. What more do you want?"

Now Lorcan frowned and deeply so. He moved to a window and stared unblinking into the brilliant sun. "Of course. I see now. You speak the truth. Such a strange victory. I never sensed it. But what happens next?"

"It's already begun," said Dugan. "We fight for escape."

"I had no idea." Lorcan shook his head back and forth, beginning to smile.

"And yet you prevail while you sleep, so steep is your advantage. But still, one day we shall win."

Lorcan's smile faded. "So you shall, clearly. But temporarily. And that time is so very far from now. Much sooner I shall see you in my study for a re-match."

"Of course."

"Until then." Lorcan walked forward, vanishing into the wall.

"So very far indeed," said Dugan aloud. "So very far."





copyright © 2007 Fantasy Writer Guy

The Magical Steve-o Mystery Tour

As always - spoken words are in regular text, his songs are in italics.



Look at me in this picture. Do I need a tan or what? I look like Whitie McWhitenheimer.


Individually wrapped bacon is good for your heart. Individually wrapped bacon won't make you fart. 'Cause it's not beans! It's not beans. Individually wrapped bacon is not beans!


Comet!
Will make you teeth turn green.
Comet!
It tastes like Listerine.


Two peanuts were walking down Queen Street and one was a-salted. Ba-Zing!


Chicken thighs
I want chicken thighs
Much to my surprise


Ham-bone's connected to the
Wiener bone. wiener bone's connected to the
Rhyme-bone.


I went to the Slippery Factory once. But I don't like to talk about that.


I'm eating your...
Ovaries...


You know what I think? I think your dish washing skills have gone down the drain! That's right. Ever since you got that new job at the Factory of Nuclear Science and Revolutionary Technologies. That's right. I said it! We're going where no man has gone before. To the land of making-shit-up.


It's dryer in here than a nun's vagina.



RIGHT: Grosby Slippery Factory, Beaconsfield, Victoria, Australia. Original owner Mrs. Fanny Ann Gower (1880-1925). Presumably they manufacture slippers.



The preceding concepts are inappropriate for all ages.

The origin of all things

This is just a little quote that I fell in love with and had to share because I find the concept simply enchanting. It's not a quote exactly. It's a new definition for the word hydrogen. The source is surely some cosmologist from twenty or thirty years ago. Alas, I'm unable to offer attribution to the specific scientist. Here it is:

hy·dro·gen [hy-druh-juh n] –noun. a colorless, odorless gas that given enough time, becomes people.

That's all. Sorry if I got you all worked up for nothing!

Things FWG sucks at

The director of our modestly populated department volunteered our services in supplying the breakfast munchie-pastries for this Friday's monthly company town-hall meeting. 'No problemo,' thinks I. I was once in the habit of baking muffins - a different variety every week. I almost worked my way through an entire muffin recipe book. Surely I won't have lost the touch.

Thursday night is a write-off with Strat-o-matic playoffs so Wednesday after work I rush home, pack my lacrosse equipment bag in preparation for our inaugural practice/exhibition game this night, then dive into the kitchen to get the mandatory baking done. I pilfer Steve-o's flour, snatch up the recipe book and search for a variety that I just might have all the ingredients for.

Alas, this is all for nought as I discover I have no muffin pans. They must have went with the ex-darling upon the split.

No worries. There's a couple 8" x 8" baking pans present - the perfect pans for the production of pre-packaged porn bread. Oops. I mean corn bread.

[editor's note: We apologize for the preceding alliteration surprise-attack.]

The corn-bread mix is highly prepared. All I need do is add milk, an egg and blend. Laughable. Fool proof.

No. 1: Baking

Fool proof indeed. By the time rising smoke trails and burnt corners dictate withdrawal from the oven the beast has risen roughly half a centimetre.

[editor's note: one-quarter inch]

Dense and crispy though my accidental pancake may be, it endures a fair bit of nibbling over the next day and a half. The remainder (shown here) was thrown in the trash.



With no time to attempt an alternate product I grabbed the lacrosse bag and made for the home of Porn King, dear friend and regular lacrosse teammate. From there we rode in his giant red Ram to the arena. Not having conversed in some time, I regaled him with the tale of my drivers exam - until I spied something of an alarming nature and broke from the story:

"That's a red light, dude."

No reaction.

"Dude! Red light!"

"Huh? Oh."

"Um. You know you were supposed to stop back there, eh?"

"Sorry. I was listening to your story."

"I told you, red light."

"I know. I thought it was part of your story."

"Oh. Fair enough. So anyways..."

We made it to the arena without further incident and made acquaintance with the rest of this year's team. Somehow all of the league's premier troublemakers, goons and sociopaths were all drafted to the same team. What this says about Porn King and I, I dare not ponder.

Turns out our goalie (goalies draft and manage the teams in this league) was absent from the draft proceedings and the league convenor covered for him, taking no care to avoid said troublemakers, goons and sociopaths.

The silver lining is this: Such traits are generally common among the most skilled players of the lacrosse world and as such we have a very talented team which bodes well if we can stay out of the penalty box. Somehow we did on this night and we won our exhibition game handily. I had to skip a couple shifts while busy hyperventilating or nursing cramps but otherwise I played a decent game. This doesn't fit the theme - things I suck at, I realize. Sorry. Here. Let me compensate:

No. 2: Gardening

My spider plant - which very strangely has yet to inspire Steve-o to sing 'Spider plant, spider plant, friendly neighborhood spider plant...' has apparently suffered enough neglect that it has sprouted a thick flowery appendage that is reaching far through the air toward another potted plant that sits much closer to the window.



Now some say that great success can be born only from repeated failure. With that in mind I just may have inadvertently created a new breed of highly intelligent spider plant. It seems to be demonstrating astounding awareness of its environment and is deliberately attempting to re-pot itself in the pot of a specific neighbor. I've checked the beast for the presence of eyeballs and found none.

Thursday. The strat-o-matic playoffs begin. I'm matched up against Crazy Pat's Heyden Hawks for a quarter-final-round seven-game series.

No. 3: Strat-o-matic playoff coaching

I was fortunate enough to inherit a decent team upon joining this league eight years ago. Add some fortuitous trades and draft selections and I've enjoyed a fairly solid winning record overall. But in the playoffs I've entered seven series, being the favored team 6 of 7 times (with home-ice advantage) and won only two of them. Including the previous short-lived league I was in, I've ascended to the championship finals four times, been favored three of four times and lost all four times. Clearly it's my place in life to never win a cup.

After enjoying four wins and a tie in seven matches against the Hawks this year - I find myself - after 3 games in the playoff series - down three games to zero. Par for the course. Clearly this is not my forte.

I'm hoping all the luck I'm robbed of here will compensate when it comes time to try to get a novel published. That would be sweet. That would be worth it. Thank gawd there's no playoffs in the writing industry.

For the record, more things I suck at:

4. Obeying the speed limit
5. Walking upright
6. All areas of the romantic realm
7. Eating wisely
8. Basketball
9. Watching TV - usually end up hurling something at it within the first 15 minutes.
10. Music - couldn't play an instrument to save my life.

So there.

The list is far from complete by the way.

FWG

Ask FWG, not Jeeves - numero tres

1. what is emergency roadside stop G2 road test
There’s actually a lot of leeway on this. The important thing is not to intentionally hit anything and regardless, put your emergency break on upon coming to a stop.

2. eye examination for a g1 license?
Correct. And you must have two eyes to pass. Not one, not three. Furthermore your two eyes must be pointing in generally the same direction – with minor allowance granted.

3. harry cartner Ontario
See that, Harry? They were looking for you – and found me! ME! Sucker.

4. G1 written test Ottawa
There’s no testing in Ottawa. As long as you work for the government in any capacity, they give you a car and a driver. And if you don’t work for the government, what in blazes are you doing in Ottawa?

5. g1 test passing grade
Passing grade is 20 out of 20. They will lie and say that you have passed if you get between 16 and 19 but then they will break into your home that night and strangle you with barbed wire – unless you knelt and licked their shoes upon them giving you your “passing grade.” Remember – lick or die.

6. Philthy McNasty's where Peel Pub used to be
Remember how you got there when it was Peel Pub? Do the same thing. You’ll get there. I know it’s a difficult concept but trust me on this.

7. carried along overhead track, diapering station, ankles lifted
Oh dear. We have no S&M material on this web site. Now please go away, you sick, sick little monkey.

8. "sylvie ruel" fantasy
Grrrrrrrrrrr! Sylvie Ruel fantasies are okay! I have them too. In my fantasies I tie her down to the bed, steal her money and go and pay her overdue Reliance Home Comfort bills.

9. g1+test+Mississauga+Eglinton
…equals 42. Just kidding! It equals a rip-roaring good time with Jason the gentle drive-inspector man. Just relax, breathe normally and enjoy yourself. And try not to fart loudly.

10. kung foo dialogue
I can’t provide the entire kung foo dictionary contents in this space but here are the top 10:
- HIYAA!
- WHOOAAA!
- YAA!
- HUHH!
- WHOAAAAAAAAAH!
- Ouch!
- HEEYAAH!
- Ow, my hand!
- Oh shit, was that REAL wood?
- Time out! I’m losing my drawers here.

11. rant on General Motors
Who wouldn’t? Well, except for the Klan, maybe. Or Bob Runciman.

12. Ontario G1 actual test
All DriveTest centres in Ontario – other than Oakville - now use actual tests. This was legislated after many applicants given the virtual reality tests suffered heart attacks upon confrontation by Smorgenbraack the giant three-headed car-eating monster, planted in the DriveTest simulators by teenage hackers. In Oakville centres the virtual tests still persist in which a giant three-headed Bob Runciman murders all applicants who are not white, wealthy and heterosexual.

13. ontario G1 cheat test
How comforting to know we share the road with drivers who don’t know how to drive but wish to cheat instead. Excellent. Here are the answers:
1. Green light means stop.
2. Red light means go.
3. Drive on the left side of the centre-line.
All other questions are trick questions and should be left blank. Good luck with your cheating.

The information above is provided for entertainment purposes only – much like fortune cookies or Don Cherry. The author bears no responsibility, financial or otherwise, for any manifestations of the use or misuse of the above counsel, including but not limited to: financial loss; salmonella, wandering-eye, drive-by-shooting, buggery, buffoonery, stress-induced acne, brewer’s droop, power-corruption, political apathy, hyperventilation, gas, hairy palm or juvenile delinquency.

You know what I don't understand?

I long ago promised myself that any time anyone said to me these words: “You know what I don’t understand -” I would immediately interject with, “Why they never made a Die Hard 4?”

I have no recollection on how many occasions – if any – I actually used this gut-busting bit of comedy.

It’s funny, you see, because it’s an inversion. Why would one not understand the passing on a fourth Die Hard film when the reasons are so plentiful and obvious? Chief among them:

1. Die Hard 2 set new records for absolute movie suckdom and should have marked the end of the Die Hard enterprise.

2. Die Hard 3 raised the bar of all-time movie suckdom higher still – clearly ensuring the end of the Die Hard enterprise (or so we thought).

3. Bruce Willis, stud that he perhaps once was, is by now surely much too long in the tooth to remain foremost on the ladies’ minds on the occasions they sneak the cucumber out of the fridge at night.

Someone now tells me that they are indeed finally crafting a Die Hard 4. I haven’t yet established if this is true or if I’m the victim of a practical joke but to be safe I’d better start working on a new witty interjection for the next time someone says, “You know what I don’t understand -”

Any suggestions – I’m all ears.

By the way. I never doctored the picture. Honestly.

All right, I doctored the picture.

FWG

Sargeant Steve-o's Lonely Hearts Club Band

More recent random utterances from the roommate if you can handle it. He's flying off to Calgary on business for a couple days which promises a little peace and quiet but, alas, I have lacrosse and then SHL (strat-o-matic) playoffs the next two nights so the opportunity is lost. At least the houseplants can enjoy some peace and quiet. As always - text in italics were sang; words in normal text were spoken:

Hey laundry monkey! Go iron my shirts! I want them neatly pressed – and no playing with yourself!

Rainbows, lollipops and
Something and other things and
Rainbows…

We need more advertising in books. Like – “The heroine was walking through the forest and came upon a Snickers bar – made of nougatty sweet goodness that really satisfies. He ate the Snickers bar and got a huge chubby and he used it to beat the bad wolf to death.”

I’m drunk and I wanna punch someone in the teeth. I wanna punch someone right in his flabby man-tits.

I smell something burning.
Burn burn burn burn burn burn.
Smoke’s coming from the oven
Burn burn burn burn burn burn.
Smoky smoky dinner is burning
Burn burn burn burn burn burn.
Now everything’s falling out of the freezer.
Burn burn burn burn burn burn.
‘Cause the peameal bacon’s so slippery.
Burn burn burn burn burn burn.
Now it’s all put back and the freezer is a death-trap
Burn burn burn burn burn burn.

When are they gonna outlaw naked monkeys on TV?

Look at this bee on your windshield wiper. It’s trying to fornicate with your truck. It thinks you’re the queen bee... No, don’t blow the horn. It’ll just make him more horny.

Sunday, Monday, Littlest Hobo. Tuesday, Wednesday, Littlest Hobo.. These days are our-our-our-our-ours, these Littlest Hobos...

Hush little baby. Don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a smiling turd.

How funky is your chicken? No, really. How funky is your chicken? How loose is your goose?

Sweet release from torture

Sweet release from torture.

I believe this phrase was once used to describe the orgasm. Don't ask by whom. I can't remember. But I assure this post has nothing to do with orgasms (sorry, Babs). It has to do with books and is intended for those who like to read.

I finally finishing one of the worst books ever written. It is:


Dragons of Autumn Twilight - Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

I probably started it close to a year ago and let it sit untouched for months at a time - usually in a dusty corner where I'd last hurled it in disgust. Many other books have been started and finished in the mean time. I tend to have a good dozen or so on the go at any one time.

I've not been inclined to critique books on this blog unless I really liked them because - well - it just seems like bad karma for an unpublished fantasy writer to blast published (i.e. legitimate) fantasy writers. But after what I've been through - self-censorship is going out the window. I need to vent.

Why did I stick with Autumn Twilight to the eventual end? I don't know exactly why I do this. There's obviously some kind of obsessive compulsive thing going on. I can't abandon a story. Just can't do it. What was so bad about this piece? It's just bad writing. Bad in every way. Juvenile. As if written by a high-schooler.

The authors seem to have no understanding of their characters. And what little they've figured out about them - they generally don't demonstrate. They just come out and explain it to you. I can't stand this kind of writing. A reader can not get drawn into a story when the author is constantly explaining things. That kind of story is just verbal and second-hand. Good writers explain nothing and demonstrate everything - through dialogue, action, imagery - and useful metaphors. Terry Brooks commits the same crimes. I loved the Shannara books as an adolescent but when I try to read them 20 years later they're just dog-vomiting awful. Unbearable. It's not that I want to be a snob about it. I don't. Brooks' actual material is great. It's exactly what I want to read about - if only he could tell a story competently.

It's like cigars. I used to enjoy a Century Sam or a White Owl! But now that I've experienced the best Cuban and Dominican brands the others just taste like shit in comparison. It's the natural evolution of discrimination I guess.

Oh - sorry for the last post by the way. I had to blow off a little steam! I turned down a couple invitations this weekend, determined to get a lot of writing done and finish one - or maybe even two - projects. But I've been restless and unfocused. The constant - and I mean constant - touring of adolescent shitheads with their eight-million dollar automotive subwoofers has been driving me freaking bananas. I can't sit for five minutes without one of them coming along and rattling all my internal organs into piss-shivvery jello. I could scream. This street is a magnet for them.

So I've done a lot of reading this weekend instead. Knocked off a few books that have been lagging on the reading tour for a while now, including:


Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams.

The pleasure here was all in his wit. Luckily my sense of humour meshes with his. If yours doesn't there's no point in trying to read it.

Thoroughly enjoyed every page and laughed out loud regularly. It was easy to abandon for long periods of time though - just because I developed no serious attachment to the heroes. Comedy simply doesn't compel like other styles do. Not to say there's nothing deeper going on here. If you think about it - some of the absurdity he describes mocks the ridiculousness of our own societal conventions. Something I find rather useful.

More recent conquests:


Island - Alistair MacLeod

This was a different form of torture. I got through the first five stories before giving up and shelving the collection permanently. The stories were in essence brilliant. They examined the familial relationships of regular East-coast folk - fishermen and such - and were profoundly real and insightful and emotionally heavy. There was a provocative melancholy delivered entirely between the lines. But most terribly unfortunately - MacLeod will not use contractions in dialogue. He refuses. This utterly blows me away. You know what I mean, right? every person I've ever met talks roughly like this:

"I'll tell you this; I'm certain he'll say he'll do it but then he won't."

Every single MacLeod character talks like this:

"I will tell you this; I am certain he will say he will do it but then he will not."

Do you understand the difference? Read it out loud if you have to.

This staggers me. It blows me away. Through five stories I mentally translated all the dialogue into real-world dialogue but it became too exhausting. It seems to me unbearably stupid and yet so many readers and writers - amateur ones especially - are seemingly blind to this. I don't understand why this practice exists at all - let alone how disturbingly wide-spread it is. It's so ridiculous. It utterly unhinges me. Where in the entire world do people talk like that? I really don't think people talk like that - devoid of contractions - anywhere. Reading MacLeod is like going to an opera 'tragedy' where every element of the performance and every note sung is absolutely perfect - absolutely heart-wrenching - accept that every single performer is wearing an eight-foot high hat made of fruit - and no one else in the audience seems to notice.

I just can't deal with it.


A Son Called Gabriel - Damian McNichol

Grabbed it off a display table at the library on a whim. It's technically very well written and I got caught up in the hero's plight - for a while. Until I started to feel uncomfortable that the hero was such a nice kid while both his parents were stupid and unkind to him and the rest of his family were all stupid and were all predatory toward him and every one of his friends were stupid and predatory and every teacher and every priest and every fellow student were all stupid and were all predatory and every - okay. You get the idea.

Are we to believe that every citizen of Ireland is an idiot just looking to hurt someone or are we to believe that the author has a rather slanted and perhaps narcissistic recollection of his childhood?


Struck - Geoffrey Bromhead

This was the winner of the 2003 Three-Day Novel contest. I ordered it upon entering the same contest in 2006 - a purely masochistic endeavor that yielded a punchy gritty little novella from this hopeful that frankly needs some editing and that should really be fleshed out into a proper novel - a project I've since toyed with off and on. Considering Struck was written in three days - I fully applaud it. The writing is strictly decent and the story thoroughly holds your interest. Bravo.

That character development is a bit weak and the plot progresses only so far is completely understandable considering the challenge. That's surely the nature of the 3-day breed.


Inferno - Dante Alighieri, translated by Allen Mandelbaum

It seems that Mandelbaum's version is the most highly praised of the many but still I worry whether subtle wisdom might have been lost. I read each chapter twice so to try not to miss anything. The language is archaic. The story is over 700 years old. I expected allegory but I'm not too sure what to make of the extremely linear plot that involves so much conversation with dead Italian sinners - each of them historical rather than fictional I presume. I want to assume it represents a journey within Dante's own head - an evolution of the mind and spirit perhaps - but I'll have to tackle the remainder of the Divine Comedy (Purgatorio and Paradiso) before trying to draw conclusions.

Guess what time it is, boys and girls!

That's right! It's poetry time! Yes. Yes, I know. Poetry time sucks. Oh well. Too bad.

No Brutality

No firing squad
No pelting of stones
No hangman’s noose
No electric shock
No guillotine
No blade through the chest
No boot to the head
No rending of limbs
No tearing out of fingernails
No drowning
No scalping
No burning
No disembowelment
No tarring and feathering
No drawing and quartering
No lashing
No caning
No imaginable molestation
Could ever be harsh enough reward for those
BASTARDS
With the mega-maniacal bass boomers
In their cars

Oh how they would writhe eternally
Torn and healed and torn again in perpetuity
Under the filthy claws of Satan himself
If only there existed the slightest shred
Of fairness in this world!

FWG