The Designer’s Drugs: Josh Olsen – Six Months

Medium: Literature

Stimulus: Josh Olsen ‒ Six Months



I half expected this book’s back cover declaration of returning to the womb every six months to refer to some transgressive trans-vaginal exploitation film scene.  The funny thing about my Rorschach reaction to the noirish packaging of Six Months is that the true meaning behind that line became the thing in this excellent book of one page stories which resonated with me most.  Instead of being a tale of sexy sadist slapstick, the title story tells of the author’s biannual returns to his hometown, which is also my hometown.

My fellow expatriate describes the sadness found in returning to La Crosse only to discover that nobody there has improved in any significant way.  The only changes to the author’s friends and family are those of age.  This saddens him in part because he can’t join in with their lack of success, that he can’t find the old camaraderie and fellowship within shared disappointments, that he can no longer be a lifer.  He’s become a visitor, and every six months he leaves the old world behind.

If I hadn’t felt exactly those things about exactly this place, “Six Months” may have simply been one more very good story.  But as I’m also filled with that same sort of self-nullified nostalgia for our hopeless hometown in western Wisconsin, the story picked up a really powerful, fascinating sense of despair.

Beyond this, Olsen fills the rest of this quick book with the sort of warped yarns that will appeal to a certain sort of man approaching middle age.  Most of these tales are presented as stories from the author’s life, anecdotes about his messed up life and his attempts to square being a respectable father and neighbor with the deviant malcontent (and husband) within.  The perv is certainly on display in the showroom, though these tales steer far from becoming grotesque and trans-vaginal, and this warped Ward Cleaver is most interesting when he’s not being a little hard on the beaver.

Two of my favorite stories are clever little bits of weird, the first involving the author attempting to meet the great Captain Lou Albano and the second being a musing over the creator of the classic Holocaust comic book memoir Maus and my beloved, forbidden Garbage Pail Kids.  Until here, I didn’t know that the creator of these vastly different cultural artifacts was the same person.

I’m also a fan of Olsen’s hateful reminiscences of his own father figures, as well as his adventure in shitting in a sandbox.

Much of what makes this mishmash of bizarre stories function is that there’s a humor and humanity to them that doesn’t wallow in the sordid details.  I suppose that the fact that each story is but one page long helps this.  I definitely want to read something longer from Josh Olsen, but this quick, fascinating burst of screwball tales is captivating enough on its own.

The Designer’s Drugs: Foxy Shazam/Conspirator


Medium: Album

Stimulus: Foxy Shazam ‒ Church of Rock & Roll

The way I’ve described this album in my head is that Church of Rock & Roll is what would happen if Mindless Self Indulgence decided to become the Darkness.  Sometimes Foxy Shazam throws out the Darkness milk jug and goes straight for the Queen cow’s tit, but as a whole this album isn’t grandiose or conceptual so much as it is a no bullshit, straight up amazing rock and roll album.

The only drawback to be found in this wailing tribute to the spirit of rock and roll is that Foxy seems to have chucked out most of its delightful weird in making a beeline for rock legitimacy.  In contrast with its previous works of high quirk, the strangest thing to be found here comes in Foxy’s merger of ten pound ball rock swagger and Sir Mix-a-lot’s love of big butts in “I Like It,” a track which is far and away the album’s best.  Yet for as much as Eric Sean Nally continues to wail like rock’s gospel diva (the track “Last Chance At Love” reads like triumphant Joan Jett Top 40), the words which accompany his frenetic tones and the music to surround it all is pretty straightforward even while it tears up the walls.  No complaints from Nally about hipsters calling him gay here.  Oh well.  It’s a more than fair tradeoff.


Medium: Album

Stimulus: Conspirator ‒ Unlocked – Live from the Georgia Theatre

“Park Ave,” the track which kicks off this collection of electronic instrumentals filtered through rock instrumentation, is kind of a false start.  As opposed to the rest of the album, which reads like a very workmanlike DJ set, this first song meanders and sways around, giving the impression that Conspirator is something of a jam band.  Nothing that follows sounds anything like that first track, but for some reason I couldn’t shake that jammy first impression.

To call Unlocked a serviceable performance is no insult, especially since Conspirator proves here that it’s a hell of a band.  There is a well-executed musical theme which runs throughout the set which makes a lot of its chapters sound quite similar both in sound and tempo.  Even Conspirator’s appropriation of Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall” fits the style, chugging away with so much of the usual march that the end result is much less cover than sample contorted to fit the overlying musical agenda.  In such a world, the final song, “Retrograde,” could have been notable for little more than bucking the formula and being a rock song with its own time signature.  Luckily, it’s also a really good track in its own right, a concise conclusion that answers the album’s spaced out opening by being both unique and connected with everything prior.

It’s probably true that had the music of Unlocked been released as a studio album with the same structures, it wouldn’t have worked out as well.  The fact that Conspirator released this as a live performance gives all its familiar themes and beats a legitimacy and excitement that would have had us music critics bitching about everything sounding the same had it come in the studio pill.  In any event, the band sounds fantastic, rendering such distinctions pointless.  Here, excitement trumps architecture.

The Designer’s Drugs: Chuck Palahniuk – Damned


Medium: Literature

Stimulus: Chuch Palahniuk ‒ Damned



In Chuck Palahniuk’s new world, Hell is Hollywood.  Hell is also Hell, full of the typical wailing, gnashing teeth, and rising lakes of wasted jizz that serve as Hell’s equivalent of global warming.  But if we’re stacking up the hierarchy of the awful, consider this ‒ even Palahniuk’s Satan has a script he’s trying to sell.

Damned promotes itself as The Breakfast Club in Hell, and if Madison, its pudgy, oft-neglected hero, resembles any member of that Saturday morning detention crowd, it’s the Ally Sheedy neurotic girl.  (In discussing that 80s film classic, our girl notes that she howls with terror when the popular cheerleader gives said outcast a condescending makeover.)  Madison’s quite a bit more than that dark, mousy type, however.  In true Palahniuk fashion, this preteen is quick to assert that she knows middle of the road words like gender, excrement, tenacious, and feign ‒ yet in casual moments she nonchalantly drops bigger words and phrases like colonoscopies, biological imperatives, vivandiers, and coals-to-Newcastle.  I have no idea what that last phrase even means.

This newly lost soul spent life as an unloved prop to her vapid Hollywood parents, the sort of people who adopt kids from around the world shortly before shipping them off to boarding school, the sort of people who fly their kids via private jet to ecology retreats.  I get the impression that there’s a healthy portion of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie in these absurdly cosmopolitan celebrity caricatures.

After dying from a marijuana overdose, Madison meets up with the requisite Emilio Estevez, Molly Ringwald, Anthony Michael Hall, and Judd Nelson characters, and this infernal Breakfast Club goes traipsing around the hoary netherworld in search of misadventure.  As time goes by, Madison gets kind of awesome.  She preaches the joys of damnation in her telemarketing job, beats up Hitler in grand, hilarious style, and goes on a spew-soaked revenge haunting.

The last book of Chuck’s that I picked up before this one was Snuff, whose porno gangbang setting was the most obvious and inevitable thing an author inclined toward burying his readers in freakshows and trivia could have produced.  That book was so over the top as to become really, really boring.  In contrast, Damned is kind of delightful.  Perhaps the choice of setting absorbs some of that stereotypical shock.  Sure, Palahniuk’s paintbrush colors up a pretty disturbing landscape of the inferno, but it’s Hell, so that’s kind of expected.  With the need to shock sort of canceled out, the story ends up relying on wit and characterization, and Palahniuk, perhaps having no choice, ended up writing a book combining the scope and cleverness of Robert Olen Butler’s Hell with the innocent charm of Judy Blume, right down to beginning each chapter with “Are you there, Satan?  It’s me, Madison.”  Damned seems to be a reworking ‒ if not total subversion ‒ of Chuck Palahniuk’s established formula, and as such, it made me a fan again.


The Designer’s Drugs: Resident Evil: Revelations


Medium: Game ‒ Nintendo 3DS

Stimulus: Resident Evil: Revelations



Resident Evil 4 was the last time I remember feeling unadulterated joy toward a video game.  The action was fantastic, the enemies were intelligent, and the role playing and treasure hunting elements made for a lot of replay value.  I positively beamed the first night I played it.  For me it was easily the best game of the past decade.  As such, it serves as the measuring stick by which I’ve judged the Resident Evil games that followed, and like its fellow 3DS game The Mercenaries 3D, Revelations doesn’t measure up.  It’s an okay game on its own merits, but I expected a portable version of Resident Evil 4, and this isn’t it.

The biggest issue I have with Revelations is that there are two, count em, two zombie-type creatures in the entire game ‒ and they’re easily the best adversaries.  For a series that has built its entire reputation on zombie hunting ‒ to say nothing about the awesomeness found as the series progressed and the infected became intelligent ‒ this is unacceptable.  Instead, the player fights clawed, shambling, dumb sea humanoids that seem like they’d belong more in Dead Space than here.  There’s even a big hulking hellbeast with a functioning chainsaw arm with functioning chainsaw sounds, which made me wonder how it keeps its gas tank filled.  More annoying, these twitchy inhumans shudder around like mental patients and always seem to twist out of the way of the player’s shots at just the right moment.  There’s a rifle in this game for long distance shots, but considering these jerky movements and the fact that the monsters rarely show up until they’re right in your face, using it is pretty pointless.

The point is that I really, really missed smart zombies.

There are two game modes: a story mode and a stripped down, more minigame version of the story mode called Raid Mode.  The weird thing is that Raid mode feels more fleshed out than the main campaign, which switches perspectives far too much, forcing the player to operate as different characters instead of advancing the abilities of a single one.  Campaign Mode also forces the player to run around with a scanner separate from one’s weapons, scanning all surroundings with it to find extra items and secrets, Metroid Prime-style, while one hopes not to run into any monsters while so unarmed.  This is really clunky and annoying.  In contrast, Raid Mode features actual character levels and offers far more weapon customization.  The scanner doesn’t even make an appearance.  Campaign Mode feels like something to be endured; Raid Mode feels like something to be enjoyed.

The 3DS Resident Evil games have been the only 3DS games I’ve played so far which made me question the technical limits of the system.  In The Mercenaries, the glitches were limited to shaky movements of far-off enemies; in Revelations, the limitations seem to result in a very stripped-down world where you’re herded from Point A to Point B, which is just as well because it’s not that much fun to explore anyway.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that there are swimming stages in Revelations, the bane of all video gamers’ existences!  Joy.

Yeah, I’m bitter that Revelations isn’t as good as Resident Evil 4, but you know what?  That game is, what, eight years old now?  Why shouldn’t this game have been able to blow that one out of the water instead of being a half-hearted clone?


The Designer’s Drugs: Drew Magary – The Postmortal


Medium: Literature

Stimulus: Drew Magary ‒ The Postmortal



In keeping with my recent forays into near future dystopian literature comes The Postmortal, a fascinating account of a 21st Century in which humanity has eliminated aging.  This story is all about being careful what you wish for; almost from the moment humanity unleashes nigh-immortality it spends the rest of the story trying to cram it back into Pandora’s Box.  Humanity doesn’t become one iota superior for having shaken off the reaper: immortals keep pumping out kids on autopilot, the new mankind-worshipping religion comes off as equally totalitarian as the afterlife salesmen it supplanted, and the internet trolls have painted themselves green and run out into the real world to maim and murder.  In this world of total overpopulation and self-absorption, it takes no great imagination to predict that the forever business would soon change back to the death business.

The story’s lead, a former estate lawyer named John Farrell, eventually falls into the death business, getting his feet wet as a euthanasia assistant (known in oh so customer service terms as End Specialists).  As the world continues to slide due to people’s stubborn refusals to die and/or stop multiplying, Farrell and the rest of the Kevorkians find themselves upgraded to government-sponsored public hitmen, charged with taking out the elderly and undesirable.

But that’s only the latter half of the story ‒ and honestly, it’s the least compelling half.  Mostly, that’s because the most fun in The Postmortal comes in watching Drew Magary describe the minutiae of the brave new world through Farrell’s journals.  Our hero ponders such ideas as the decline and transformation of marriage in a world where “to death do you part” has no meaning, the end of retirement and Social Security, immortality’s effect on crime and punishment, the fading of personal goals to work towards, and the strong possibility that almost nobody is really prepared to face up to the massive personal responsibilities involved in existing forever.

I like John Farrell as a character, though his narrative is way too full circle as old flames tend to neatly pop out of nowhere to replace new voids in his life.  He’s an intelligently written cipher through which the reader gets to look into a fantastically terrifying future.  That’s said, his philosophies and sociology are much more gripping than his life.  As Magary’s big world-building gives way to the desperate living within that world, a bit of that fascination fades and is replaced by horror.

Within the dystopia lit I’ve read recently, I’ve found that I like the big-picture approach, on display in Albert Brooks’ 2030, over the sort of Player One solipsism seen in Gary Shteyngart’s Super Sad True Love Story.  The Postmortal occupies a strong middle ground between the two, moving from Brooks’ style to Shteyngart’s, from sociology to the surreal.  Beyond my reservations on building a story of immortality around a guy who seems unable to move forward ‒ and maybe that’s the point ‒ this story of the end of the end is really magnificent.

The Designer’s Drugs: Haruki Murakami – 1Q84


Medium: Literature

Stimulus: Haruki Murakami ‒ 1Q84


It’s possible that I’ve never been as frustrated with a book as I was with 1Q84.  Maybe if the book wasn’t so massive, I’d at least be less irritated about the trip through these dense woods.  Unfortunately, this would-be epic fairy tale’s length draws out the story’s primary and lesser flaws so far that they become almost intolerable.

Ultimately, the worst thing about 1Q84 is that it should be amazing.  This story of a parallel world has so much going on within it that, had Murakami focused more on its fantastic elements instead of jettisoning all of that colorful landscape in favor of making the book little more than an elaborate goddamn teenage romance, I’d have stood up on my textual soapbox and praised this book as a work of genius.  Instead ‒ and I don’t give a shit about spoiling this ending, because fuck this book’s ending ‒ the world is literally cast aside and thrown out the second the two main characters find each other.  All the big metaphysical questions are suddenly given the finger and ignored; it felt a lot like watching someone get born again and then deny that their life to that point ever happened.  I got the explicit message that the parallel 1984 world meant nothing to Murakami, that it served merely as a shiny backdrop for his mooning young lovers to have some bullshit Disney happily ever after moment.  After almost a thousand pages of investment, this sort of ending is a ridiculous letdown.

I’ll refer to the two main characters as Boy and Girl, since Murakami seems downright miserly in giving out even the most trivial details such as people’s names.  They begin as moderately interesting characters.  Girl is an assassin of wife-beaters as well as a weekend warrior swinger.  Her wingwoman in the latter is a really insipid character, but Girl’s spectrum of murder and sex creates some interesting contradictions.  Boy is a part-time math teacher, “older girlfriend” banger, and aspiring novelist who rewrites a mysterious girl’s novella into a bestseller.  This book, which initially only runs the risk of being exposed as a semi-fraud, soon creates metaphysical consequences which lead a cult to hunt down the authors.  Meanwhile, Girl is hunting down the cult leader, and soon Boy and Girl’s interests cross.

What makes these two characters implode is the revelation that Boy and Girl were classmates when they were ten, and one time they held hands, and ever since nothing else in either goddamn world they inhabit has mattered.  They’re thirty.  Despite their interesting and sordid lives, their entire reasons for living are soon exposed as finding each other despite not having seen each other for twenty years.  This quickly becomes as one-track and grating as watching a child throw itself on the ground in a toy store and hold its breath until it gets the toy it wants.

Interestingly enough, the third part of the story introduces another point of view, the welcome perspective of an insectlike private detective hired by the cult to track first Boy and then Girl.  He’s a great, pathetic character whom nobody likes, which combined with his extensive knowledge makes him the story’s most compelling voice.  Problem is, it just seems like he’s there for Murakami to grudgingly give up some more plot details, after which he’s tossed into the trash.  In a story filled with underutilized side characters, he’s the prime victim.

I really wanted to like this book, but no, I don’t.  The neat, supernatural elements are delightful but ultimately treated as unimportant.  The sordid sexy bits, perhaps owing to translation issues, are badly written with a very odd sort of technical euphemism.  And the main characters ‒ besides that sad, scuttling detective ‒ lose all their allure as they become all fucking doe-eyed.  I can’t say that 1Q84 was a total loss, but there’s no way I’d recommend this long, pointless journey to anyone else.

The Designer’s Drugs: Top 11 of 11

So here’s my crappy end of year list.  I don’t think I liked enough albums, books, or other entertainments to warrant separate best-of lists for each medium, so I’m just smashing everything together. Deal with it.

11.  Medium: Literature. Stimulus: George R. R. Martin – A Dance with Dragons

Finally, George R. R. Martin continues his Song of Fire and Ice series with a gigantic book that nonetheless picks up the pace and is much more exciting than its predecessor.

10.  Medium: Film. Stimulus: Red State

The guy who directed Clerks and Mallrats makes a serious movie about Fred Phelps-grade religious fanaticism and David Koresh-grade domestic terrorism.  On paper, you’d think it wouldn’t work, but it works pretty goddamn hard.

9.      Medium: Game. Stimulus: The Nintendo 3DS

Most video game systems suck and have a crappy library of games in their first year.  The Nintendo 3DS bypassed this by cutting the crap and releasing upgraded versions of the company’s best games 15 years ago, Ocarina of Time and Starfox 64.  It worked.  Add a highly serviceable port of Street Fighter IV, a Mario game that is the 2011 version of 1990’s Super Mario Bros. 3, and the requisite round of Mario Kart, and the opening salvo of the 3DS hasn’t been too bad at all.

8.      Medium: Album. Stimulus: Austrian Death Machine – Jingle All the Way

If you haven’t listened to the Arnold Schwarzenegger-themed metal genius that is Austrian Death Machine, do it.  Do it now!  Their latest release is a two-song EP based on Arnold’s epic Christmas movie, Jingle All the Way.  “I’m Not a Pervert,” based on Arnold’s failed attempt at gaining a bouncy ball from a stupid kid at the Mall of America, is the feel-good Christmas song of the year.

7.      Medium: Literature. Stimulus: Albert Brooks – 2030.

A believable, grounded account of American decline without the usual futuristic vibe.  Usually, books about the future are pretty devoid of compassion and pretty bonered out on robo-fascism, but Brooks plays it calm and presents a future with real people – and, equally important, real language.  This examination of overpopulation and boomer entitlement reaching old age is less fiction than it is frightening inevitability.

6.      Medium: Album. Stimulus: William Shatner – Seeking Major Tom

Shatner Shatners it up and sings cover songs about space.  How could this possibly go wrong?  The answer: it won’t.

5.      Medium: Album. Stimulus: Peter Gabriel – New Blood

I think that instead of the usual gathering of singles into the usual stale Greatest Hits collection, all musicians who reach such a reflective point in their careers should do orchestral renditions of their best songs.  Especially the B-52s.  Consider Peter Gabriel and this beautiful retrospective to be my prime argument for this.

4.      Medium: Literature. Stimulus: Andy Schoepp – Time Ninja

Once more, the great Andy Schoepp delivers over the top martial arts action in book form, yet this time he outdoes himself.  Time traveling ninjas, giant robots, and hot assassin babes make for an epic tale.  I’ve said it before: if Andy Schoepp’s work doesn’t kick your ass, then you don’t have an ass.

3.      Medium: Album. Stimulus: Florence and the Machine – Ceremonials

This is what pop music should always sound like: well-crafted yet forceful, ambitious yet immediate, intellectual yet emotional.  Ceremonials is titanic sonic literature.

2.      Medium: Film. Stimulus: Hobo with a Shotgun

This ridiculous, ultraviolent, pun-heavy bit of low-rent cinema made me grateful to be alive.  Seeing an old grizzled hobo dispense buckshot justice to an awesome family of gleefully murderous gangsters was a joy.  Remember: when life gives you razor blades, you make a bat covered in razor blades!

1.      Medium: Life. Stimulus: Protests!

It’s breathtaking to see people giving a shit and fighting corrupt systems of power worldwide.  In America this seems even more amazing, because we’re currently the spoiled children of the planet.  Divide that down to the Midwest, where the secondary holy mantra that follows “go [insert local NFL team]” is “don’t rock the boat,” and consider my mind blown.  My expectations for humanity this year were completely shattered, and that feels wonderful.

The Designer’s Drugs: Peter Gabriel/Steel Panther

Medium: Album

Peter Gabriel – New Blood

Anno: 2011


As the story goes, Peter Gabriel planned to follow up his last album, an amazingly orchestrated covers album titled Scratch My Back that I can’t recommend highly enough, with an album featuring the covered artists doing Peter Gabriel tunes titled I’ll Scratch Yours.  The status of that follow-up seems to be in limbo, which may have prompted Gabriel to simply remake his own songs in the Scratch My Back style, which is to say, through an orchestra.  This was a considerably wise move.

This isn’t exactly a greatest hits collection – I’d have loved to hear orchestral versions of “Big Time” and “Sledgehammer,” – but each song on New Blood has been wonderfully redone.  I’m not a fan of “Solisbury Hill” as a song – for some reason I always envision hospital dramas when I hear it – but the version here is pretty much the deluxe rendition one would expect.  I’m on the fence about this album’s version of “Darkness,” mostly because I really like the menace and beauty of the original, the former feeling a bit diluted here even while the latter is enhanced.

Still, the crawling, seething “The Rhythm of the Heat” could fuel an album’s menace quota on its own, and “Downside Up” could supply the gorgeous and pretty.  “In Your Eyes” is given an effective upgrade, whereas “Digging in the Dirt” is turned inside out from smooth beats to scratching strings.  “Mercy Street” and “Don’t Give Up” are both soft-spoken, heart-punchingly beautiful songs.

The whole is simply wonderful.


Medium: Album

Steel Panther – Balls Out

Anno: 2011


This is the sort of thing that’s either going to make you grin like an idiot or tear your hair out in offended rage.  Classy song titles like “Supersonic Sex Machine,” “17 Girls in a Row,” and “It Won’t Suck Itself” give away the game before the first triumphant chords fall.  Balls Out is every inch a collection of slithering sex fantasies of inept metalhead teenage boys from the 80s, earnest to the point of self-parody.  (“It Won’t Suck Itself,” for example, is a serious meditation on the danger of rattlesnake attacks.)  Still, if this album were playing in the background and one wasn’t paying attention to the absurd lyrics, it would simply be a kickass hair metal album.  There’s much more going on here than pubescent boner tomfoolery – though it’s still not really for most ladies, and the morals of those who get it are delightfully suspect.

The Designer’s Drugs: Christmas Music for People Who Hate Christmas Music


Medium: Album

Stimulus: Christmas Music for People Who Hate Christmas Music


If you have a job that requires you to work in a store in December, then you probably hate the seasonal onslaught of holiday music with a white-hot passion.  Me, I have a special fantasy involving a time machine, Bing Crosby, Nat “King” Cole, and a steel chair studded with nails.  Really, I’d expand that fantasy to include any jackass rock band who decides that the world just could not survive without its take on the classics (I’m looking at you, Barenaked Ladies).  Yet fear not, fellow Christmas sufferers, for there is holiday music out there that will not make you consider seasonal rampage!  Enclosed are my suggestions; feel free to sneak them into your store’s playlist.


Neil Diamond – A Cherry Cherry Christmas


Really, I only suggest this because I’m kind of a nerd for Neil.  Beyond the sheer joy that is Neil Diamond, this is a pretty square affair.  The only swerve comes when Neil appropriates Adam Sandler’s “The Chanukah Song” – though he sort of blows it by endorsing gin and tonickah yet not supporting the smoking of marijuanikah.  Holiday double standard!


Tori Amos – Midwinter Graces


It’s a Tori Amos album, sad and full of piano.  Its holiday sensibilities run pretty pagan; it barely qualifies as a Christmas album, at least in the sterile modern sense.  If you like Tori Amos, you will like this.


Twisted Sister – A Twisted Christmas


I love this album.  Twisted Sister rules Christmas.  The songs aren’t much more than heavy metal versions of the old holiday standards, and for all their distortion they’re played pretty straightforward.  Still, there’s something joyous about hearing “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” played almost exactly like “We’re Not Gonna Take It.”  This is the only Christmas album that will have you pumping your fist with joy.


Fred Schneider and the Superions – Destination… Christmas!


My respectful boner for Neil Diamond multiplies tenfold for Fred Schneider of the B-52s.  Besides having the benefit of being comprised entirely of original Christmas songs, Destination… Christmas! is a balls to the wall celebration of the absurd.  Schneider rocks it wild, singing about fruitcakes, murderous yetis, crummy trees, and lame relatives.  He lurches around like a drunken old pervert in “Jingle Those Bells” and subjects the listener to four minutes of nothing but French orgasmic moaning and jolly ho ho hos at the final track (“Santa, Je T’aime”).  Best Christmas album ever.


Julie Silver – It’s Chanukah Time


I only mention this one because I have a redneck friend whom I gave this to one Christmas as a joke on his suburban racism, and apparently he still listens to it.  Breaking down barriers!


Happy Holidays, and keep Mithras in Christmas!

The Designer’s Drugs: Adam Ross – Mr. Peanut


Medium: Literature

Stimulus: Adam Ross – Mr. Peanut

Anno: 2010



It’s too bad that the one element in Mr. Peanut that makes sense of the rest of the story comes at the end of the book, because once the reader gets to that humanizing point one is probably burnt out on all the David Lynch psychothriller tedium slogged through along the way.  What is at its core a tale of disintegrating marriage and recovering purpose fragments into a repetitive meditation on these things, the sum total being four stories that could have been told in two.

Those two stories center around a genius game programmer accused of murdering his wife.  She’s a woman who has suffered through a whole mess of physical problems in her lifetime and through their marriage.  Spooky things happen, people screw, the programmer writes a sinister book, and there’s a beady eyed dwarf hitman wreaking havoc.  Those are to be expected.  The problem is that after the introductions, the book takes a half of its width examining the marital problems of the two detectives assigned to the murder case.  Without blinking, the book ditches the accused and dives after the lives of his accusers like a dog chasing cars.

One of the dicks has a wife who won’t get out of bed; the other is Dr. Sam Sheppard, real-life defendant in one of the most famous wife murder cases of the 20th century.  In real life, Sheppard died over 40 years ago, but for some reason he’s alive and kicking in Ross’s present-day world.

The Sheppard chapters in particular reads like an erotic true crime fanfiction, analyzing the events leading up to his wife’s murder in heavy detail and sinking into yet another unnecessary musing on failing marriages.  I could have handled the detective with the bedridden wife in a small dose, but bringing Sheppard into it hijacked and derailed the entire story.

Adam Ross had more than enough potential with his main characters that he didn’t need to go on the excessive tangents he went on with the detectives.  Unfortunately, he did.