Three Oranges

Zest fulfilled a gambit without plan or particulars as the machine offered ivories and I took the dimples by surprise, avoiding a hanging in Florida, though unaware of November’s forthcoming execution. Charmed somehow, flushed by two plying folks cheesing it up while the aerosol fumed away. Who knew that the PA system would be revived? I have no wish to churn my own juices, but it’s better to avoid bitter butter. Fermenting this passage to survive northwesters and to retain the smiley for the next jane.

And so it smoothed out rather nicely, even if it was a bit fruity. While other giants roamed the earth, the quartet played and the maven managed. ‘Kay, ‘dyou catch the urban stomp? Rowr! Plausible deniability, hands reaching around my neck despite education, suffering foolishness gladly, carrying out the hefty trash bags while my own refuse was ridiculed.

Righteous rows shook the vessel and soon I transmuted into a man o’war. The sun zoo, an artistic menagerie with swollen heads and without Shatner. It stayed together, but no praise from my lips was enough.

I did my best, convinced that years of our lives would advance with all limbs intact. Balancing act without much sympathy, although to be fair, there was part of me that played the devil. But nobody’s perfect, even when you discover a lemon.

No time like the present, pushed and prodded by niceties, the electricity sparked despite a low current. Mexed missages as the crow flies. Rumors on the Internets.

Able to see clearly without the rain gone, I lied low on the job, circling wagons before the ho. Declared a moratorium on expanding the frontier, and then did the decent thing with an update, which resulted in me being cited as a bluestocking and a bushwacker. Advised by pals to drop it, and did. And by these elaborate stanzas, deleting diminishing ducking, I step out of the shadow completely to take in peaceful weather and expand my fellowship. Why? Because I’m a man and I speak no ill of the dead.

Foer’s Next One Illuminated

There’s a bit of information floating around about Jonathan Safran Foer’s next novel, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, set for an April 2005. Houghton Mifflin has the cover (which includes a large hand with Illuminated-like scribbling) and the following plot summary:

Oskar Schell is an inventor, Francophile, tambourine player, Shakespearean actor, jeweler, pacifist. He is nine years old. And he is on an urgent, secret search through the five boroughs of New York to find the lock that fits a mysterious key belonging to his father, who died in the attacks on the World Trade Center.

An inspired creation, Oskar is endearing, exasperating, and unforgettable. His search for the lock careens from Central Park to Coney Island to the Bronx and beyond. But it also travels into history, to Dresden and Hiroshima, where horrific bombings once shattered other lives. Along the way, Oskar encounters a motley assortment of humanity — a 103-year-old war reporter, a tour guide who never leaves the Empire State Building, lovers enraptured or scorned — all survivors in their own ways. Ultimately, Oskar ends his journey where it began, at his father”s grave. But now he is accompanied by the silent stranger who has been renting the spare room of his grandmother”s apartment. They are there to dig up his father”s empty coffin.

Houghton Mifflin lists April 4, 2005 as the publication date, but The Marsh Agency (Foer’s UK agent) lists January 4, 2005.

You Want Lists, Eh?

Since I’ve cracked the 100 book reading barrier this year, I figured it was time to note the best books of the year. And by best books, I mean books I happened to read since January (though not necessarily published this year) that I greatly enjoyed:

John Barth, The Book of Ten Nights and a Night
Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything
Octavia Butler, Kindred
Paula Fox, Desperate Characters
Andrew Sean Greer, The Confessions of Max Tivoli
Joseph T. Hallinan, Going Up the River
Dennis Loy Johnson, The Big Chill
A.L. Kennedy, Original Bliss
John P. Marquand, So Little Time
McSweeney’s Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories
David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas
Geoffrey Perrett, America in the Twenties
Frederic Prokosch, The Asisatics
Richard Powers, The Time of Our Singing
Samantha Power, A Problem from Hell
Chang Rae-Lee, Aloft
Ben Rice, Pobby and Dingan
Philip Roth, The Plot Against America
Sarah Waters, Fingersmith
Gene Wolfe, The Fifth Head of Cerberus

Best “New” Discoveries: Carol Shields, Paula Fox, Eric Kraft, David Mitchell

Biggest Disappointments: Susanna Clarke, Stephen King, David Lodge, Kevin Starr, Neal Stephenson, Tom Wolfe

Unequivocal Justification for Dave Eggers to Abdicate Control of the McSweeney’s Empire: McSweeney’s 13 (edited by Chris Ware) and McSweeney’s Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories (edited by Michael Chabon)

And here are a few more lists (which really can’t compete with the fine lists Rory’s serving up these days or Rex’s crazed obsession):

Best Movies of 2004:

1. Before Sunset
2. Sideways
3. Spider-Man 2
4. Tarnation
5. I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead
6. Kinsey
7. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
8. Zatoichi
9. The Manchurian Candidate
10. The Incredibles

Best Musical Comeback: U2, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb

Overnight Round Robin

  • George Tenet has nabbed $4.5 mil for a tell-all book on intelligence. One chapter will reveal how Tenet had to explain what the CIA acronym stood for to President Bush
  • Sarah will be all over this, but mystery novelist Joseph Hansen has passed on. Hansen created one of the mystery genre’s first gay protagonists.
  • Apparently, Powell’s does, in fact, run out of books. They’ve undergone a four-day book buying spree to replenish their supply.
  • If a second Bush term isn’t bad enough to contemplate, Motley Crue is reuniting. Nikki Sixx elaborated on the reteaming with typically eloquent words, “We’re growing fucking old and we want more fucking groupies before our fucking dicks fall off. Fuck yeah! Flash in the pan? No fucking way!”
  • Is Joan Collins superficial? Yes. And she’s still writing novels.
  • Apparently, Judy Blume cries on book tours.