Monday, May 19, 2014
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Pete's Review of Bird Box by Josh Malerman
Here is what happens when there's something outside so indescribably terrifying that simply laying your eyes on it -- or them -- causes insanity, suicide, homicide, or a mixture of all. You stay inside. And not only do you stay inside, you board up the windows too. One must be blindfolded when outside excursions are completely necessary, or pay the horrible cost.
In Josh Malerman's debut novel, Malorie is living alone with her sister when internet reports first surface about weird suicidal/homicidal happenings in Russia. Trouble is, these happenings are spreading and spreading fast. And, what timing, Malorie has just found out she's pregnant. The situation deteriorates from there to the point where her up-state parents no longer answer the phone. Are they dead? And later she calls to her sister in the other room and there is no answer. She walks down the hall to the bathroom, calling. She sees...
Malorie is in survival mode by this point. Everybody is. The lucky ones stumble into homes where other survivors have gathered. This novel tells the story of one such home and its random occupants. Some of them use unbelievable cunning in attempts to understand and confront what's happening, while others devolve into fighting among themselves for whatever scraps remain.
Certain questions arise. If you're already insane, do you have immunity from this thing, these creatures, or whatever they are? Are animals and pets impacted? What if it's all just a mass-hysteria brought on by a collective fear? What if you believe your mind superior to what's out there? Don't believe it? Open the door and lower your blindfold...if you dare.
I'm a slow reader but burned through this one fast. If I set a goal to read two chapters, I'd read four. If I vowed to stop reading at midnight, I'd continue on until two. I found the book frightening, suspenseful, thought-provoking, and in a weird way a lot of fun. I couldn't believe how cool the ending was, and for a long time after that I was simply in awe.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Monday, May 12, 2014
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Pete has a new book review for you...
I'm a big fan of Berlin Stories by Christopher Isherwood, which later became a stage musical and eventually the film Cabaret. Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932, a novel by Francine Prose, takes place in roughly the same era but different city. The depression lingers, the Germans are threatening, but at the Chameleon Club you can be whatever you want to be. A budding photographer takes the picture of a sultry woman with her lesbian lover who dresses as a man in a tuxedo. But who are these women really, and what becomes of them when Paris becomes occupied by the Germans in 1940?
The story is told from several points of view including the photographer's letters home, from a struggling American writer (think Henry Miller), from a biographer interested in the story of Lou Villars, the woman who wanted to dress as a man (not so easy in those days) but ended up as a tool for the Gestapo, and from a wealthy baroness, who married a homosexual automaker but is in love with the photographer who snapped the photo 'Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932' (or, by its real life name: Lesbian Couple at Le Monocle, 1932).
Not only was this is novel a joy to read, but it's also based on true events. Like me, you'll probably want to see who the real Lou was, and was that really Henry Miller sitting at a bar with Picasso? You'll no doubt want to learn about the photographer in question ( in real life, Brassai) and view the much discussed photographs. They're quite beautiful.
I so look forward to recommending this book. From the titular photograph, it's hard to have an opinion one way or another about Lou Villars. All she wanted to do was dress like a man. But maybe there was something else lurking in her heart, or maybe it's more likely that she had no heart at all.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Monday, May 5, 2014
Cupid: A Short Story by Pete Schulte
Cupid
by Pete Schulte
They lowered him into the ground, someone said a few words, and that was that. But I couldn’t concentrate on any of the proceedings as my mind wandered back to a story about this man, this man when he was alive. Oh, he was a live one all right.
Jobs back then didn’t have fancy titles such as Special Assistant Programmer II or Graphic Design Launch Profiler. I was hired by Mr. Ketchavarian to simply ‘help him with the things he needed help with.’ So I answered his phone, filed some papers, spiffed up the office, anything really, anything that helped. Mr. Ketchavarian was from a country I hadn’t heard of as I had then little interest in geography or culture. He didn’t care to talk about it either. If anyone pressed him about the old country, he would just tell them “What does it matter about any of that? I’m in this country now. Now is what matters.”
One of the ways I could assist him was with his English lessons. He went to night school once a week and made steady progress. His accent was thick though, and he had a difficult time picking up slang and some other words and expressions most of us took for granted. He’d practice with me either before class or the day after. Practice, was, well, interesting. As I‘m able to recall, our conversation went something like this. “You are a man liker,” he bluntly told me. “You like many men.”
“I’m a humanist,” I corrected him. “We like everybody.”
“But why do you like all these men?” he asked.
“Men and women. Humans. We believe in human potential. We believe we can live in a world without religion, live in a world with mutual respect for all.”
“That’s just stupid,” he spat. “Let me tell you, you don’t know your ass from your face. You have an ass, you have a face, but you know they have switched positions. That is what I believe. Yes, I do.”
“Mr. Ketchavarian, with all due respect, your only position is to insult mine. Now please, let’s get back to our lessons.”
“Yes, Frank, let us get back to our lessons. There is a word I would like you to define for me. Here, you can see I’ve written it down for you.”
“Oh, no. Sorry. I’m not reading that,” I told him.
“Oh yes you are, Frank. You will read this word to me and then you will define it. Otherwise, they will kick me out of this country.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Ketchavarian, you will not be kicked out of the country because of this word.”
“It’s true, they will kick me out. They are very strict these people. In that case, I won’t have a country and you won’t have a job. Now come now, Frank. Read this word to me. I depend on you.”
I couldn’t tell whether he was messing with me or not. He probably was, but what could I do? I needed the job and the job was, quite frankly, easy money. “Okay, Mr. Ketchavarian, I will read you this word. The word is: Dildo.”
“Dildo? Is that how you say it? That’s a funny thing to say, is it not?”
“Yes, it’s hilarious. Dildo.”
“You must tell me, Frank, what is this dildo?”
“Mr. Ketchavarian, we did this with the word shit last week.”
“Yes, I remember this shit you say. That’s so funny to me when you say it.”
“You’re doing this at my expense, to laugh at me, to make fun. I don’t think you’re interested in these lessons at all.”
“Frank, please. I must have a passing grade. You must tell me the definition of this word. It’s very important. Please.”
“A dildo is a substitute for a penis, Mr. Ketchavarian. I’m sure your teacher will be very impressed that you know this.”
“But why would you need a substitute. Why would you not use the real thing?”
“I don’t know. I suppose if the real thing isn’t working then you might need a substitute.”
“Tell me, Frank. Where is yours? Where is this dildo that you are keeping?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have one.”
“Are you telling me, Frank, that you left your dildo at home?”
“I’m telling you, Mr. Ketchavarian, that I don’t have one. Period.”
“If it’s in your car you can go get it. I very much wish to see this dildo that you are keeping.”
“Well, you can’t see it because it doesn’t exist. And I think you understand exactly what I’m saying to you.”
So we practiced saying dildo a few more times and then inserted the word into proper sentences. Our lesson devolved soon after and then appeared to be over. Mr. Ketchavarian snapped his notebook shut and looked me straight in the eye. “Tell me, Frank, your home is for you alone. Is that right to say? You go home and then you are alone, correct?”
“I do live alone. I am single if that’s what you mean.”
“This is sad to me, Frank. It’s sad to me that you have nobody.”
“It’s not a sad situation, Mr. Ketchavarian. I do have friends. I do go on dates sometimes. Not many.”
“Are you talking about these humanist men you cavort with?”
“I do not cavort with humanist men.”
He studied my face longer than I was comfortable with. I would have loved to get back to the English lessons, but could tell he wasn’t done with his probing yet. “Frank, I must ask you something that is very important.”
“Please don’t.”
“Frank, this is important. You must listen.”
“Okay, I‘m listening.”
“Have you now, Frank, or have you ever, been a fan of this disco music?”
“Disco music? Are you kidding me? That‘s important for you to know?”
“It’s very important, Frank. I must know this about you.”
“No, Mr. Ketchavarian, I do not like disco music.”
“But you did before, right? You were a disco king?”
“I was not a disco king! What the hell? I rocked hard. Ask anybody from my high school.”
“Well, you know, we all tell ourselves lies.”
“I’m not lying, Mr. Ketchavarian. I do not like disco. I never have.”
“Frank, please. It would help me…for my lessons…if you would please read out loud a sentence that I have written especially for you. I will get my tape machine.”
I silently read his sentence while he prepared his tape machine. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said to him. “You’re demented.”
“Frank, you must read this out loud so I can practice later with the tape machine. You must, please.”
“Fine, I’ll read it. I don’t care anymore. I love disco music. I love to shake my booty. I am, Frank, the disco king of all! And what about dildo? Don’t you want to hear that, too? Dildo! Dildo! Dildo!”
“No, I just wanted to hear the disco part.”
The office door opened just as Mr. Ketchavarian turned off his tape machine. Are you ever prepared when the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen enters a room and stands just five feet in front of your face? This after proclaiming myself disco king of all. No, I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I heard Mr. Ketchavarian greeting his niece, Ekaterina, and then in a fog speaking to me. “You know Ekaterina loves this disco music. It is disco, disco, disco, all night long. And what’s funny is that Frank here was just telling me how much love he has for this disco. Isn‘t that right, Frank?”
Ekaterina’s eyes lit up like fireworks. And now I believe in love at first sight. I truly believe it. I believe! I believe!
“Yes,” I said, my eyes locked on Ekaterina. “I do love disco...with all my heart. In fact, we even have it on tape. Don’t we, Mr. Ketchavarian?”
“That is correct, Frank. The tape does not tell a lie. And now it seems to me two disco lovers should not be in a stuffy office. You should be taking over the disco floor, Frank!”
With that he took out a Red Lobster gift certificate and placed it on my palm. I took Ekaterina out then, and it’s many years later and she’s still with me now. In fact, she’s holding my hand as we walk across the damp cemetery grass. That‘s just one story I’ve told you about our uncle, Mikhal Ketchavarian, our Cupid and my friend. He will be missed.
The end.
Jobs back then didn’t have fancy titles such as Special Assistant Programmer II or Graphic Design Launch Profiler. I was hired by Mr. Ketchavarian to simply ‘help him with the things he needed help with.’ So I answered his phone, filed some papers, spiffed up the office, anything really, anything that helped. Mr. Ketchavarian was from a country I hadn’t heard of as I had then little interest in geography or culture. He didn’t care to talk about it either. If anyone pressed him about the old country, he would just tell them “What does it matter about any of that? I’m in this country now. Now is what matters.”
One of the ways I could assist him was with his English lessons. He went to night school once a week and made steady progress. His accent was thick though, and he had a difficult time picking up slang and some other words and expressions most of us took for granted. He’d practice with me either before class or the day after. Practice, was, well, interesting. As I‘m able to recall, our conversation went something like this. “You are a man liker,” he bluntly told me. “You like many men.”
“I’m a humanist,” I corrected him. “We like everybody.”
“But why do you like all these men?” he asked.
“Men and women. Humans. We believe in human potential. We believe we can live in a world without religion, live in a world with mutual respect for all.”
“That’s just stupid,” he spat. “Let me tell you, you don’t know your ass from your face. You have an ass, you have a face, but you know they have switched positions. That is what I believe. Yes, I do.”
“Mr. Ketchavarian, with all due respect, your only position is to insult mine. Now please, let’s get back to our lessons.”
“Yes, Frank, let us get back to our lessons. There is a word I would like you to define for me. Here, you can see I’ve written it down for you.”
“Oh, no. Sorry. I’m not reading that,” I told him.
“Oh yes you are, Frank. You will read this word to me and then you will define it. Otherwise, they will kick me out of this country.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Ketchavarian, you will not be kicked out of the country because of this word.”
“It’s true, they will kick me out. They are very strict these people. In that case, I won’t have a country and you won’t have a job. Now come now, Frank. Read this word to me. I depend on you.”
I couldn’t tell whether he was messing with me or not. He probably was, but what could I do? I needed the job and the job was, quite frankly, easy money. “Okay, Mr. Ketchavarian, I will read you this word. The word is: Dildo.”
“Dildo? Is that how you say it? That’s a funny thing to say, is it not?”
“Yes, it’s hilarious. Dildo.”
“You must tell me, Frank, what is this dildo?”
“Mr. Ketchavarian, we did this with the word shit last week.”
“Yes, I remember this shit you say. That’s so funny to me when you say it.”
“You’re doing this at my expense, to laugh at me, to make fun. I don’t think you’re interested in these lessons at all.”
“Frank, please. I must have a passing grade. You must tell me the definition of this word. It’s very important. Please.”
“A dildo is a substitute for a penis, Mr. Ketchavarian. I’m sure your teacher will be very impressed that you know this.”
“But why would you need a substitute. Why would you not use the real thing?”
“I don’t know. I suppose if the real thing isn’t working then you might need a substitute.”
“Tell me, Frank. Where is yours? Where is this dildo that you are keeping?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have one.”
“Are you telling me, Frank, that you left your dildo at home?”
“I’m telling you, Mr. Ketchavarian, that I don’t have one. Period.”
“If it’s in your car you can go get it. I very much wish to see this dildo that you are keeping.”
“Well, you can’t see it because it doesn’t exist. And I think you understand exactly what I’m saying to you.”
So we practiced saying dildo a few more times and then inserted the word into proper sentences. Our lesson devolved soon after and then appeared to be over. Mr. Ketchavarian snapped his notebook shut and looked me straight in the eye. “Tell me, Frank, your home is for you alone. Is that right to say? You go home and then you are alone, correct?”
“I do live alone. I am single if that’s what you mean.”
“This is sad to me, Frank. It’s sad to me that you have nobody.”
“It’s not a sad situation, Mr. Ketchavarian. I do have friends. I do go on dates sometimes. Not many.”
“Are you talking about these humanist men you cavort with?”
“I do not cavort with humanist men.”
He studied my face longer than I was comfortable with. I would have loved to get back to the English lessons, but could tell he wasn’t done with his probing yet. “Frank, I must ask you something that is very important.”
“Please don’t.”
“Frank, this is important. You must listen.”
“Okay, I‘m listening.”
“Have you now, Frank, or have you ever, been a fan of this disco music?”
“Disco music? Are you kidding me? That‘s important for you to know?”
“It’s very important, Frank. I must know this about you.”
“No, Mr. Ketchavarian, I do not like disco music.”
“But you did before, right? You were a disco king?”
“I was not a disco king! What the hell? I rocked hard. Ask anybody from my high school.”
“Well, you know, we all tell ourselves lies.”
“I’m not lying, Mr. Ketchavarian. I do not like disco. I never have.”
“Frank, please. It would help me…for my lessons…if you would please read out loud a sentence that I have written especially for you. I will get my tape machine.”
I silently read his sentence while he prepared his tape machine. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said to him. “You’re demented.”
“Frank, you must read this out loud so I can practice later with the tape machine. You must, please.”
“Fine, I’ll read it. I don’t care anymore. I love disco music. I love to shake my booty. I am, Frank, the disco king of all! And what about dildo? Don’t you want to hear that, too? Dildo! Dildo! Dildo!”
“No, I just wanted to hear the disco part.”
The office door opened just as Mr. Ketchavarian turned off his tape machine. Are you ever prepared when the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen enters a room and stands just five feet in front of your face? This after proclaiming myself disco king of all. No, I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I heard Mr. Ketchavarian greeting his niece, Ekaterina, and then in a fog speaking to me. “You know Ekaterina loves this disco music. It is disco, disco, disco, all night long. And what’s funny is that Frank here was just telling me how much love he has for this disco. Isn‘t that right, Frank?”
Ekaterina’s eyes lit up like fireworks. And now I believe in love at first sight. I truly believe it. I believe! I believe!
“Yes,” I said, my eyes locked on Ekaterina. “I do love disco...with all my heart. In fact, we even have it on tape. Don’t we, Mr. Ketchavarian?”
“That is correct, Frank. The tape does not tell a lie. And now it seems to me two disco lovers should not be in a stuffy office. You should be taking over the disco floor, Frank!”
With that he took out a Red Lobster gift certificate and placed it on my palm. I took Ekaterina out then, and it’s many years later and she’s still with me now. In fact, she’s holding my hand as we walk across the damp cemetery grass. That‘s just one story I’ve told you about our uncle, Mikhal Ketchavarian, our Cupid and my friend. He will be missed.
The end.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)