review – modern ranch living

In Modern Ranch Living, Mark Jude Poirier spends a great deal of time detailing the eccentricities of life in Tucson. It’s an entertaining read, as bright and sweeping as the Arizona sun’s perpetual blanket upon the desert. How quaint are the characters within, specifically a sixteen year old exercise-obsessed and grammatically challenged Kendra Lumm, along with her awkwardly inanimate neighbor Merv, Splash World employee extraordinaire who lives with mother…at the age of thirty. How amusing it is to behold Kendra’s incessant indignation toward the unfit and uneducated in the ways of proper weightlifting and dietary habits as well as Merv’s altruism in adjusting the catheters of certain Splash World patrons who need that extra bit of customer support.

One can undoubtedly progress through Modern Ranch Living without much of a care as to the result of the novel’s plot. Roughly, it concerns the whereabouts of a missing neighbor shared by Kendra and Merv; really though, it’s about how the characters find a release from the stagnation of the Arizona summer, as well as their own lives. As carefree as the atmosphere is, Poirier foreshadows almost too well, for towards the very end of the novel he destroys the whimsical and eccentric nature of the desert dwellers with a gut-check of uneasiness lingering well after the novel concludes. Modern Ranch Living deals with overcoming the disturbing behavior that while born out of weirdness and eccentricity, is nevertheless disturbing.

review – company of liars

Imagine yourself involuntarily surrounded by a small group of travelers, forced by circumstance to cut off all interaction with society. Rumors tell of cities overflowing with corpses, and no one knows the cause nor the symptoms until it’s too late. A grand pestilence has infected the ports, and the only safe direction is inland and ever north. Such is the historically fictitious medieval mystery Company of Liars by Karen Maitland.

Maitland takes her fascination of the medieval period and constructs a very convincing and entertaining story around the occurrence of the Black Plague. While citizens are dropping like flies from port to port and across the countryside, Maitland’s company of nine is forced to interact and eventually divulge their secrets, stories and lies in a wayward attempt at survival, claiming each one by one. The pestilence serves not only as the driving force behind the story, but also the invisible element highlighting just how “interesting” the times were to live in during that period. Ironically, her interpretation of Medieval England is surprisingly similar, though a bit more lively (especially in dialogue), to other apocalyptic voices such as McCarthy’s The Road. Maitland skillfully illuminates a culture of indulgences, a preponderance of predestination, Jewish scapegoating, hypocrisy and the human pathos of a medieval mindset which is not so historically distant from ours.

Vivid description is Maitland’s major strength throughout the story. Not only does she deliver a magical element to the company’s progression, she also knows how to tell a story within a story. Each character’s secrets are deftly divulged as the story flows, until the final pages whereupon the reader won’t reach an unexpected twist as much as a cathartic resolution. The story of the camelot is an impressive and engaging read.

review – faces in the fire

Faces in the Fire is a quick and intriguing read in which T.L. Hines very deftly conveys his sense of “noire bizarre” around a curious set of characters, bottom-feeders he stresses, in a nonlinear progression. The characters, a truck driver, an email spammer, tattoo artist and hit man are equally as disparate as the circumstances around which they they cross paths; phantom catfish, haunted shoes, mystical tattoo ink, and a mysterious phone number all contribute to the progression of each character’s interconnected lives.

Hines doesn’t quite offer enough noire to the level out the bizarre. True, it’s a dark and suspenseful enough story but the characters, possessing a sense of anxious desperation, come off as more emotionally exhausted than perhaps darkly humorous or energized. Particularly memorable, though, is Hines’ characterization of Corrine the spammer; he delicately describes a profession and person not normally considered worthy of anything but detest. Hines uses an interesting metaphor of representing the characters’ movement as that of sharks, creatures that can never move backward, but rather only forward in pursuit of their catharsis from years of missed opportunity.

Faces in the Fire is a mysterious and entertaining work which makes the reader think long after the read is finished. Which is, I think, the sign of a well-crafted book.

review – breath

What Tim Winton does very well in his novel Breath is his convey his ability to describe the helpless suffocation of being poleaxed, not only by the unforgiving western Australian surf but also by the fleeting acquaintances who enter our lives and turn them upside down. Yes, Winton assuredly hints, we will thereby grow into better surfers and more complete human beings, but only after being thoroughly dashed and mangled against life’s currents, gasping for some sense of stability.

Pikelet is nary a teenager before becoming introduced to the world of surfing along the lonely Western Australian coastline.  Winton retraces Pikelet’s growth with his friend Loonie as they compete for the “wisdom” of the cryptic surfing master Sando. It’s a story that not only deals with the typical coming-of-age themes, it’s a story that deals with the concept of fear and the nature of accomplishment, both in and out of the ocean. It’s about finding and acknowledging that invisible line across which one will find themselves flailing helplessly when in search for the next rip-current of reality.  Moreover, it’s about our tendency to use and abuse our so-called friends in the process, and the sacrifices we make along the way (school, family, etc.). Specifically, the tension between Pikelet and Loonie is unnervingly palpable; not necessarily sinister, but dangerous nonetheless.

Breath is a concise yet moving novel that touches upon multiple facets of Australian and surfing culture. Winton writes in a style that’s similarly sparse to McCarthy, but flows well in clarity.  One complication of the work is that I feel he lingers a little too long on Pikelet’s relationship with Eva, Sando’s wife.  Though too much is left unsaid between the two, Winton dwells on several of Eva’s proclivities which could comprise a separate novella.  Otherwise, Breath is a sad, thoughtful yet worthwhile read.

review – other electricities

For those wishing to visit the Keweenaw Peninsula, I would suggest reading Ander Monson’s short but dense Other Electricities.  It is a complex yet fascinating collection of stories or vignettes composing the gestalt of  Michigan’s UP.  Sometimes direct, sometimes poetic, though always ethereal, Other Electricities deals with the hardness of living in a place as cold, bleak, and beautiful as upper Michigan.  Monson expertly expresses the weirdness and hardship through a formidable cast of characters which, while representing the whole of a small community, actually resembles that of a family.

It is a place where the only guarantee is that every winter at least one snowmobile rider will succumb to the ice, where a father, perched in his attic will become obsessed with speaking code into his radio throughout the night. A place where an abandoned schoolbus forms a hideout for a disaffected teenager, taking his confusion out on stray cats.  Where a weary snowplow worker reminisces over uncles dying in saunas and cousins holding up banks in the heart of winter, looking forward to nothing more than her stretch of the road. Where a schoolteacher is helpless to watch both the demolition of her school and her students.

Other Electricities is about a community of people and what they do to survive in an unacommodating environment.  It’s about the often unfortunate interconnectedness of their lives told from a stream-of-consciouness point of view.  Beautifully written and imagined, it’s an incredibly deep work, ominous like the lake surroundng the region it so coldly affects.

review – officer friendly and other stories

One might surmise that after reading Lewis Robinson’s collection of short stories entitled Officer Friendly and Other Stories, his setting would most invariably be located in the Pacific Northwest, perhaps in Alaska.  Though no less intriguing than the storylines from the shows Twin Peaks or even Northern Exposure,  the content of Robinson’s stories actually take place in the surprisingly curious state of Maine.

Robinson’s collection is an interesting insight just beyond the seemingly perpetual thaw of Maine, not only into local hunting or hockey cultures, but of the ever changing relationships formed in the snow, along the coast and within the forest.  Often the stories deal with an emergence into adulthood, but more so the rites of passages faced by many in Maine, whatever their ages.

The stories themselves range from the creepy to the serenely cathartic, though like the weather, they’re always in a state of flux hovering just around the thaw.  Take for example, the stories The Diver, The Toast, and Ride ; both are increasingly unsettling to say the least, as they introduce to the reader the unfamiliar eccentricities of being foreign to the Northeast.  Puckheads, Seeing the World and Fighting at Night, on the other hand, deliver a sense of fulfillment no matter what was sacrificed from each character.

One captivating attribute of the book is that as a whole, time is not necessarily linear.  The setting can resemble the era of F. Scott Fitzgerald or perhaps that of last March.  Whether duck hunting with one’s father, evading a policeman in the snow, preparing to fight someone named Brick Chickisaw, or leaving home to fish for urchin on a whim, Robinson evokes a sense of wonder and exhilaration regardless of what era he writes.

review – lost on planet china

J. Maarten Troost is a curious sort of traveler. Willing to endure the various waterborne intestinal afflictions encountered during his stay in the South Pacific, he’s not a typical tourist. So what better place to continue his exploits than in, say, China?  Specifically, his curiosity, like that of many, is to discern just exactly what the Chinese context is.  His latest book, Lost on Planet China, intriguingly relays his intrepid dispatches.

It is a wonderfully gonzo experience, one that readers may come away thinking how glad they are that someone other than themselves took the time to do this.  For readers will encounter, through Troost’s initial perceptions, that China is the preeminently overpopulated & polluted, tightly controlled yet super-industrialized nation in the world today.  That being said, all your perceptions of China are still wrong, because China is different.  It is the most complex, contradictory, and rapidly changing country in the world.  And because of this, it is impossible to gauge the Chinese experience from a Western perspective.

Troost surrenders himself to a China left un-traveled by most laowais (foreigners).  Some of his more curious destinations include the windy and dusty streets of Beijing (the Gobi is subtly encroaching), stumbling upon an endangered species black market in Guangzhou (incidentally where SARS is rumored to start), to the seemingly separate kingdoms of Shanghai, Hong Kong & Macau, to deathly day hikes at the Tiger Leaping Gorge, hearing karaoke in a state-sponsored Shangri-La, the frighteningly alien plateau of Tibet, and the frozen northern borders with Russia and North Korea.

Despite Troost’s unavoidable preoccupations with the crowds, unhealthy air and the ever-present Communist grip, his observations of China really point to the country as being otherworldly.  And despite there being so many diverse provinces and minorities adding to his inability to fully communicate, despite the harsh exertion of the ever-present big brother, Troost does discover the human connection, whether exchanging smiles with an old farmer on a crowded midnight train or being happily fed by a street vendor in Xi’an’s Muslim Quarter.

So as Troost’s Chinese experience starts to reach its conclusion, the reader may acknowledge in his writing a sense of fulfillment, perhaps harmony, as his sojourn winds down in the cold northern wilds of Harbin.  Despite the temperature, he feels the warmth in his visit to the local Siberian Tiger preserve; literally fishing for tigers with live chickens, his Chinese context slowly blooms upon a fascinating chance encounter within the North Korean neutral zone.  Everything, as the saying goes, is not only relative but foreign. Excellent read.

new music – middle cyclone

Neko Case’s new album Middle Cyclone, is well titled.  A force of nature, it’s a commanding collection of songs not only showcasing the beauty and strength of her voice, but it’s also an intelligently conceived expression of a bold though suppressed anger of the overlooked feminine psyche.  More overtly, the album is a warning not to overlook the force of mother nature herself; in the closing thirty minutes Case deliberately bends our ears toward the night music of the marsh, the crying of crickets and frogs.  But more than that,  Case alludes to the theme of the feminine being taken for granted, and the resulting cyclone in wait.

Be forewarned, the first half of the record starts with the “tiniest sparks” and the “tenderest sound”, a lovely beginning to the showcase, as it were.  Once the listener reaches “I’m an Animal”, however, the cyclone becomes manifest, a darkening crescendo of turbulence.  With all songs are fairly short and predictably impressive, the absolute masterpiece for me is the longer “Prison Girls”; it’s a funeral dirge for those women eternally unimpressed, who’ve “traded more for cigarettes than I’ve managed to express”.

Middle Cyclone is an hugely solid album with incredible accompaniment.  The sound is awash with the drums, upright bass, piano, and guitars from eternal alt-country ambassadors Howe Gelb, Calexico, and M. Ward.  Case’s own band is impeccable as well, not only highlighting her voice but surrounding it with a fullness that nearly suffocating.  As usual, the lyrics are as haunting as in any prior Neko Case release, too.  Standing equal with Fox Confessor, Middle Cyclone is yet another jewel in Case’s crown.

review – the graveyard book

Reading works of Neil Gaiman, I’ve come to notice several intricacies in his writing that are admirable.  The first of which is that he seems to resist well the temptation to write any sequels to his works (other than the Sandman, of course).  Yes, some of his characters occasionally recur in his short works of fiction from time to time, but merely as a distant flash or strike of lightning. Some books are best when they stand alone.

A second observation could be that Gaiman’s knack for a good story hinges largely on how much he can keep you guessing, in the dark, as it were, for more detail about his characters and settings.  As his stories unfold, there is always left a nagging sense of wonder about what he has deliberately left un-described, resting in the shadows, taking form within the reader’s sense of wonder.

Such is the case with The Graveyard Book.  Admittedly inspired from Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book, this story concerns the life of a young orphan, Nobody Owens, as he matures in the graveyard that is his home.  It is here that he finds family, knowledge, and ironically, a bit of shelter from the cruel living world beyond the locked gates of the cemetery.

Though considered a work of juvenile literature, The Graveyard Book is doubtless a cheeky, though spine-chilling, work for all readers. It is Gaiman’s puzzle for the reader to deduce which environment, that of the living or the dead, is most cruel and dangerous. More often than not, the choice is most eerily inconclusive.

At the very least, this is a wickedly and expertly told story; readers may wonder what life, or perhaps the lack of it, would be like on the dustier side of a ghoul-gate, compared to a chance meeting with an  “Every Man Jack” on a cold, pitch-dark and misty street corner.  At its best, The Graveyard Book is that plus more: growing up, the thrill of adventure, as well as living death, or perhaps even life, to the fullest.

review – indian killer

Understanding Sherman Alexie is a little complicated, a little conflicting. Listen to him speak and he’ll stress that he’s just a typical guy, that there’s nothing really that mystical about being a Spokane Indian, or American Indian in general. Read one of his works, though, and you’ll find his magic oozing between each page.  Magic that’s woven with tenderness, rage, and humor that’s distinctly and unabashedly Indian.  Magically real and real magic.

Such was my hunch after reading Indian Killer. Much more than a mystery, Indian Killer is an epic construct of the alienated and isolated American Indian, perhaps even just the American experience. Alexie interweaves the interconnectedness of a disparate set of characters, Indian and otherwise, within the mist and cold of Seattle.

The main theme of the story deals with the advancement of John Smith, adopted Spokane Indian by a young non-native couple from Seattle into adulthood.  Smith is the symbol, the representation of alienation and marginalization, his actions set around a series of violent murders unhinging the city.  The greater story, however, concerns itself more around the other archetypes Alexie so often seems conflicted with: the whites who are Indians of the “Wannabe Tribe”, the academics who hijack Indian stories, the perpetually exploited and oppressed Indians, and the rednecks who take advantage when the right moment arises.

Alexie artfully interweaves each of these elements, while simultaneously providing beautifully rich detail of the setting.  His description of Seattle, though not forced, is intensely deliberate. The distinctive neighborhoods, the dank roadways, the huddled yet resilient groups of homeless, the bookstores, and the water that envelops, isolates each.

In short, Indian Killer is a masterpiece.  Sherman Alexie brings the Indian, but leaves the human imprint on the reader. It’s a tragedy that belongs within the realm of magical realism, though savoring the magic within his writing is supremely uplifting.