Hey, everyone. "Moriarty" here with some Rumblings From The Lab.
God bless Frank Bascombe. Not only has he now turned in eleven of these columns for us here at AICN, but he keeps getting better and better at what it is he does. For example, check out the last title he reviews today. First concrete thing I've seen about that here at AICN. Nice one, Frank.
Now I just have to figure out who to hypnotize to get my hands on a reader's copy of that thing... PRONTO!!
The months just after the holidays can sometimes be a huge let down, and in the literary world it's no different. If you work for Enron, we'll I'm sorry, it's gonna be a let down no matter what. If you work in the publishing business, for a big or small house, tighten up your panties, because it's going to get a lot worse before it ever gets better. The big CEO's of the nations most respected book publishing giants are lying to their employees faster than you can say "bestseller". Anyone who believes the silky smooth bullshit that comes down off the mountain deserves what they get.
Just like the months after the holiday movie bonanza are usually where studio's dump there troubled flicks. Sometimes publishers dump books into the months before spring. The awards have all been given out. Jonathan Franzen has a book of essay's on its way, but no Great American Novel will hit the shelves in the next three months. We're still waiting on the Oscar nods, and I can't believe it's possible for Opie to actually have a shot at an Oscar. My God, when will the academy in their infinite wisdom ever wake up, stop the masturbatory love fest that goes on during the Oscar race and give Wes Anderson an award. Can anyone explain this to me? While your waiting for your new supply of that Hollywood fruit drink to "loose ten pounds" over the weekend, or your just aching for the new John Grisham, (hint, it's a thriller, and you'll spend sometime with a lawyer), or perhaps your waiting on a new episode of "Beat the Geeks", do your self a favor. Turn off the television set. Get in your car, or get your bus fair out from between the cushions, and go to the library and get a book. As always, I firmly believe the best stories are at your fingertips, and all that lay between you and them, is your friendly local librarian. Until then…
IT'S NOT A SECRET IF I DON'T TELL ANYONE
THE DARK FIELDS by Alan Glynn
This one smokes. That's all I can really say. Seriously. Take one look at the package, the slick design, the heart attack colors, the mushroom, dope, acid trip gone right feel to the jacket, and you know this is gonna be good. Be warned, your gonna do some heavy cheering for Eddie Spinola before its all over, and maybe learn a thing or two. Cheering for a main character is nothing new, hell, we've been cheering for the underdog forever. Eddie is living on the fringe of a New York writer life. He's working for some second rate, at best, publishing house that could care less about him, and living in a neighborhood that never sleeps, the lower east side. I think I've actually walked by Eddie's apartment on 10th street and 1st avenue. Eddie is writing a book that you'll actually want to read, Turning On: From Haight Ashbury to Silicon Valley which is about the design links between the sixties and the nineties, just one book in a series about the twentieth century. Making no progress on this book he's been asked to write, drinking himself to sleep every night, filling the ashtray, and generally waiting for it all to end. Eddie and his pot gut never really leave the apartment to get more than beer and cigarettes. The one time he does leave, he runs into his ex-brother in law. Vernon Gant is someone who Eddie used to buy coke from, and he and Vernon's sister, Eddie's wife, used to snort it in Hoover like fashion. Vernon looks Eddie over, once, and knows immediately that he's got to help him out. Pale, smoking, and bloated Eddie follows. Vernon promptly offers Eddie a little white pill, Eddie doesn't seem that interested, but Vernon nearly begs him to take it, promising him it will change his life, making him feel one thousand percent better. Guess what, it does. Surprised? No one is more surprised than Eddie. MDT-48 is a designer drug, a bonafide smart drug. I have friends, who I swear, would line up for this, empty their bank accounts to keep it in stock. After our hero takes the first dose, he turns into a triple smart, highly tuned perceptive smart guy. Really. He goes home, organizes his shit hole, gets the place spotless, everything in its place. And then sits down does six hours of research for his introduction on his book and writes 3,500 hundred words, corrects it reads it over, and knows right away that it's brilliant. He immediately calls Vernon. We'll Vernon charges $500 a pill, and supplies are limited. Meeting Vernon at his Upper East Side high rise, Eddie's there for only a few minutes before Vernon promptly takes the dirt nap. Cops on the way, Eddie rummages through the apartment, finds the stash of MDT-48 and hides it. Po-lice show up, all tough and curious, Eddie chills out, and before you know it he's home, finishing the book, losing weight, doing 200 sit-ups a morning, and taking three doses of this mystery drug a day. Eddie wants one thing in life, to make a mother hump'n dime and a nickel before it's all over. So where else can a guy strike it rich but on the Stock Market. This drug basically opens up Eddie's mind, does some serious house cleaning, and makes him very receptive to many things, and gives him the ability to retain a HUGE amount of information, and recall it at the snap of his fingers. From here, well, Eddie gets everything, and you know what, you sort of envy him, but cheer for him all the same. As an old friend once told me, too much of one thing is a bad thing. Watching the wheels come off for Eddie is painful. There are some sections of this book that are truly inspired; others just move the story along. Is this an original idea? Probably not. Is Alan Glynn good at telling this story, with competent writing ability? Yes, yes, yes, and yes. One great thing about this book, you can buy it right now, and the other rare thing about this book, it's worth the cover price.
THE DISAPPEARING BODY by David Grand
"Here's you, and here's Atlantic City, and in between are about two dozen pool halls, what? You need an Indian guide and road map?" Eddie Felson - The Color of Money
David Grand can be considered the first real postmodern writer of the late nineties early oh-oh's. If postmodern is a reaction to modernism, then Grand is a reaction to what's not happening in the literary world. His first novel, the highly thought provoking, sickly entertaining Louse was an underground bestseller. Meaning; among the very few who read it, in the underground, it was a bestseller. Plus it's hardcover has a kick ass jacket photo. If you want to find out the book Jim Carrey should be reading for his movie research on Howard Hughes, it's Louse, not The World According to Howard Hughes by Nancy Drew, which is probably the one he's thumbing through at this writing. Sadly, you'll need a lot more than a road map to figure out his latest novel of riches, the ultimately rewarding, but extremely challenging The Disappearing Body. I won't lie to you; this book is a tough, raw, nerve jangling adventure into the alternate underbelly of 1930's New York City. This isn't Martin Scorsese's New York; it's more like Weege's. Filled with subtly beautiful women, the hard-nosed detectives, grizzled tough guys, croked newspapermen, and unfortunate losers who no matter how hard they try can't get a break. This book covers the infancy of the industrial revolution, the red scare, and way before McCarthy got his Cracker Jack badge, and a mild explanation of modern art, via the Russian outback. What Grand attempts and actually pulls off, in this wild spectrum masterpiece he actually gives the reader the chance to try to put the puzzle together with out the lid of the box the puzzle came in. Victor Ribe is the only character that really lives to see the end of this tale, and the only one you'll really need to pay close attention to. He's the guy who comes to town, or the stranger so to speak. Grand involves a huge ensemble of middle men, and down on there luck moochers to solve the great mystery that is at the heart of The Disappearing Body. There is one section of this novel that speaks directly to the confused and bewildered, not only reading the book, but actually to those taking part in the story. Grand is the grand master of multitasking, the top juggler, and can actually pull the rabbit out of the hat. With any luck, in a few weeks, you'll have the chance to work through the fantastic catacomb of tricks, solve the complex equations that David Grand has set up for all to see. Pay attention, you just might miss it if you don't. But if you're a fan of Louse, you already know all this.
LULLABY by Chuck Palahniuk
Here it is. Believe it if you can. The return of Chuck. Everyone and there brother got a hold of Choke, and even lowly reviewers like myself got it, almost got it too much. It wasn't about what was happening in Chuck's world, Choke was about what he wanted to happen. And like I originally said, it worked only half of the time. An arresting cover, the king of post modern, not unlike David Grand and Louse, but to compare David Grand to Chuck is unfair to Grand. Post modern is where the comparison stops. I will go out on a limb, hell, I don't need to do that; Chuck Palahniuk is by far one of the most brilliant writers working today, anywhere. Choke sadly brought him to the New York Times bestseller list. I think you'll all agree that when Fight Club and Survivor came out, it was so nice to have him to ourselves, wasn't it? Fight Club for me, was a moment when I looked up from the book, and thought, "this is it, this is what I've been waiting to read all my life,". Nothing even comes close to the level Chuck writes on. He's traveling on a parallel plain, that as we all know will never converge with the rest of what's going on in the book world. If Survivor taught me how to get blood out of satin sheets, and Fight Club showed us what it's like to be a late twenty something's struggling to breath under the corporate structure that is more like a whore house. Then Lullaby teaches us what it's like to have all the powers of control at your fingertips, and the ability to dispense it at will. At its core, Lullaby is about a children's tale that kills. That's right, anyone who reads it to someone, that someone dies. Wielding this power is a coven of witches, that's right, a coven. When I first read this, I chaffed at the thought of a coven. But leave it to Chuck, this is a modern coven. Thank God. But like his previous novels, Chuck teaches the reader a thing or two about bucking the system, or fucking the system as it were in Choke, and with this poem he bucks it hard. But it's the list of instructions he employees his characters with that really stick in your heart. For instance, oh wait, the book at the center of this is called Poems and Rhymes From Around the World. Carl Streator, the unsexed main character, the center of all that is gravitous in this tale, is a loather of noise, and it goes like this:
The muffled thunder of dialogue comes through the walls, then a chorus of laughter. Then more thunder. Most of the laugh tracks on television were recorded in the early 1950's. These days most of the people you hear laughing are dead. The stomp and stomp and stomp of a drum comes down through the ceiling. The rhythm changes. Maybe the beat crowds together, faster, or it spreads out, slower, but it doesn't stop. Up through the floor, someone's barking the words to a song. These people who need their televisions or stereo or radio playing all the time. These people so scared of silence. These are my neighbors. These sound-aholics. These quiet-aphobics.
Carl is not unlike anyone you know, he is trying to get a moment of silence. Really that's all. Meanwhile he's reporting on a series of crib deaths, and that's when he discovers the aforementioned book for kids. And stumbles upon a real estate agent who's using it to her benefit, financial and personal. She's actually been hired to dispense her this nasty poem. Words that kill. That's what Chuck wants you to know about this time around. The power of words. This book could not come at a better time. Along the way there is another cautionary character. One that advises the reader, reminding you that corporate American has gotten out of hand, way out of hand. Oyster is the infant terrible, riding shotgun with the realtor, dispensing back seat justice by placing ads in newspapers asking readers at large questions like:
The Body copy says; "Have you contracted a treatment - resistant form of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome after eating at this establishment? Has this food-borne virus left you unable to work and live a normal life? If so, please call the following number to be part of a class action lawsuit"
Or:
The ad says: "Have you suffered hair loss and/or discomfort from crab lice after coming in contact with airline upholstery, pillows or blankets? If so, please call the following number to be a part of a class action lawsuit"
This kind of planning, this sort of scheming is what's missing in today's world. Who plans this far out shit? Chuck does. Who carried it out? Tyler Durden, and his band of monkeys. Oyster waits until the establishment he's targeted caves in and pays him to pull the ad. He even answers his cell phone with a law firm secretary response. It's great. It's better than great. It's edible, this story is juicy, delightful, funny, wicked, smart, silly, and empowers Carl with the unstoppable ability to say the poem to him self, and watch people all around him die. He hears a radio DJ yammer on and on about self-help guru, very much like Dr. Laura, and Carl just thinks the poem and the radio goes silent. I don't want to spoil the beauty of this fantastic book; I've given away enough already. With Lullaby, Chuck Palahniuk delivers what can only be described as a complete critical assessment, cut down, body slam of the banality of modern critical thought. With this novel, he tears everyone a new one, and smiles while doing it. If you were in New York City last summer, and saw Chuck at Barnes & Noble, like I did, then you'll understand what I'm talking about. 500 people stood around while he read in bare feet, from Choke. People foam at the mouth for his stuff; they faint at the sound of his voice. I kid you not. This book confirms what I already knew, in life, less than a handful of people this amazing and talented come along with the ability to catch lighting in a bottle, Chuck is one of them. Or should I say, one of us.
Oh, man... I'm flying to New York and searching someone's office this weekend. It's not even funny how much I want to read that thing.
Thanks again, Frank. You rule.
"Moriarty" out.
