Bowling for Real Estate

They Walked Like Men

by Clifford Simak
p. 1962

In small town America, a series of strange occurrences pointing towards a sinister invasion begin to present themselves to intrepid reporter, Parker Graves. As the truth unfolds, Parker must fight to make their plan known to the world before the situation becomes untenable. Clifford Simak’s pulp sci-fi novel, They Walked Like Men, is precisely what I look for when I read novels from this era and genre: bizarrely unique—almost laughable—situations unapologetically masking deeper motives. It’s kind of like getting the Best Gift Ever, only packaged in that loud, ugly wrapping paper your grandmother uses on everything. After you tear away the nonsense, you can get at the heart of things.

Describing the specifics of They Walked Like Men could only net some incredulous or disparaging glares. This is a short novel where the alien plan involves unstoppable sentient ‘bowling balls,’ real estate, and tiny, lifelike dolls used as vehicles for possession, and is at various points foiled by a talking dog and an army of skunks wrangled by a hillbilly. Like I said: incredulous. Despite all this indulgent window treatment, the plan is relatively straightforward: the aliens come in quietly, plant themselves in human form, and slowly but legally displace all of humanity by buying up their real estate through legal channels and giving them the boot. Mankind, burdened by our pesky inclinations towards law-abiding, would soon have nowhere to go (and presumably the aliens would eventually possess or murder whatever remains of humanity? I’m not sure and the story is unclear on this point). Simak seems to believe this anyway; I’m not so sure it would take too long for lawlessness to prevail, but for the purposes of the story, this is never relevant. The plan works, so long as people remain unaware of it. Parker, ever the loyal reporter, sets out to make people believe him, pursued by the aliens and their feeble murder attempts.

The invaders insist they are in the right, because they are acting within humanity’s legal boundaries. The hypothetical argument posed is whether it is better to behave legally or morally and Simak’s position is clear that it certainly isn’t moral behavior. I liked the parallel it posed with big business or government versus the individual, and the startling relevancy to issues that still plague us today. With an economy in shambles and so many forced out of their homes or into bankruptcy, it’s important to ask ourselves if behaving morally trumps legality. We’re all in this together, after all. Here is an excerpt from the alien race’s spokesperson:

“Money here on Earth is more than the paper or the metal that you use for money, more than the rows of figures that account for money. Here on Earth you have given money a symbolism such as no medium of exchange has anywhere else that I have ever known or heard of. You have made it a power and a virtue and you have made the lack of it despicable and somehow even criminal. You measure men by money and you calibrate success with money and you almost worship money.”

Even Parker’s obligations are the same as our own—the only way to solve a problem of this caliber is by first drawing attention to it. We are so easily lulled into complacency if someone pats us on the back and tells us to look the other way, something which the banks and various politicians have been accused of doing. Parker Graves draws attention to his dilemma with a physical demonstration, perhaps one a little too easy; in reality, it’s much harder to bring about permanent change, as Occupy Wall Street has, perhaps, proven to us. In any case, I certainly appreciate a villain whose stance makes you question your own values.

One thing that stood out to me in this book was the numerous references to Parker’s preoccupation with needing a drink. Every couple of pages he’d lament that he could use a drink—the novel even starts with him stumbling home after driving himself there intoxicated (ah, the sixties). It got to a point where I wondered if the book would go in another direction—that it would be revealed that our narrator really was insane, and the invasion plan was all in his alcohol-fueled brain—but it didn’t turn out that way. I guess we were meant to take Parker’s rampant alcoholism as an affectation of his character or simply a product of the times, because—though distracting—it never amounted to much.

The plot is ludicrous and nonsensical, and it provides nothing in the order of gender equality (though Simak would probably like to think his passive misogyny is a complement to my sex) but They Walked Like Men still proves why I love these romps in science fiction’s halcyon days. It is the third alien invasion tale of Simak’s I’ve read and I look forward to seeing how the fourth plays out.

Harold and Kumar's Mom Dies of Cancer

Puff

By Bob Flaherty
p. 2005
 

Puff is one of those books where nothing happens and everything happens. Set throughout the sixties and seventies in South Boston, Puff is the story of two twenty-something brothers, John and “Gully” Gullivan, as they brave a blizzard to snag a coveted bag of weed and keep getting sidetracked by side missions, accidents, and reunions of all sorts.

Flaherty’s first (and it appears only) novel is not a chronological story; interspersed with their ‘mission’ are multitudes of deviations down memory lane as our narrator John recalls events long past but certainly not forgotten, which have guided him through his 23 years and led him to where he is at present. It is an effective technique when fleshing out characters because it draws out the story and makes interjections when relevant instead of relying on clumsy exposition dumps at the start. Puff already reads like an autobiography; the interplay of old anecdotes and new adventures (as appropriately random as the flashbacks themselves) make Puff feel almost like a work of creative nonfiction. If it weren’t for a few series events and a lot of exaggerated humor, I would have no problem believing it was all lifted from Flaherty’s experiences.

John’s story is told mostly for laughs—and there are a lot to be head, especially for the nostalgic crowd—but there is an undercurrent of bittersweet sadness to the whole affair. The Gullivan clan’s matriarch is dying of cancer in the hospital the whole time, her passing coming just a few years after the untimely loss of their father, who suffered from heart problems. I found it a little unnerving that the boys would be so cavalier about fucking around when their mother is slowly wasting away in a nearby hospital, but then, I suppose I’ve never had to deal with the slow, debilitating death of a cancer-ridden loved one. Maybe I would try to avoid the inevitable too if I were in John and Gully’s position.

Death is nothing new to the Gullivan brothers. It is a strong recurring theme throughout the book, present in flashbacks and often dwelled upon by John. It’s rather fitting for one so surrounded by it, especially someone so wholly lacking in direction as John Gullivan. For that matter, it is appropriate that the character spends the entire novel wandering about from one errand to the next without conviction because it properly reflects the state of his life.

Some people may read Puff and see 200+ pages of two stoners driving around talking about the past, but it is more than that. It’s a story about reexamining one’s history and applying it to the present, about growing up when you least expect it, about finding a direction after wandering for so long. John may not have had the revelation himself but the reader can see the change in him.

I’m glad I picked up this novel from a friend years back, but it’s a little shameful it took me this long to pick it up because it’s really quite the quick read. Witty and laid back with mostly hijinx, but a few scenes with true heart and depth that will stick with you.

My only real complaint is the title. Unless I missed something, the only reason Puff is titled as such is to be an unsubtle play on words--a reference to the weed the boys are seeking while also being the name of their family pet, a vicious cat no one likes. If Puff--the cat--played an important role in Puff, the novel, then the title might be excusable, but he does not, and in fact, neither does the weed, really. It seems like something Flaherty thought was funny once and decided to work into the story. Maybe it was what sparked the rest of the novel and he wanted to pay it homage, but I feel like it should have had more to do with the rest of the novel if it was going to be the title.

Genocide by Dolphin

The Dolphins of Altair

By Margaret St. Clair
p. 1967

I will admit that St. Clair’s The Dolphins of Altair is a fantasy novel I picked up mostly out of novelty—the idea that super intelligent dolphins would join up with some hippies and free themselves from the tyranny of humanity was just too good to pass up. Just under 200 pages, the book was a quick read and, just like other fantasy novels of the 1960s that I’ve encountered, far more of an interesting case study than it was a layered, poignant, or well-written story. I am not going to spoiler-tag this one, because honestly no person in their right mind would seek out this book after reading this review.

Altair jumps right into the action, joining together in the very first chapter the legendary intelligent dolphins, or sea people as they call themselves, with a trio of humans who happen upon their psychic call. It is narrated by Amtor, a dolphin who considers himself a historian of his people. The humans are Madelaine, a young woman who loses her memory when the dolphins call out to her and acts as their primary vehicle for translation, Sven, a young man who hears the call accidentally, and Dr. Lawrence, Madelaine’s psychologist, who follows the girl out of curiosity when she goes to answer the call of the sea. He has the hardest time fitting in to this covenant he wasn’t necessarily invited to join, but he sticks around anyway to help the dolphins with their ultimate plan.

And what is that plan, you might ask? Well, it’s simple, really. Phase One: the sea people must free all the dolphins from human-run research labs; Phase Two: make sure humans never bother them again. No problem, right? Should be a cinch.

For whatever reason, the dolphins decide this must be done immediately, and in lieu of peaceful protests or sending in the animal rights activists or something else sane, if a bit mundane, our righteous heroes decide to steal a device that causes an earthquake—yes, an earthquake—to free all the sea people at once.

And they do just that.

But wait (!) there’s more! Despite numerous setbacks, including being hunted by the irate government for their pretty severe crimes against humanity (the details of which are glossed over) and betrayed by an ally, the dolphins and their loyal humans go ahead with Phase Two, which involves making another device called the ahln, to plant in the sea that melts the polar fucking ice caps. But only a little! At least, that’s the plan. The brilliant logical reasoning behind this idea is that by melting the polar ice caps gradually (just a smidge!), humanity will be too busy dealing with the repercussions (a nice gloss-over of worldwide devastation and death by drowning) to worry about the dolphins anymore.

And they do that, too. Actually, they fuck it up like the indecisive morons they are and melt the ice caps all at once, thus kickstarting an apocalypse, and they barely even feel bad about it.

Here is my problem with this story: the trio’s plan isn’t just extreme, it’s fucking overkill. Literally. I was ready to chalk all this up to the inclinations of the author, Margaret St. Clair, who I assumed to be a ‘Save the whales!/Damn the man!’-style hippie of the highest order (I was close; she is, however, an established Wiccan). I figure, all right, this woman clearly loves dolphins, so she wrote a love letter to them in the form of an anarchist what-if novel. This would have been acceptable if her main character (and the one the dolphins trusted and revered the most), Madelaine, had any sort of conviction whatsoever, any sort of drive to make things happen.

But she doesn’t. She just fucking sits there feeling bad for everyone and hemming and hawing over making the tough decisions. After being passively injured, she actually becomes less active, instead laying about like the damsel in distress she clearly is, until she’s needed to help the dolphins contact their spiritual leader or whatever, using Udra, a process of meditation which involves—you guessed it—more lying around.

For a lead heroine being written by a proud female author, there is no excuse for the vacuous hole where Madelaine’s personality should be. Though she is a 20-something woman, the book only refers to her as a girl, subtly stripping her of maturity and responsibility. Worse than that, she is actually stripped of every vestige of her personality when she loses her memory and wanders off, and when she recalls a bit of her former life, she doesn’t care. She is an instrument of the sea people now, here to do their bidding because that’s the only important thing in life. St. Clair makes it clear that “Madelaine” does not matter, insofar as calling her by various other names interchangably—Sosa, Moonlight, Madelaine—what does it matter?

And the dolphins are on the same field as the girl. They call the humans and implore them to help initiate change, then decline taking violent action, pretending like they love the humans they feel wiser and better than. Their personalities are equally interchangeable and not one of them stands out from the next. We are supposed to root for Madelaine and the sea people, I guess, because the writing straight up tells us we’re supposed to root for them, but when it comes to making the hard decisions—killing millions of one race to save another—Madelaine and the dolphins alike seem awfully comfortable from up on their high horses.

Sven is a bit more active but disappears for a majority of the novel when he is abducted by the ‘government’ only to reappear in a weird subplot that bears no relevance to the rest of the story so I won’t mention it here. It’s Dr. Lawrence who really makes all the tough decisions. He argues that humans are brutal beings who kill each other so wantonly that they deserve punishment, formulates the earthquake plan, then reneges and tattles to the government, leading to Sven’s capture, Madelaine’s injury and the slaughter of many dolphins. Inexplicably he comes back, begs for forgiveness, and helps Madelaine build the ahln, which would kill even more people than the earthquake. Despite being directly contrary to the prior fears that led to his betrayal, Dr. Lawrence again argues that humans deserve to die and goes against Madelaine/Dolphin wishes by stealing the ahln and setting it on full power, thus being the direct cause of the apocalypse. Distraught, he throws himself off a bridge before he can see the repercussions of his actions.

Conveniently, the sea people and the main couple take no part in this action, so we aren’t burdened with having to wonder whether the heroes did the right thing. The third man played the part of scapegoat and he paid for it with his life. If he was wrong or right, it doesn’t matter. Somehow, Madelaine still gets credit for saving the dolphins, which is total bullshit. Dr. Lawrence was the one with the conviction needed to make shit happen and he was vilified for it. I’d care about him more if he weren’t such a woefully inconsistent character... but even that is something the author couldn’t commit to.

I don’t want to drag Margaret St. Clair through the mud here. I’m sure she was a nice person and this book is hypothetical at best, but I can’t help but feel cheated. This was a story with true moral dilemmas... which the author made damn sure we wouldn’t have to feel too bad about. This mystical ocean tale just lacked serious depth.