Whores and Puppets--What's Not to Love?

Under the Poppy

by Kathe Koja
p. 2010 

“Any folk may be divided so, into those who play, and those who only watch.”

It is the players at the heart of Kathe Koja’s sweeping period drama, Under the Poppy, a novel which takes you on an engrossing—at times, dizzying—trek through 19^th century Brussels’ sensual underground. It’s the type of story that ends where it starts but leaves no character unmoved.

The titular ‘Poppy’ is Koja’s novel is a brothel masquerading as a theater—or perhaps a theater masquerading as a brothel, depending on who you ask—in 1870s Brussels, under its proprietress, cruel and lonely Decca, and the owner, mysterious and stoic Mr. Rupert Bok. The whore of the Poppy offer the usual services, but they also offer an opportunity of theatricality, playing to their clients’ fantasies by acting them out in elaborate and rousing plays. But to say the whores of the Poppy take center stage would be erroneous; this is first and foremost the story of Rupert and Istvan—the latter being Decca’s wandering rogue brother, puppeteer, player, enigma, and Rupert’s lover and first true companion, who shows up at the Poppy in the midst of an encroaching war they want no part of. It is Istvan’s return they sets in motion the series of events that would alter everyone under the Poppy.

Under the Poppy’s romantic, flowing dialogue invokes sharp imagery in the reader’s eye; it is, at times, almost like a stream of consciousness, stringing you along until you almost lose yourself in the flow. Koja’s narrative technique is curiously divided, split up into unnamed chapters that are occasionally centered on breaking down a single character in first-person, or are unassigned third-person narratives. Decca, Rupert and Istvan have no attributed chapters of their own, but this story no less revolves around them. In the end, this whole world is Rupert and Istvan’s stage; the others are simply allowed to play on it for a time.

It is no surprise, then, that Istvan’s puppets—or les mecs, as he calls them—play parts almost as important as the human characters do. Istvan is no saint, but he’s a powerful character, both in impact and actions. He is the prescient rogue, moving people about and manipulating them like the world is his personal stage. Prior to coming to the Poppy and reuniting with his childhood companion, Rupert, and treacherous sister, Decca, Istvan was a wanderer and a successful puppeteer. He goes by many names throughout the novel—Hanzel, Dusan, M. Dieudonne, Fox—to name just a few, and constantly wears masks, both literal and figurative. One gets the sense that he is the truest version of himself when he is with Rupert, his anchor and his weakness, just as Istvan is Rupert’s weakness. The two have an unspeakable bond, together since they were boys, roaming the streets and performing shows with the puppets they created together. As they got older, circumstances and Decca’s deception born of jealousy drives them apart, but time and again they are inevitably drawn to one another.

There is a strong artistic presence in Koja’s novel, as these characters constantly dance around the conflict between love and war. The characters are at war with one another while a literal war is creeping in around them and threatening their very existence. The only thing that can save them—indeed, the only thing that seems to bring anyone cheer in these dreary days—is the stage, Istvan’s plays and puppets, an escape from reality for others but to Istvan, the only life he knows. A peripheral character, a master of the stage, says it best in his narrative: “You see, that hunger inside us, that ambition, or whatever you may choose to call is, is a compass really, a compass of true desire. And if you will be happy, you must follow that desire, no matter which way the needle points.”

As the story progresses, most of the characters are discarded, unfortunately, but their replacements bring their own intrigue. Even the Poppy itself is forgotten, which is a shame but understandable, for the stage is ever shifting, just like the theme. Koja’s novel never does what you expect it to do, which makes it all that much more absorbing. The scenery may change but the focus stays the same, as Rupert and Istvan continue to enter in and out of each other’s orbit. Istvan is a presence that is constantly felt, because you know that he is never far. He would never let go of his mecs, his play-acting, or his itinerant ways, so long as he still lacks his true desire. It is a testament to any man’s inability to deny his baser desires, be they sexual or otherwise. “All that moves requires a hand,” Istvan says to a progeny of his, and it sets the tone for the entire novel, for no person is without that inner compass that guides them, but it is much better to be the master than the puppet.

Koja is currently adapting her novel to a stage format for the Detroit Opera House, set for a 2012 release, and there could not be a better method of presentation for this story. Under the Poppy was destined for the stage, from the very first rumblings of its love affair with the medium on the page. There are plenty of opportunities for song and dance, fun and excitement, and certainly a bit of titillation. It will be interesting to see how well the story plays out off the page.

'Twilight With Aliens' Seems to Be the General Consensus

I Am Number Four
by Pittacus Lore
p. 2010 


It doesn’t happen often that I decide a movie is better than the book it’s based on. I may find it equally impressive (like Lord of the Rings or Palahniuk’s Fight Club), entertaining in vastly different ways, and I certainly find many literary counterparts vastly superior to their film adaptations (none stand out more than the Harry Potter series), but when it comes right down to it, I liked I Am Number Four’s movie attempt better.

I zoomed through this simplistic book—about a teenage alien living a secret life on Earth while running from those who destroyed his planet—in a couple days, at a friend's behest, so we could see the movie and compare. For some reason, my friend fretted that the movie would ruin the book, but after absorbing those 440 pages, I still couldn’t figure out just what would be ruined… nor could I shake the feeling that I just read the alien equivalent of Twilight.

It’s not a bad assumption. Co-authors Jobie Hughes and James Frey (of A Million Little Pieces fame, a.k.a. that book that turned out to be mostly fake that made Oprah look foolish for endorsing) published the book—already touted as the first in a coming series—under Frey’s new company, Full Fathom Five, a veritable book workshop designed to pump out novels that siphon off a bit of the success of those vampy series by appealing to young adults of the female persuasion. Neither Hughes nor Frey get their name anywhere on the book, having published it under the pseudonym Pittacus Lore, who is also a designated figure in the story’s mythology, the unseen godlike figure with all the answers. I’m willing to bet Pittacus Lore is more Frey than Hughes, seeing as the contracts Full Fathom Five authors had to sign were highly exploitative, but then, isn’t the whole business of writing down to adhere to a fad just one giant exploit anyway? So, tipping their hat to true talent and the written craft, Hughes and Frey struck out to market their half-assed wares with cheap techniques, and books everywhere died a little inside.

That’s not to say I Am Number Four is an atrocious novel; it’s not. It’s just… lacking completely in poetry or subtlety. In fiction writing 101, we are told to ‘show,’ not ‘tell,’ encouraged to describe a scene rather than narrate and do all the work for the reader. It’s strange to say this, because Four actually balanced dialogue and description quite evenly, yet somehow this dynamic duo have still failed to both ‘show and ‘tell.’ There’s just nothing memorable about the descriptions or the dialogue. Hughes and Frey spend too many lines describing blasé daily activities and awkward encounters in short, punctuated sentences that leave no impact:

“Our eyes stay locked. The crowd around us swells to ten people, then twenty. Sarah stands and walks to the edge of the crowd. Mark is wearing his letterman jacket, and his black hair is carefully styled to look like he rolled straight out of bed and into his clothes.
He pushes away from the locker and walks towards me. When he is inches away he stops. Our chests nearly touch and the spicy scent of his cologne fills my nostrils. He is probably six one, a couple inches taller than I am. We have the same build. Little does he know that what is inside of me is not what is inside of him. I am quicker than he is and far stronger. The thought brings a confident grin to my face.”

Two tiny paragraphs and… 12 complete sentences? What the? And the dialogue? In spite of the realistic addition of swearing, which I appreciated, as censorship has always bothered me in fiction, both written and live action, the dialogue just sounds so awkward, especially between protagonist John and vanilla love interest, pretty blonde ex-cheerleader/current-photographer, Sarah. Their maudlin melodrama is what first set off my Twilight radar. Here is an excerpt, when John and Sarah meet after being away for eight days over Christmas vacation:

“She has just been in a plane and a car for ten hours and she is wearing sweatpants and no makeup with her hair pulled into a ponytail and yet she is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen and I don’t want to let go of her. We stare into each other’s eyes beneath the moonlight and all either of us can do is smile.”

Egads! Sweatpants and no makeup? How could a girl even dream of allowing herself to sink to such hideous levels of dishevelment?! It’s a good thing Sarah’s just so naturally pretty that she doesn’t have to worry about a thing like obsessive attention to hygiene. This isn’t even the only time Sarah is referred to as pretty despite her ‘casual’ appearance. At a parade earlier in the book, ex-cheerleader Sarah is taking pictures of her former teammates and John notes, “despite the fact that she’s wearing jeans and no makeup, she’s far more beautiful than any of them.”

God forbid a girl wears casual clothing at a social event. And way to unconsciously reinforce the stereotype that a benchmark for ‘pretty’ is your social status. Sarah was so pretty, she beat out the CHEERLEADERS for goodness sake! And without MAKEUP! This much attention to cosmetic appearances was not paid to the male characters in Four. It’s shit like this, book, that lets me know without even looking that you were written by two guys.

Everything else about this book is easily digested, but every time I have to sit around for another chapter of Sarah and John Schmaltz Fest 2010, in which the pair walks around ‘flirting’ and glancing at each other significantly, I think I may hurl. Earlier I praised Four for it’s realistic swearing, but romance is where a little creative license is required. Nobody wants to read about two pretty 15-year-olds making doe eyes and expressing ‘I wuv you’s’, not even most literate teens. At least their relationship isn’t psychologically damaging or over-dependent. Sarah is so boring I nothing her, but I can’t hate her. She is willing to let John go by book’s end, and John will no doubt reexamine the relationship, given what his mentor Henri told him about their people and the lifelong bonds they form… with their own kind only. I appreciated this unconventional—if pessimistic—approach to young love. Teens should learn to reexamine their relationships more often. [Sadly, the movie did a complete 180 on this conversation, with Henri implying that Sarah could be ‘the one,’ despite her and John’s differences. This was one of the few things that bothered me more about the movie].

One thing I liked about the book that I didn’t realize until the movie left much of it out was the interaction between John and Henri. Though the writing was terrible enough that I never really got the sense of urgency in their mission, nor was anything said that will stick with me, I nonetheless admired their rapport. Henri is not John’s father; he is his guardian and mentor. He doesn’t sugarcoat, but everything he does is for John’s own good. A lot of their interaction in the book is done while exposition dumping and training in order to hone John’s alien powers, called Legacies. The movie just decided to avoid this by not explaining anything about their planet’s history and having John just suddenly… be awesome. At everything. Without even trying. This is the part where the movie loses me the most. Even aside from the fact that we’ve lost a lot of good bonding scenes, it makes it seem like John didn’t even have to try to gain his powers. And what better thing to teach kids than that barely trying will yield success? At least in the book, John earned his powers.

[Major Spoiler]

And on the subject of getting gypped out of Henri, the movie killed him off much earlier than the book, on the way back from an information hunt in Athens rather than at the end of the final battle. In the end, it doesn’t really matter when Henri was killed, as it was infinitely predictable in both book and film that he was going that way anyway, in the age old rule of mentors and parental figures biting it early so that the young protagonist may finish growing up on his own. But still, movie, what a waste of Timothy Olyphant!

[End Spoiler]

Movie-Henri was just as cool if not cooler than book-Henri. He lacks the French-type accent book Henri supposedly had, in favor of Timothy Olyphant’s southern drawl, but on the whole, I think it’s a trade up. I just wish they had utilized him more. I found Sarah Hart infinitely more tolerable as played by "Glee"’s Dianna Agron. I guess I was biased, but then I don’t care much for Quinn Fabray; it’s Dianna that manages to exude this likeable pluck and vulnerability that lend more angles to a character that came off flat in the novel. It helps that we actually get to see her photography, a little window into her character. To say she’s a budding photographer in the book means nothing. It’s just a cheap device to make a pretty girl seem deep. It’s still a cheap device in movie form; it just flows better.

The best performance after Tim O., of course, probably came from the newcomer playing John’s only friend, nerdy Sam Goode, also the only actual 15-year-old in the cast. Novel Sam was likeable, if idiosyncratic. He was a conspiracy theorist with a missing dad and no friends until the mysterious new kid came along. His interest in the otherworldly is how he got involved in the main plot. The movie took Sam in a completely different direction, [Mild Spoiler] leaving out Sam’s interest in conspiracies and shoehorning him into the plot through happenstance, but I liked the change they made about Sam’s dad. In the movie, he made an attempt to bring the 9 chosen children from John’s planet together and failed, and when the kids go off at novel’s end, Sam seems to be taking on that role himself, a much more fitting and literary character movement than the novel gave him. [End Spoiler] Sam is definitely the kind of geek that most of us can relate to, on the outside, but totally enthused about looking in. And in a movie that you really ought not to take seriously, that type of outlook is appreciated.

Footballer and ex-boyfriend of Sarah, Mark James, was infuriatingly cliché, right up until his much-appreciated redemption act at story’s end. The movie followed this same pattern, though his role was diminished. And fellow Lorien evacuee Number Six had just about as much personality as she did in the book, which is to say, almost none, but with the potential to be more. She probably won’t get anything good, if Hughes and Frey remain at the helm, and she’ll likely be broken down by her physical aspects first and foremost, but at least she kicks more ass than Sarah.

[Major Spoiler]

Finally there’s the dog, dubbed Bernie Kosar after a football poster that hung in the room of John’s Ohio home when he arrived. Not for one minute while reading Four did I believe that Bernie Kosar was anything but an alien ally of the Lorien people. Of course, everyone else except John knew this too, but still, so many obvious things happen with the dog that John is oblivious to that he almost comes off as an idiot for not picking up on things sooner. And dear God was it ever maddening to keep reading “Bernie Kosar” in the book. Why it couldn’t be shortened to Bernie or BK is beyond me. Thank God the movie realized how stupid that name was and only mentioned it once, never bothering to call the dog by its name from that point on. It’s fight scene (in advanced form) at the end was pretty epic too, though Bernie seemed way cooler looking in the book.

[End Spoiler]

I Am Number Four and its ensuing sequels could be so much better in someone else’s hands. Someone not willing to sacrifice quality to cash in on a fad. The writing style is boring and spartan in its use of short, unembellished sentences. Too much time is spent explaining the things that don’t need explaining in good novels. Nobody cares that you did the dishes before watching a movie and holding hands with your girlfriend before going out and having a conversation with mentor dad on the porch. If the point of this scene is the conversation, then skip to the conversation. We the readers are capable of understanding a lot if it’s conveyed in a subtle manner. Frey and Hughes lack that subtlety, but it doesn’t matter, because they’re out to make a buck and they’re using a surefire model for success. Take one part boy with dangerous past, add in pretty ‘average’ girl, toss with geek friend, cliché nemesis, and wise mentor in small town America and voila: Young Adult Romance Adventure Novel. Enjoy your meal. You’re paying much more for it than you realize.

It's the End of the World... Supposedly

Level 7
by Mordecai Roshwald
p. 1959

“A horrifying prophetic document of the future—the diary of a man living 4000 feet underground in a society hell-bent on atomic self-destruction”

That is the bold-lettered beeline gracing the vintage cover of the 1959 science fiction novel Level 7 by Mordecai Roshwald. And I know what you’re thinking: the book was written by a guy named Mordecai Roshwald? Clearly that is a guy who must be taken seriously and Level 7, while adopting the occasional tongue-in-cheek tone regarding its subject matter, is at its heart an anti-Cold War propaganda novel.

I started reading this book back in October, but my enjoyment was cut short when the book was stolen (along with my entire purse) out of a friend’s car. I had meant to pick up other books until I could find a replacement copy but I never got around to it, so hung up was I on finishing the deliciously unsubtle piece of Cold War era fiction that had so piqued my interest. It wasn’t until the following winter that I finally found a substitute and my reading habits resumed. What can I say, I’m a sucker for science fiction draped in social commentary, and I have a hard time moving on when my mind gets stuck on an idea.

As trapped as I felt without my literary closure, it came nowhere near as trapped as Level 7’s protagonist felt sealed into a top secret bunker 4,400 feet below the earth’s surface. A military man who is referred to by no name other than X-127, the label given to him by the anonymous voice on the loudspeaker that runs Level 7, our protagonist was chosen to be sent underground along with 499 others to be part of the elite group selected to preserve and defend humanity in the event of atomic war. In post-World War II decades, paranoia reached a fever pitch and the threat of the a-bomb dropping on an unsuspecting population was very real. While some were content to hide under wooden tables at the sound of a siren and believe they were protected, Level 7 adopts the more realistic attitude that, if atomic weaponry were involved, the next war would be the final war humanity ever waged.

So what could be done to preserve humankind? Why, go underground, of course. Deep underground, to the point at which deadly radioactivity would be diminished and our people protected. In addition to not naming names, Level 7 does not even assign nationalities, but it doesn’t take a genius to suppose that our protagonist speaks for America, while the oft-spoke of ‘enemy’ is the Soviet Union. Our protagonist is led to believe he is being promoted and sent on leave at the start of his journey, when in reality he is being whisked away on this ‘special’ assignment. No one on Level 7 is told of their true fate until they are underground and the door to the surface is sealed for good. It takes awhile for the reality to sink in, but eventually these people accept that they saw their last rays of sunlight for an entire lifetime and they didn’t even know it.

The idea that the only way to secure a future in which mankind may flourish is by locking up humanity’s remnants underground for 5 centuries is indeed a terrifying concept. It seems laughable to us now, that we let ourselves get so carried away with the idea of Mutually Assured Destruction but to Mordecai Roshwald’s contemporaries, it was a very real fear. I’m not sure what Mordy’s thoughts were on the likelihood of this actually occurring in his lifetime, but Level 7 is proof that he did not approve of the fervor. X-127 and his comrades—military folk, mostly—were chosen specifically because of their no-nonsense mentalities and lack of social connections. Only people declared mentally fit could survive in this supposed ‘paradise,’ but even X-127 has problems adjusting to a solitary life, and often pines for the sun. Roshwald seems to be suggesting that a life without sunshine and family is no life worth living, and perhaps it would be better to just allow yourself to be destroyed…

Now, earlier I said that these 500 poor souls were chosen to be the preservers and defenders of humanity (as if 500 were a feasible sustainable population number…), but that’s not exactly true. The defense is left to others; Level 7’s job—X-127 and three others, to be exact—is not defense, actually, but offense. X-127’s job, which he unknowingly trained for his whole career, was to push a series of buttons that would release his country’s entire arsenal on their enemies, spread out over three territories, in four successive and increasingly more destructive waves, the final of which are the atom bombs which would end the war. A deceivingly simple job, literally the push of a button, and the world could come to an end.

The majority of the novel is spent on what ifs and theorizing, the best possible hobby of the chronically confined. In fact, there isn’t much else for X-127 to do except think too much and keep a detailed journal and hope that there is a future generation to read it. In our modern age of computers, even with information overload and instant access to a vast expanse of knowledge that could fill a thousand lifetimes without ever reading the same thing—even with all that, the thought of being tucked away underground is a horrifying thought. Imagine what it would have felt like in 1959—and Level 7 wasn’t even allowed to have any BOOKS! I questioned this from the moment X-127 stated it, as preservation of knowledge and culture seem like something you might want to consider if you hope to rebirth a nation some day, but it is suggested that the people on Level 7 were bred not to dream and feel emotions and aspire beyond their station, and fiction would likely only increase the desire for greater things.

Or perhaps the unseen, obscure builders of Level 7 knew right from the get-go that hope was futile and didn’t bother with silly books.

One thing that kept nagging at me throughout the first half of Level 7 was Why 7? Where are levels 1 through 6? Do they even exist? It bothered me that no one on Level 7 thought of this until 75 pages (almost 2 months) in, when it was finally explained. In retrospect, it was probably better not to exposition dump right away, but they at least could have mentioned that Levels 1 through 6 existed. I was beginning to think the number 7 was arbitrary, or that it would have some twisty explanation. Through a series of talks delivered by the ever-present, disembodied loudspeaker voices that rule their lives, Level 7 learns of those above them. Level 6 is also military, and the ones responsible for the aforementioned defense. They number 2000 and regularly rotate out with a second group above ground. Whoever’s on duty when war is declared wins the You-Get-To-Live lotto, I guess. Levels 5 through 3 are for elite citizens, in decreasing importance (see: wealth). Levels 2 and 1 are for us regular old citizens, are seemingly incomplete at the start of the novel, and not expected to survive anyway. They’re really just there for show. In all, less than half the population is expected to fit in the shelters, and for various lengths of time, which makes me wonder why all the stealth, if so many people knew about the Levels? It is at this point that we also learn that just about every other remotely developed nation has also built bunkers, though only the enemy and ourselves have really put any effort into it. Because, let’s face it, in a game of poker, the only people adding to the pot are the ones who hold all the cards.

One thing that I really liked is that, while operations on Level 6 and above are largely glossed over, it is mentioned that Level 6 houses our defense units because it requires more complex machinery and manpower that couldn’t fit into any lower units. What this means is, striking down the enemy is easier to achieve than intercepting missiles sent to obliterate us. On the heels of this revelation is the fact that, if released upon the world, a-bombs would unleash so much radioactivity that the earth’s surface would be unlivable for decades, possibly centuries. It might never recover if everyone unleashes their arsenals at once. In essence, it is so much easier to destroy than it is to rebuild. A very true statement and not accidental, I’m sure.

SPOILERS

I really wondered what kind of a novel Level 7 was going to turn out to be, as X-127’s journal entries continued without any sign of offensive activity, and centered mostly on musing and internal Level 7 affairs (X-127 takes on a wife, for no particular reason other than it seemed like the thing to do. He doesn’t even like her much and easily drops her when they both lose interest). Given the real life predicament—a veritable standoff with an uncertain future—it just as easily could have been the story of a man waiting in the dark for his unseen opponent to draw first. There is certainly a lot of substance to be mined from the waiting, the pressure of fulfilling your life’s one duty, forced upon you by equally unseen forces, a duty which just happens to be destroying the world.

But that’s not the way it ends.

In the end, X-127 really does press that button. He presses all those buttons and so does the enemy, from the safety of their own hidden bunker, and the earth is utterly obliterated in the worst-case scenario. This happens roughly 100 pages in and the remaining 40 explore the very good question: What now?

What now, indeed. X-127 has essentially fulfilled his life’s one purpose, and the fact that it didn’t weigh as heavily on him as he thinks it should is a bigger concern to him than the encroaching death from above. In the weeks that follow the surviving levels fall one by one, the victims of poisoned ground water. Communicating by radio, Level 7 eventually loses contact with their own, their allies and even their enemy. At the final point, when Level 6 is in communicado, and they have come to accept that they are inevitably next, it comes down to just us and the enemy, and in a final act of retribution, both sides come together over the airwaves and make amends, but it is too little, far too late.

There is a lovely sequence where a couple from Level 2, before the fall of their level, goes above ground to explore the remains and find nothing but destruction, everything leveled by hate. Conversing via radio, they become the proverbial doves of Noah’s Ark, scouting the land for a safe haven, a new home and hope, but unlike those doves, the fact that they never came back is a destruction of that illusive hope.

When Level 7 finally falls, it is by accident, an explosion from the reactor intended to sustain their level’s daily functions. Despite the good intentions behind the machine’s creation, the radiation annihilates just the same. Our team may have been the last ones standing, but we all died the same way. And what did it prove?

END SPOILERS

Level 7 is a slow-moving book, short and without action, but its consequences are so much more dire and unsettling. Contributing to the disquieting tone is the fact that events are presented to us with a limited perspective. We know only what X-127 knows, and it was never really that much. Whether or not you can imagine the life above ground by story’s end probably says more about you, the reader, than about the book, but it is important all the same. After all, it is only by looking inward and upward that we could avoid the fate suffered by the inhabitants of Level 7. The inhabitants of this project may have been told they were the lucky ones—some of them may even believe they are the lucky ones—but the persistent parasite nagging at X-127’s brain from the start of his mission to the end—the desire for sunlight and the feeling that he is less of a savior and more of a prisoner—is no accident. “I really do not know what to do, but I am sure I cannot take many more downs,” he writes. “There must be a limit to mental suffering, just as there is a limit to the distance humans can dig into the earth. Seven levels down is the physical limit. How many can the spirit endure?” There is no way to solve all the discord in the world, but if there was, it isn’t through sticking your head in the sand and hiding in the dark. And it isn’t in superior firepower, because if it came to that, you’d reap what you sowed. Victory is possible, but at what cost?

Paul Carter is Cooler Than You

Don't Tell Mom I Work on the Rigs: She Thinks I'm a Piano Player in a Whorehouse 

by Paul Carter
p. 2005

I can’t remember how it was that I heard about this particular creative nonfiction book, but as soon as I read the punchy and absurdly long title, I knew I must have it.

I’m cheap so I didn’t go directly to Amazon to buy it; instead, I tried to find it in used bookstores and was pointedly surprised to realize that I was too embarrassed to say the full title to strangers. About the time I mumbled “Never mind, you probably don’t have it,” to the lady at John King Books and she pointed out that I was blushing, I decided to go right home and order it online the way I should have the first time.

Despite the awkward title, there is nothing to be ashamed of in the content of Don’t Tell Mom I Work on the Rigs… Published in 2005, it is a collection of stories from the life of on-off oil rig worker, Paul Carter. An Australian by birth but a roughneck at heart, Carter’s experiences with the wild side of the trade are many and varied; the oil trade truly is the flipside of civilization. And Paul Carter is at the heart of it all. He has traveled all over for the oil business, lived off the grid by choice, seen the darkest parts of people and lived to tell about it, and he actually seems tame compared to some of the personalities he comes across.

Though this collection of stories all are chiefly concerned with Carter’s work on the rigs and the interesting and dynamic characters that toil alongside him, this is the only connection they boast. My chief complaint with this book was simply that there wasn’t enough of a common thread weaved throughout the book. Carter tells one raucous story then moves on to the next without much transition and the stuff mentioned early isn’t relevant by the end. This isn’t really a problem, per se, as plenty of creative nonfiction writers will amass collections of their life’s little stories for an anthology with only loose connotations, but it does give the book a random, disconnected sort of feel. When grappling with the unspoken question, ‘What is the point of all this?’ the only idea I could come up with was that perhaps this book would be more appropriately renamed Paul Carter is Cooler Than You. Indeed, Carter’s stories are the stuff that young people stuck in humdrum lives or too afraid to go experience the world would salivate over. Though maybe I, as one of those people—and either explanation is befitting—am just projecting my frustrations onto Carter, who never really comes across as a braggart. In all likelihood, someone who has encountered Paul Carter in his travels has told him ‘You should write all these down and publish them!’ and Carter went for it, and thus this book was created.

Though I found the descriptions of the trade and life that accompanies it intriguing at the time, I admit to not remembering too much of this story months later. The one part I will inexplicably remember for a long time hence is sort of random, but it comes early on in Don’t Tell Mom I Work on the Rigs, in its second chapter. Carter is describing an old roommate of his from Leinster, Craig, who had two unfortunate run-ins with death, the first when he was nearly beaten to death by some Maori truckers in a dive bar and the second on his way back from the hospital six weeks later, when a kangaroo jumped through his windshield and crashed his truck. Though the descriptions of Craig’s injuries—both times—are gruesome and uncomfortable to picture, this chapter had an unexpected optimistic twist at the end.

“His good looks were gone but in his ever-positive style, life took on a new precious zest, even when he caught people staring. He just wasn’t supposed to die young.”

If there’s one lesson or theme that can be meted out of this collection, it’s that life in all its bizarre and colossal ways, can only be lived in if you do it with a bold heart and a tenacious sense of humor, and Carter possesses that in spades. Lesser men would shy away from the life he leads but Carter embraces it and manages to convey it all with humor. I did not find his sense of humor as appealing as other travel nonfiction writers I’ve read (most notably my dear departed, Pete McCarthy) but others will. Carter is a man’s man and this is a story geared towards the type who are eager to or have ventured out into the world to truly experience it. The way I understand it, Carter has written a second collection of tales ‘from the edge of civilization,’ as he calls it, and I wouldn’t be opposed to checking it out, if it’s anything like his first book.

One more thing:

Since Don’t Tell Mom I Work on the Rigs technically qualifies as ‘travel fiction,’ I couldn’t help but compare it to other works I’ve read in the same genre, and realized that this was the third book of its type that included a mention of macaque. And I’m not talking a throwaway line somewhere; I’m talking gratuitous description of macaques. Like, a whole chapter dedicated to this breed of monkey. In this book, the macaque is a chain-smoking pet who becomes kind of a jerk when he hits puberty and is eventually accidentally blown up with a homemade coconut bomb (don’t ask). What is it about macaques that have people talking anyway? They seem like the real assholes of the primate world.

Melodrama at its Finest

Safe Passage 
by Ellyn Bache

p. 1988

I’ll admit that Safe Passage is a book I picked up only because I’d seen the movie many years ago and had vaguely fond memories of it. Interested to see if the book stayed true to the movie or revealed more about its characters, I picked up a copy amongst several of the secondhand copies hanging about and am happy to report that I was not the least bit disappointed. In fact, I tried to put this book aside several times to read something else I held higher on my priority list, but I couldn’t help but peek at the first chapter and from there, I couldn’t put it down.

Safe Passage, by Ellen Bache, is the story of the Singer clan, particularly the matriarch (and only female) Mag Singer, spread out over three days as they go through the turmoil of wondering whether one of their members—troubled son, Percival, now a marine—has perished in an explosion where he is stationed in Beirut. It is melodrama in its highest form, but strangely compelling and well-spoken melodrama nonetheless. I unfortunately could not benefit from the element of suspense this book would have for new readers, as I already knew the outcome from the movie, but Bache keeps you guessing until the end, and the tension is so thick, it begs to be felt.

The question of Percival’s fate is not the only thread in this story. When word of the explosion hits, the entire family floods into the house to await further news and clash in the meantime. To be more accurate, Safe Passage is a character study about Mag—a middle-aged woman who feels trapped in her life yet fiercely protective of her children. It’s not an easy task, as there are seven of them, all boys, and Mag never wanted children in the first place. Only one child—youngest son, Simon, who suffers from a birth defect that has left him partially deaf and is questioning a life-changing operation—is left at home, which means Mag works overtime worrying about her boys. There’s eldest Alfred, who is involved in a relationship with a single mother whom Mag despises for stealing her firstborn and shoehorning him into fatherhood, Izzy the genius student, Gideon the runner and champ, and Darren and Merle, who are twins. I don’t mean to denigrate them, but that’s really all there is to the twins. They don’t do anything noteworthy or have discernable personalities; I’m quite sure they exist solely to increase Mag’s burden and the aesthetic that she has produced a ‘litter’ instead of children.

Mag is a deeply conflicted character, and her feelings about her family may incite offense, if you were so inclined to be sensitive. She frequently claims to have favorites (though the favorite changes depending on who needs her the most at that time), she repeatedly thinks about running away from her life, rues that she ever started having children at all, and constantly takes on the burden of guilt whenever something happens to her children, believing the evils of the world to be ethereal punishments for her own failings. Adding on to that a general dissatisfaction with her marriage, and Mag is whole mess of complicated emotions that are just waiting to explode.

Impeding matters even more is the declining health of husband, Patrick, who suffers from undiagnosed and inexplicable periodic blindness. Mag often thinks about leaving him and finally starting the life she left behind twenty-odd years ago, but will not abandon him in his feeble state, though he appears to be independent. It is clear through flashback scenes that Mag is not, and possibly never was satisfied with her marriage. Patrick, though he appears to have grown and taken a sincere interest in his family, was not always the family man that he is when he attempts to take charge of the crisis. He was inattentive and often absent in the boys’ younger days, leaving Mag to take care of everything by herself, hence the weight of the world Mag seems to always take on her shoulders. Being the embodiment of stubbornness, Mag refuses to forgive his past discretions and cannot let go of her bitterness.

In an alternate but related thread, middle son Gideon, who is the last to come home and does so despite his parents telling him not to come, feels an equal amount of guilt in regards to Percival. The two were once close, but the relationship was diminished when Gideon began to outshine his older brother at running. You see, Percival, a scrawny kid with a sizable attitude, picked up the sport first, as a way to channel his incorrigible behavior into something useful, and he was pretty good at it until his brother came along. It wasn’t enough to Percival to be second best and he was always second or third or fourth in a family of boys that all exceeded at something. Gideon blames himself for being better while Mag blames herself for bringing Percival into the world in the first place. After all, she views it as her duty to provide a ‘safe passage’ in life for her children, and if she can’t even do that then she’s failed them just as she’s failed herself, and that will not do.

Safe Passage is a story comprised mostly of talking and waiting, but it is never boring. Each new chapter reveals layer upon layer of this complex family, and with the exception of the twins, each of them have their moment to shine. There is still so much more to know, and the ending is left open-ended in regards to these characters’ futures. Not everything is solved in those agonizing three days, but something has moved within Mag and her family, and Safe Passage is a peek into that world when it’s been shaken to its core.

Love And Distance

Threatened Species 
by Jeff Vande Zande
p. 2011




Original link to 360 Mainstreet review here.

I feel inclined to note how nice it was to read this novel by Michigan-born Jeff Vande Zande... especially so close after reading Murder at the Ingham County Fair... 

            Jeff Vande Zande’s Threatened Species is a collection of stories deeply entrenched in and in touch with the American landscape. Accompanied by five additional though unrelated short stories, the central novella is the story of a father and son learning how to cope with impending separation while on a road trip during their final two weeks together. It is heartbreaking and reflective and deeply personal, yet still manages to encompass its entire natural surroundings in one small world.

At the forefront of the titular story is the father, Ed Winters, and his son Danny, of an undetermined age, but most likely between 6 and 10. Danny is getting ready to move with his mother and stepfather to Paris, thanks to the latter’s new job, but before he goes, he gets to spend a final two weeks with his father, during which Ed has chosen to drive up north, taking in Michigan’s rich landscape without really taking anything in at all, as he is too preoccupied with worry and anger. Ed knows he may not see his son again for years following the move, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. His bitterness and frustrations are immediately evident—though wholly unidentifiable—to his young son.

The story is told in parallel narratives, primarily Danny’s and Ed’s, and both wholly encapsulate the characters in different ways. Danny’s point of view is in first person, told as only a child could tell it, looking up at the adults and the world around him as mysteries, things to be reveled at and awed. We are told he is fascinated by new words, and loves stringing them together, and his father is a distant yet eager figure from whom Danny is willing to learn. Vande Zande does an exceptional job at capturing this peculiar road trip—and the cold and bitter man behind the wheel, the appropriately named Ed Winters—through the eyes of a child earnestly seeking answers.

Ed, in stark contrast to his son, is a man who thinks he already has all the answers—about people, about the land, even about himself, at first. He gratuitously supplies his son with facts about towns and fish and becomes easily frustrated when Danny responds with seeming indifference. It’s obvious Ed wants some sort of unique bonding experience out of the trip, something he and Danny both can hold onto when they lose the proximity they’ve held onto when everything else was already tenuous from the divorce. Ed’s chapters are told in third person, and it’s no wonder, as Ed is a narrator that cannot be trusted. His emotions overtake him too easily, his temper flares, and his head is rarely in the right place. The reader is not meant to see things through Ed’s eyes.

The only other character whose point of view is represented is a man named Butch, a bounty hunter sent to track down Ed and retrieve Danny when the former makes up his mind not to give his son back. Butch’s first-person narrative appears in 90 pages in, and marks a stark contrast to the tone, somewhat disrupting the tone of the story, but it’s Vande Zande’s only misstep, and since the new direction takes us places faster than Ed’s meandering narrative, it serves a literary purpose after all.

Ever present throughout the novella—and each of the subsequent short stories as well—is an overarching sense of solitude and desperation. Vande Zande presents characters who are at the end of their respective ropes and desperately seeking a ground to stand on. The eloquent descriptions of the vast rivers Ed and Danny fish in, the howling of wolves at night and the road that stretches before them all contribute to the prevailing loneliness of its characters. Father and son spend a significant portion of the novella wondering if they’ll ever catch a grayling, a fish once native to Michigan but long since gone. Neither excels at communicating with the other, and Ed rarely wants to hear what Danny has to say about his new life. Other characters float in and out of their lives on the trip but Ed doesn’t want other men around, too insecure in his fears of replacement to allow another potential role model into Danny’s life as his stepfather has been let in. Many of Ed’s problems could be solved if he could only learn to let things go, but he tries too hard, and it becomes his downfall.

              Jeff Vande Zande has a strong understanding of the unique bond between parent and child, which expresses itself in other ways throughout his short stories, each of which could be expanded to a full-length story in its own right. Though his prose deserves better labels the ‘sad’ and ‘beautiful,’ they nonetheless suit the book just right, as simple and natural as the stories told and the landscape in which his characters find themselves.

Just Kill Me Now

Murder at the Ingham County Fair
by Richard Baldwin
p. 2009


I was directed to this novel--the latest in a mystery series by Michigan author Richard Baldwin--by 360 Mainstreet, a Saginaw-based online publication for which I occasionally write reviews. Due to the site's inclination toward presenting Michigan culture in a generally positive light, they were disinclined to publish my review the way I originally wrote it, so I wrote an alternative, laughably restrained review. Thankfully, they ended up publishing the original version regardless (you can read it here, and peruse my other reviews, if it pleases!), which is good because Richard Baldwin should not be allowed to butcher the good name of literature without proper payback.

I wish I was kidding when I say that this is the worst book I've ever read. I'm not the least bit surprised that Baldwin self-publishes. This is the unfiltered review but it's still fairly restrained...

In his 11^th self-published mystery novel, Murder at the Ingham County Fair, Michigan author Richard Baldwin presents a good old-fashioned whodunit and pays homage to his hometown through the telling of the investigation of Judge Winston Breckinridge’s murder. Leading the investigation is the astute, gentlemanly hero of Baldwin’s previous mystery novels, private detective Lou Searing, and a crafty team of diverse investigators that frequently aid him on cases.

Discounting a handy, informative paragraph regarding the real-life history of the Ingham County Fair (begun in 1855, admission was originally ten cents, a price which has no doubt increased as the number of attendees skyrocketed over the past century and a half), there is no prologue; Baldwin dives directly into the murder at the heart of the novel. The first chapter of Ingham County reads like a procedural drama, dumping exposition about the physical details of the case, a style of writing that is not repeated for the remainder of the novel. Instead, the remaining 200 pages consist primarily of dialogue, with maybe 5-10% leftover for descriptive writing.

In addition to over-reliance on dialogue, we are laden with a plethora of suspects—any one of whom has a feasible motive and conveniently no alibi—and seemingly irrelevant details—such as the Interstates each team member took on their drives or the way a suspect interviewed spells her name. If this style of storytelling was intentionally done to bewilder the reader and leave them questioning up until the very end who committed the murder, then Baldwin has succeeded, because the motive and final reveal of the culprit responsible is impossible to guess based on the clues given. Ingham County would benefit more from more showing and less telling, if the readers are at all meant to take on the duties of novice detective alongside Lou and his team.

Speaking of Lou’s team, they might serve an equally effective purpose narrating infomercials about political correctness. Lou himself is a senior citizen, as is his assistant and primary field operative Jack Kelly, a replacement for the inexplicably disabled (and adoptive mother of a Korean baby) Maggie McMillan. The fourth team member is a college student named Heather, also wheelchair-bound, who helps to modernize their investigative techniques. There is no discernable reason for either female to be wheelchair-bound, as it does not help or hinder in any way. Even Lou’s dog is handicapped, having lost one of its legs in an earlier incident with an assassin pursuing Lou that sounded much more exciting than anything that happened in Ingham County.

Despite its insistence that Lou and his team are fascinating and extraordinary, one thing that Ingham Countynot is a character-driven story. You can count on your fingers the number of personality traits attributed to all four team members, and they are usually immaterial details, such as Lou’s membership in Knights of Columbus, the Harley he owns and rarely drives, the fact that everyone orders French Vanilla lattes at a local coffee shop, and one throwaway line about Jack being a snappy dresser. The despicable murder victims are given a much broader and clearer range of personality than our investigators, leaving very little to relate to as a reader. is

It’s not even clear why Lou was brought into the case in the first place besides the simple fact that he was around when it occurred. According to Baldwin, local authorities in Michigan don’t have time to look into the murder of a high-ranking and controversial judge and would much rather rely on a local “small-time” private detective. If we had seen the authorities participate in the investigation at any time during the months it took place, Lou’s involvement would be excusable, but they never once showed up to help. It might even be easy to overlook this if what we are told about Lou’s team—that they are highly intelligent and perceptive—were true, but their techniques are nothing out of the ordinary and in fact each person relies quite heavily on the “blunt force” method of interrogation. At least half a dozen times throughout the novel, Lou or one of his teammates flat out asks a suspect, “Did you kill the judge?” as if this were at all an acceptable or reliable form of cross-examination.

Still, despite its mistakes and regrettable lack of imagery, there are parts to enjoy about Ingham County. Scattered throughout the book are illustrations by high-schooler Everett Jason Van Allsburg, which add very little to the story, but are a unique touch to the mystery novel experience. In addition, there are dozens of goodies for Michiganders to find, as Lou’s team visits places (and probably people) local to the real Ingham County, where Baldwin resides. A coffee shop called Bestsellers gets face time, as does a restaurant called Blondies, and even Tigers’ pitcher Justin Verlander gets his named dropped. No doubt there are a lot of parallels to Baldwin’s every day life to be found in Lou Searing’s routine. Both are married, write mysteries on the side, and even own a cat named Millie. It’s nice to see these regional details show up, proof that the author is proud to represent his hometown. Disappointingly, the titular fair itself played only a minor part in the murder, and is completely forgotten halfway through.

The mystery itself remains as such throughout the entirety of the book. For better or for worse, there’s no way to determine Winston Breckinridge’s killer until shortly before the culprit is arrested. This is definitely a whodunit that keeps you guessing, so if you’re the type of reader who likes to be kept on their toes and run through all the possibilities, then this may be a good mystery novel for you. If, however, you are looking for a story with vibrant, well-drawn-out characters, it may be necessary to read more of Baldwin’s series to paint the full picture. As it is, Murder at the Ingham County Fair presents only abstract figures revolving around an even more intangible landscape. It may not be clear who they are, why they are there, or how they are doing it, but they get the job done.

On A Big Ol' Road To Nowhere

Paperback Original 
by Will Rhode
p. 2003

Paperback Original, by Will Rhode, is a travel-themed, drug-fueled, crime-caper adventure that I unfortunately judged by its cover: I thought it looked exciting; I was wrong.

I picked this book up over a year and a half ago and could not get through it, despite proclamations from various reviews that the story resembled Alex Garland’s The Beach (a novel which I have yet to indulge in, though I thoroughly enjoyed the movie. I see the comparisons, story-wise, but I hope the real Beach novel is not so dry). I didn’t end up finishing the book until months later, and then only because I went on a road trip (seemed an appropriate venue, given the story’s setting, i.e. largely on the road) and this was the only book I brought with me. Still had a hard time choosing it over staring at cars through the window.

All right, so maybe I’m being a little harsh. Paperback Original is not a wretched book, by any means. It’s got layers and colors—how could it not, taking place in a setting as vibrant and messed up as India?

I guess my initial problem with the book is the false advertising. The blurb on the back is largely concerned solely with the content of the first chapter: British slacker son of a millionaire, Josh King, is told in the wake of his estranged father’s bizarre suicide that to inherit his father’s fortune he must get off his lazy entitled ass and do something. The task? To write a bestseller within 5 years. Unfortunately, Josh is too busy being idle and underachieving and masquerading as a journalist for a shitty paper in Delhi. That is, until he gets wind of a legend in the drug underworld: Baba, a mysterious figure he hopes to use as inspiration for his bestseller.

I suppose the Baba hook should have sufficed to pique interest in the story without giving away too much, but they could have given us a little more to work with. Here I was expecting a character-driven travel adventure in which our protagonist comes to grips with his dead father and learns to grow up and take on some responsibilities in life. In actuality, Paperback Original is the story of Josh deciding to root out a legendary drug dealer named Baba, first under the pretense of journalistic endeavors, then with the notion that he could use it as inspiration for his novel. He gets in over his head, falls for the girl, becomes addicted, gets clean, gets close to the criminal underworld, and in the peak of the novel, recruits some friends to help plan a jewel heist that would screw over his new kingpin boss who has come to trust Josh.

Normally, I would fault a book for not living up to its misleading cover descriptions. Authors don’t always have control over how their book is marketed, but I can fault the book for being overly long, largely pointless, and possessing only self-centered, moronic characters with too many irredeemable qualities.

Josh is the worst of them. His story starts with his father’s death and his lackluster attempt to make a buck off it, but the action doesn’t start until he meets Yasmin, resident love interest and exotic babe who causes nothing but trouble. Of course, Josh is too busy following his external organ to really notice this, but it’s painfully obvious to any remotely seasoned reader that Yasmin has tricks up her sleeve. That she turns out to be a double crosser is only a surprise to Josh, and it’s pretty difficult to get behind a protagonist who is so vapid and naïve, especially when the girl he’s been lusting after with reckless abandon is with someone else for the entire novel and he knows it. Josh learns nothing by the end of this story, nor do any of the other characters. I suffered through 454 pages of drug trips, poorly written love plots, and chasing shadowy figures through India’s packed side streets only for Josh to realize he’s chasing an illusion of a girl he likes while the reality fucks him over for the money. Okay. I might have felt sorry for him, but he was such a covetous dickhead that I didn’t care.

Due to Josh’s downward spiral when he comes in contact with the criminal world, all thoughts of the novel he’s supposed to be writing—the entire fucking reason he started this nonsense—vanish within the first fifty pages. It’s mentioned again at the end in a half-assed nod, but no one cares about it anymore, least of all Josh. It should be a sign of growth that he doesn’t care about the money, but considering he still doesn’t care about anything or anyone else and still lacks a direction in life, it’s not really growth at all, just a less volatile style of stagnation.

And the biggest kick to the face of all is this paragraph, which occurs near the end as Josh’s walls start crumbling around him with the revelation that the girl he’s been idealizing all along isn’t who he thought she was:

“Why am I like that? It’s not even as if my illusions are that charming. They’re certainly not worth dying for. I mean, Jesus, this whole episode has been little more than paperback formula. In fact, when I think about it, my whole life has been nothing but one big paperback novel. Wanting to be different, wanting to be original, has kept me rewriting the plot (life) and constantly casting myself as the hero. And this is just one more episode in that rather sad trend.

I should read some better-quality literature. It might improve me.”

So, let me get this straight. It takes Josh 440 pages to realize that his life sucks and he romanticizes everything because he’s a narcissistic, entitled fool? Great. I’m so glad I stuck with him for all that. Still, I’ve got to hand it to the book for pulling a fast one on us like that. All along they had me thinking I could be reading the makings of a bestseller before admitting lamely in the endgame that perhaps this story really is just ‘paperback fare’, i.e. something you’d read on the beach on a lazy afternoon. And here they had me fooled into thinking this all would amount to something worth reading.

Touché, book. Better quality literature, indeed.

Welcome bookworms, one and all

I'll admit, when I've talked about making a blog over the past few years, book reviewing is not the topic I thought I would attempt first, but it makes perfect sense.

To those that knew me when I was younger, I was always a rampant bibliophile. Staying up late, pushing the limits of sleeplessness to sneak in a few more pages of a fantasy novel, tucking a horror novel into my beach bag and sunning myself to the rhythm of the narration, stealing a few pages in between classes...

I'm sorry to say that my literary fervor wore off as I got older and books became assignments. I read less and surfed the Internet more. Real, substantive books were often replaced by fanfiction and forum posts. I still like those things, but I'm finding my reading habits on an upswing lately and I figured I'd take advantage of that by creating this blog to really explore them. Those who know me also know I am a lover of words, a writer at heart and an English major by trade, and thanks to four years of college, I can no longer read even the tamest of books without attempting to pick them apart.

This blog is my attempt to make something of the time spent put into these books, be they dull or intriguing, poorly-written or poetic, schmaltzy or droll. Since I know no other person on this planet will ever read the same combination of books as I have, it will probably be mostly for me, but for the fellow bookworm, maybe you'll find your new favorite amongst my findings... or have a laugh at my criticisms. Either way, I hope you enjoy!