Kingdom of Cambodia: Needless to say I didn't tip 50 cents

I had what could be loosely described as an 'interesting encounter' at one of the temples of Angkor yesterday, though a more accurate description would probably be 'creepy bordering on terrifying'. It was at a temple called Preah Koh, one of the lesser temples in the Angkor archealogical park. It was pleasant enough, but in comparison to the other more well-known temples it wasn't exactly mind erasing. Anyway, at pretty much all the temple sites in Angkor you get various hustlers, hawkers and beggars desperate for your attention and a few of your dollars/riel. Sometimes they're really quite ingenious: one guy took me to see a fuck off massive spider that lived in one of the buddha shrines. I had to buy some sort of bamboo pipe off him after for a buck, but it was worth it, the spider really was a fucking beast. Anyway, the point is that most of the people hanging round these parts are harmless, just hell bent on getting your cash. Sometimes, if they offer a small, informative tour its worth a tip of 50 cents, other times you can ignore them, no harm.

Anyway, there I was at Preah Koh, minding my own business, having a bit of a mooch about, when this guy in a polo shirt and holding a ring binger (which I later noticed was empty) comes up to me. This guy says he was one of the workmen that had been on the site trying to restore parts of the temple. So far, so feasable. Most of the temple sites you visit have artisans of one kind or another working to restore the ancient Khmer buildings to their former glory. Anyway, this dude pointed to a pillar and said he had made it about 6 years ago. It looked like it had been there five minutes, but out of politeness I said 'Oh ok, nice one.' He offered to show me some more restoration work, and at this point it all seemed pretty straightforward, been through this before, he'd show me a few Shivas and a Buddha or two, give me a stick of incense, ask for a dollar, yada yada, whatever, as long as he showed me cool shit it was a hell of a lot cheaper than having a guide anyway. So we go inside one of the smaller buildings which has a long chimney up to the top, and a sort of square altar in the middle. He tells me that he'd built the altar, which, unless he was one of the guys from big trouble in little china, or he was a redwood tree, was a complete lie. It was clearly like 1000 years old, the cobwebs had cobwebs. I ho-hummed to myself and said something like 'Well done you.' Sort of semi-complimentary without submitting myself to too much conversation. He stood on the altar, actually stood on it, then tried to grab my arm to pull me up. He looked really awkward up there so got off it when he realised I wasn't going to join him, then he pointed at it and said it represented women and men put something unintelligible on it. I wasn't really sure what he meant so asked for clarification in the language of idiots. He sort of repeated himself but then pointed to the altar, then to his crotch. 'Woman' pointing at the altar. 'Penis', pointing at his crotch, looking at me expectantly, with a grin that suggested any minute he may dribble.


'Oh, ok.' I offered up hesitantly. I didn't really know what planet this guy was from at this point, but at the same time it was far too interesting to give up now. He then pointed at what was clearly a frame that a Buddha statue had once sat in. Even I, in my infinite white devil ignorance, knew that.
'This also where men put penis.' His hands outlined the 4ft by 3 ft crevice as he spoke. He smiled at me. 'Penis.'
'Ok...' He patted my arm and took me back out into the temple complex.


In writing this now, and thinking back in retrospect, it seems absolutely fucking obvious that all was not well. At the time however I had a mix of disbelief-suspension and a lemminglike sense of not wanting to offend going on. I was at least twice this guys size, and he honestly came across as totally harmless. Besides, worst case scenario I'd get a funny story out of it.


So, the temple guy showed me a few more bits and bobs that he'd apparently made (I'm sure at one point he said he'd made bricks from sand and palm sugar, but I zoned out for a bit) I sort of agreed and looked interested at all the right points, and he went on with this nonsense for a bit. In making conversation he asked what I did for a living. 'You student?' This, to my chagrin, was where I made my fatal, but hilarious error.


'Uh, no, I work in a hospital?'
'Ah, hospital, good. My appendus a hurt?'
'You had your appendix taken out?' I make a cutting motion to my abdomen. 'Appendix?'
'Ah, yeah, appendus.' I later realised he hadn't said appendix at all. 'I show you, feel very painful. Dr give me tablets, but no good.'
'Ok, does it hurt?'
'Yeah, hurt. I show you.' He patted my arm again and beckoned me down some steps.


Again, in retrospect: THIS DOES NOT LOOK LIKE A GOOD IDEA. But, at the time, I thought he'd said appendix. Cambodians have to pay for visits to the doctor, so it seemed perfectly reasonable that he'd try and get a free consultation. Although he hadn't asked what I did at the hospital, I could have been a security guard or a porter for all he knew. Alarm bells were not forthcoming. Still he patted away at my arm and beckoned.


'Err...' He was heading away from all the temples and towards the thick forest at the back. Aaaaand then I felt uncomfortable. They say that people willingly go with their murderers a lot of the time, in the face of all sorts of perilous stimuli, because the fear of appearing rude somehow overshadows the fear of dying. What that afternoon taught me was that I would definately end up as one of those people if Dahmer ever came round asking for a cup of sugar.


'Come, I show you. Very hurt.' I read that Cambodians were shy, reserved people, so I took a big shit on my sense of reason and self preservation and continued to follow. He got as far as the start of the forest where I thought 'enough is enough' and I held my ground. If he attempted to rob me or something equally impolite, I'd still have an escape route, plus I could see and hear other tourists in eye shot.


'OK,you want me to look?' I thought he had said appendix, he got out his appendus. He laughed like a baby dropped on its head and started stroking his appendus.


'Very hurt. Ha ha.' I wasn't looking anymore but I was pretty sure he was still stroking his appendus.


'Uh. It looks ok to me.' I let out with a sigh. I turned, pretty composed under the circumstances. Assaulting him in some way didn't even occur to me. I walked back towards the temple and the throng of Japanese tourists with umbrellas and day-glo shell suits. I heard him only slightly further back from me fumbling then following after, saying in as camp a manner that was stereotypically possible. 'I like your tattoos. Ha ha ha.' He patted my arm and I swung it away, then turning as if to punch his lights out. He flinched and stood a little deflated, then said he liked my tattoos again, like a Lynchian muppet.


'Oh tei, Okoon hai' I said to him, flatly. This means no thankyou in Khmer.


He was still smiling like an idiot as he waved goodbye.


Needless to say this was an occasion I didn't tip 50 cents.

XXII - The Incomplete Tim Key

'I never shot her.'
Ned lied.
Mr Ward cradled his dog in his arms.
His knees bent under the weight.

Whether or not you find the above four lines amusing in the context that it's meant to be a poem will determine very quickly whether you will enjoy The Incomplete Tim Key. When I was in college I hung around with a character called Chris Giles, who used to draw utterly ridiculous cartoons and write very childish but very funny poems where characters had bloody silly names and they were doing bloody silly things. Tim Key reminds me a great deal of my friend Chris, the same daft, nonsensical, and above all deliberately crap verse. The serious tone Key gives his poems in their delivery is part of the charm of it all, certainly. His guest spots on Charlie Brooker's criminally underrated Newswipe show exactly the manner in which the poems need to be taken, as you can see from this:




The Incomplete Tim Key collects about 300 of his poems following a successful meeting with 'a man in his thirties', along with some extended explanations of the poetical inspirations Key draws from. Below is my favourite poem from the collection, entitled 'on the expenses scandal.' Like I said at the start, you'll either love or hate this, if it's not your bag then have a go at Sylvia Plath or something, Mr Serious.

There was a big do arranged for all the MPs to discuss how wretched they were, and to eat humble pie about the expenses fiasco.
The press were invited and everyone had to drink and mingle and apologise as much as possible.
Hoon sidestepped a hack and waddled over to Ed Balls.
'Is this wine free?' - he asked.
'Dunno.'
'Mm.'
Straw poked his beak in.
'Might not be. 'Cos we've been naughty.'
'I don't think it is free,' Widdicombe squawked, sipping from her hip flash.
'Bollocks.' Hoon winced. He replaced his wine on a tray and they 'moved through.'
The waiters served up braised venison and potatoes and fishes in sherry.
But, increasingly, the MPs declined, for fear of having to pay.
Some gritted their teeth of gnawed at their lips from hunger.
Widdcombe unwrapped her sarnies.
The Milibands winked at her and ate their little yoghurts they'd stowed in their little briefcases.
After a couple of speeches admitting they were all wankers, the MPs spilled out into the road.
Some confused, abortive hailing of black cabs ensued.
There was no guarantee these'd be freebies.
Hoon turned to Balls.
'Do you know anything about night buses?'
Balls tapped his bicycle helmet and pointed to his trouser clips.
Hoon nodded.
And he huffed.
And he set off on foot to his nearest home.

This poem was written as a reaction to all the politicians snatching money from the public to buy things to make their lives more fun. Soon it will be out of date and you will need to Google 'Geoff Hoon expenses scandal' or bend the ear of a village elder to make any sense of this one. It is political.

XXI - The Yiddish Policeman's Union

Over the last few years of my workplace experience, I have had the (mis)fortune to work with a vast array of weird and wonderful people. Old people with odd eccentricities, ordinary joe public sent doolally by a urine infection, various personality disorders, drug addictions, the list goes on. One thing I can rely on is an alcoholic or three mixing things up on a daily basis. Anyone who thinks alcohol is a harmless pastime needs to spend a day in accident and emergency or various medical and surgical wards. I'm not referring to the young people binge drinking on a friday night, although they comprise a portion of NHS intake, what is certainly far more disruptive and chronic is the vast number of alcoholics in hospital on any given day. Along with diabetes, heart disease and respiratory problems, all lifestyle influenced, alcoholics are a massive strain not only on NHS funds, but also on staff time. A wandering drunk who hasn't had a drink in 12 hours and needs a detox treatment to stave off much more serious repurcussions is by all merits a fucking nightmare, and sometimes it is difficult to bear in mind that alcoholics are very ill people, and by all rights deserve treatment just like anyone else. I think there is a certain quality in alcoholics that I can empathise with. For a start, not all of them are confused, disorientated arseholes, many of them are perfectly settled, reading the paper, and have merely got to the point in life where their body can't take the abuse any more. But on top of that, I think there is a certain suicidal quality to alcoholism that the melancholic of this world can certainly relate to. See Leaving Las Vegas for the most succinct example of this (and for proof that Nic Cage is in fact a great actor, fuck you very much).

In a similar vein, detective Landsman of Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policeman's Union is a hugely sympathetic character, despite his faults. I think this is largely in part to Chabon's beautiful writing style, finding poetry in so much of the mundanity of this world. The Yiddish Policeman's Union takes place in an alternative world, where rather than Israel, the Jews of the world settled in the state of Alaska, albeit on a short contract, almost at the close of its tenure when the book begins. This state of uncertainty, amidst a backdrop of concrete, snow and dark skies, is a brilliant set piece for a noirish mystery surrounding a dead heroin addict and a down-on-his-luck hardboiled detective who just wants to solve one last case. All this Chandleresque intrigue comes with a heavy dollop of Jew. The banter is thick with Yiddish slang, the names are all wonderfully Hebrew, here's an example from almost the opening page:

According to doctors, therapists, and his ex-wife, Landsman drinks to medicate himself, tuning the tubes and crystals of his moods with a crude hammer of hundred-proof plum brandy. But the truth is that Landsman has only two moods: working and dead. Meyer Landsman is the most decorated shammes in the District of Sitka, the man who solved the murder of the beautiful Froma Lefkowitz by her furrier husbands, and caught Polodsky the Hospital Killer. His testimony sent Hyman Tsharny to federal prison for life, the first and last time that criminal charges against a Verbover wiseguy have ever been made to stick. He has the memory of a convict, the balls of a fireman, and the eyesight of a housebreaker.
When there is crime to fight, Landsman tears around Sitka like a man with his pant leg caught on a rocket. It's like there's a film score playing behind him, heavy on the castanets. The problem comes in the hours when he isn't working, when his thoughts start blowing out the open window of his brain like pages of a blotter. Sometimes it takes a heavy paperweight to pin them down.

The Yiddish Policeman's Union is a sprawling, messy detective novel, with enough twists and turns to keep you on your turns, but a solid sense of direction from the start. Landsman is a wonderful protagonist, full with alcoholic pathos, but retaining enough of his heroic spirit to make you root for him the whole way. That some of the scenes are solved while Landsman is deep in alchoholic stupor makes it all the more enjoyable: crime scenes seen through the veil of a painful hangover, drunken car chases, tiny moments of sobriety with the few people Landsman still cares about, tinged with an heavy blanket of regret. Moreso than the likes of Chandler, Chabon has painted a thick sense of humanity and spirit to the world of Sitka, making the reader truly care about many of its weird and wonderful Yids. The story is complex without being complicated, it is paced without being light, and the characters are well rounded without being overwrought. On top of this is a consideration of the plight of the Jewish people in a wider sense, lacking the power and security they arguably hold in contemporary Israel, the Jews of Chabon's world have no power or status. What such a feeling of dread holds for the characters of the book is as intriguing as the main story itself. The Yiddish Policeman's Union is so far my favourite book from this year, so much so I almost want to go back and read it again already, and Chabon has in the space of 400 odd pages become one of my favourite writers, although typically I have become slightly demasculated by his writing talent, which makes some of my most thought out passages seem Palniuckian in contrast. I've been reliably informed that The Yiddish Policeman's Union isn't even his best book, so with great anticipation I'll hopefully be starting The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay very soon indeed. Oy vey.

Landsman considers the things that remain his to lose: a porkpie hat. A travel chess set and a Polaroid picture of a dead messiah. A boundary map of Sitka, profane, ad hoc, encyclopedic, crime scenes and low dives and chokeberry brambles, printed on the tangles of his brain. Winter fog that blankets the heart, summer afternoons that stretch endless as arguments among Jews. Ghosts of Imperial Russia traced in the onion dome of St Michael's Cathedral, and of Warsaw in the rocking and sawing of a cafe violinist. Canals, fishing boats, islands, stray dogs, canneries, dairy restaurants. The neon marquee of the Baranof Theatre reflected on wet asphalt, colors running like watercolor as you come out of a showing of Welles's Heart of Darkness, which you have just seen for the third time, with the girl of your dreams on your arm.
"Fuck what is written," Landsman says. "You know what?" All at once he feels weary of ganefs and prophets, guns and sacrifices and the infinite gangster weight of God. He's tired of hearing about the promised land and the inevitable bloodshed required for its redemption. "I don't care what is written. I don't care what supposedly got promised to some sandal-wearing idiot whose claim to fame is that he was ready to cut his own son's throat for the sake of a hare-brained idea. I don't care about red heifers and patriarchs and locusts. A bunch of old bones in the sand. My homeland is in my had. It's in my ex-wife's tote bag."
He sits down. He lights another cigarette.
"Fuck you," Landsman concludes. "And fuck Jesus, too, he was a pussy."
"Tick a lock, Landsman," Cashdollar says softly, miming the twist of a key in the hole of his mouth.

Kingdom of Dog - I call this song 'intro'

Sometimes I feel like I bore the 8 people that read this blog far too much with a) me pointing out the fact that noone reads this blog constantly and b) loads of book 'reviews' that are rarely funny, which is usually the only reason someone wants to read a review of any kind in the first place, unless they like books enough to read the opinions of someone with no qualifications to review a book other than the fact he possesses reading skills of some sort. On top of that I feel like I blast pages with biro diarrhoea all the time but rarely get to share any of my childish similes and douche chill inducing metaphors with the world outside. With that in mind - imagine yourself trying to extricate yourself from a drawn out party conversation with the only social retard in the room who is about to read you a poem about something angsty while you coo and smile in all the right places while your life blood slowly ebbs from your disappointed ears and increasingly flaccid nether region - while I write out this literary bombfuck. I call this poem Kingdom of Dog part one (ps I know it's not a poem). It's going to be in a zine I'm hoping to release later on this year, probably not by Organic Anagram, and should have 3-4 stories within, plus maybe an illustration or two. This is the opening(ish) part of one of the stories. Excuse some of the nonsensical mixing of tenses and other errors, these should get ironed out with rewrites.

Father John felt something in the air, like the trepidation before a nasty shock, that sinking gut feeling before the jump and all that adrenaline kicks in - a moment spread over weeks and months. This age of uncertainty. He had seen it in people's faces as they do everything they can just not to have to look at one another. Staring at shoes, in shop windows, or mobile phone screens. Father John used to think it was fear of each other, but the construct had become far wider than that. People didn't want to be strangers because they didn't trust each other, they stayed in their own little world because they simply didn't want to see just how scared everyone else was, unfamiliar faces in the street becoming mirrors of their own terrible mortality.

He sighed, closed the book he was reading, and began to stand to get ready for that morning's sermon. The last year had been especially uncertain for Father John, old and dedicated parishioners seemed to be dwindling week on week, the ever increasing age of the London Anglican had been the elephant in the room for
quite some time. Given the scale of scandals racking the church in the last
decade, Father John found it unsurprising that the church struggled so much with
new generations. But more simply, the world had moved faster than the church had anticipated, and the people of God were now left behind in the world's dust.

As Father John began to ready his robes, he returned to his previous train of thought. In his opinion it was the constant waiting that served to drain the collective public thoughts and energy. Sure, much of the public did their best to forget, on a friday night following a drink or five, but before long those drinks always got the better of God's children, ending swiftly in violence upon violence. As a Christian he was apprehensive about acknowledging such a thing, but there was almost a sense of Darwinian energy burning inside the public unconsciousness. Mankind holds themselves back while they type at their computer terminals, or listen to the latest pop sensation on the way home. But deep down, bubbling under the surface, behind the smiles and the handshakes, there lives a burning beast in each and every one of us, waiting for that terrible day of which everyone is afraid. The day this earthly house of cards comes tumbling down and we show one another what we're truly capable of.

Despite such thoughts dwelling heavy on Father John's countenance, he shirked his perceived responsibility of the truth in deference to his congregation. Comprised of the old, infirm and outright stupid, much of the content of his thoughts would be at best abstract and at worse abhorrent. He wondered, a little too often, if his opinions were really palatable to anyone at all.Father John stepped from the vestibule, distractedly smoothing his cassock, picking the odd hair and dust particle that sullied its sheen. His cleaning rituals and wider fixations upon his appearance served to calm his nerves. He was not by nature a great public speaker, and distraction from his speaking duties immediately prior to the task had always served him well. As he stepped up to the pulpit, he felt a heavy sense of foreboding suddenly drop through his chest and into the pit of his stomach, as if he had knocked an antique vase or nearly dropped an infant.

Simultaneously looking into the congregation, he breathed out a deep and tragic breath as the life left him, making a sound a lot like he had perhaps been winded from an invisible obstacle. The church was empty. Really and truly and sickeningly empty. There was no sound but the internal whisper of his own breathing. As if in a trance, Father John stepped down from the pulpit and walked through the aisle, instantly shutting out the whole preceding thought train while his senses focused on the failure that faced him. He tentatively stepped towards the great oak doors of the entrance, touching the knarled corners of each pew as he stepped, as if
ensurign they remained in the physical plane, still objects of substance. He
carefully stepped with the heel of each shoe, creating a small clacking sound,
explosive in that punishing silence, lost in a daze of disbelief.

Father John had made it to the front doors of his church, his workplace and home for the last 16 years. With nothing on his mind but that same heavy sense of trepidation, he stepped into the physical world, silent outside as it had been in. A stillborn world that no longer seemed to require a house of God.

Father John's stole in all his distractions had slipped from his shoulders and lay in the doorway of the dead church. Father John noticed, but didn't bother to pick it back up.

XX - The Terminal Man

So it's been a bit of a stretch since my last post, and in that time I've read a literal mound of literature, and I'm chewing at the bit to tell the internet all about it. Truly, what can be more exciting than paying to sit in an internet cafe on a weekend when the weather outside is magnificent so I can tell 3 people about some books I read??!!

Anyway, onto the book that I couldn't put off telling you about any more! It's called The Terminal Man and it's fucking awful! It's so bad it's reinvigorated my taste for throwing away small amounts of money for books that I know are going to suck before I even start reading them. To put it into perspective, The Terminal Man, by literary giant Michael Crichton, makes literary adaptations of the Transformers films look like penguin modern classics. It makes Katie Price's ghost writer look like Vonnegut reborn. Imagine an episode of torchwood reduced to block colours, no words over 2 syllables long and the Tekken soundtrack playing at a deafening volume in the background and you still have a creative output more cerebral than The Terminal Man. The novel concerns a man called Benson, who suffers from a rare form of epilepsy whereby rather than fitting on the floor he instead turns into a violent sociopath who attacks anything in sight and furthermore holds a deep loathing for anything mechanised. Some genius decides what they need to do is implant a computer in his head that basically tells him off every time he gets cross. I don't know how such a thing could possibly fail, unless... Wait!! This book was written in the 1970's by a man who has no idea about plot subtleties!! Stop the fackin train!

In Crichton's defense, the book really does evoke a sense of the 1970's by being both horrifically sexist and homophobic. He actually describes a block of flats as looking like something that is 'full of hookers, full of drugs, full of fags'. In his defence, Crichton is a plot man, dammit! He hasn't got time for niceties when he's got a man with a computer in his brain who is addicted to electricity and just wants to kill shit! Have I mentioned yet that this was maybe the best 50p I've ever spent? Kirky's Mighty Ducks cap can suck it. Here's a great example of Crichton's way with words. I'm yet to decide whether his writing style is just thoughtful and inclusive of the wider world, from 5 year olds to grown up buffoons, or whether publishing companies in the 1970's just had really really low standards. Take this nugget:

Janet Ross was tall and exceptionally good looking in a lean, tanned, dark-blond way.

Please Michael, go on:

She herself felt she was too bony and angular, and she often wished she were more softly feminine. But she knew her appearance was striking, and at thirty, after more than a decade of training in a predominantly masculine profession, she had learned to use it.

Not only is Janet Ross the main character in the book, she's also a flipping doctor. And before anyone asks, yes all of the characters in this book are this two dimensional. I almost feel like Crichton was so eager to get to the part where the guy's brain fries and he starts blasting shit that he just threw anything out there to describe the other characters with as little effort as possible. Now the baddy of the tale, Harry Benson, is pretty cool and angsty, and he sort of makes the whole thing worth reading, even though I'm guessing Crichton was aiming the book at teenagers and good christians, because there's not nearly enough random bloodletting for such a story. Had there been maybe 5 more deaths and all of them ridiculous, I might have bought all my friends a copy for a present, told them to book the day off work and keep the curtains drawn, and just have a good time really. As it is, the idea and buildup of the story is more fun than the payoff at the end. The experience was like seeing two vest wearing eastern european meatheads about to go at each other with a cleaver and a bin, only to get nicked at the moment it was gonna kick off big time. The book is utterly utterly stupid, but it's way more Terminator Salvation than Judgement Day. One day I might actually re-write this book for a laugh, just to make it as truly bone headed as it deserves to be.

This passage is probably my favourite part of the book, if only because as soon as it's taken out the context of the story it becomes one of the most stupid passages committed to the english language. Isaac Asimov this is not:

George and Martha were essentially the same program with slight differences. The original George was programmed to be neutral in his response to stimuli. Then Martha was created. Martha was a little bitchy; Martha disliked most things. Finally, another George was formulated, a very loving George, who was referred to as Saint George.
Each program could respond with three emotional states - love, fear, and anger. Each could produce three actions - approach, withdrawal, and attack. All this was, of course, highly abstract. It was carried out in terms of numbers. For example, the original George was neutral to most numbers, but he disliked the number 751. He was programmed to dislike it. And by extension he disliked similar numbers - 743, 772 and so on. He much preferred numbers such as 404, 133, and 918. If you punched in one of these numbers, George responded with numbers signifying love and approach. If you punched in 707, George withdrew. If you punched in 750, George angrily attacked - according to the numbers he printed out. The numbers were translated into sentences, the actual interaction was referred to as 'the christmas game' because most of it was conducted as giving and receiving gifts - objects that had an assigned or learned emotional value, just as the numbers did.
Normal George interacting with Martha would eventually win her over, and her bitchiness would recede into the background.
But Saint George had a much worse effect on her. His loving acceptance drove her up the wall. That is, if things were working normally. Richards watched as the print-out flashed across the screen.

HELLO I'M SAINT GEORGE
HELLO
WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
MARTHA.
YOU DON'T SAY MUCH, MARTHA.
NO
BUT I LIKE YOU.
WHY I DON'T LIKE YOU.
I UNDERSTAND THAT. HOW CAN I HELP?

"It isn't printing periods consistently," Richards said. When did that start?"
"That's nothing," Gerhard said. "Just keep watching"

HELP?
YES I WOULD LIKE TO HELP YOU.
HAVE A CAT.

Richards winced. Cats were programmed to be something that both George and Martha disliked. Giving George a cat was a very hostile move.

THANK YOU
HAVE ANOTHER CAT.
THANK YOU YOU ARE VERY KIND.
HAVE ANOTHER CAT.
NO THANKYOU.
DON'T YOU LIKE CATS?
YES BUT I HAVE ENOUGH CATS.
HAVE A GORILLA.

"Really nasty," Richards said.

I DON'T WANT A GORILLA.
DON'T YOU LIKE GORILLAS?
NO THANK YOU.
YOU ARE TOO POLITE.
I AM SORRY IF I OFFEND YOU IN ANY WAY.
YOU TALK TOO MUCH.
I AM SORRY.
HAVE AN EGGPLANT.
NO THANK YOU.
DON'T YOU LIKE EGGPLANT?
NOT VERY MUCH.
HERE HAVE ANOTHER ONE.
NO THANK YOU.
I WANT YOU TO HAVE IT.
NO THANK YOU.
GO ON AND TAKE IT.
NO THANK YOU.
I INSIST.
NO THANK YOU.

"What's happening to Saint George?" Richards asked.

I INSIST THAT YOU HAVE A CUCUMBER.
I REFUSE.
THEN HAVE A BANANA.
NO.

"George is breaking down," Richards said. "He's not a saint anymore."

THEN HAVE BOTH A BANANA AND A CUCUMBER.
NO THANK YOU.
I INSIST.
GO TO HELL I WILL KILL YOU: : : : : : : : :

As you can see, exhaustive insight into the dark side of technology from the master of the mediocre, Michael Crichton. If you see this book for 50p I definately recommend you pick up a copy!

XIX - American Gods

'When the people came to America they brought us with them. They brought me, and Loki and Thor, Anansi and the Lion-God, Leprechauns and Cluracans and Banshees, Kubera and Frau Holle and Ashtaroth, and they brought you. We rode here in their minds, and we took root. We travelled with the settlers to the new lands across the ocean.
'The Land is vast. Soon enough our people abandoned us, remembered us only as creatures of the old land, as things that had not come with them to the new. Our true believers passed on, or stopped believing, and we were left, lost and scared and dispossessed, to get by on what little smidgens of worship or belief we could find. And to get by as best we could.
'So that's what we've done, gotten by, out on the edges of things, where no one was watching us too closely.
'We have, let us face it and admit it, little influence. We prey on them, and we take from them, and we get by; we strip and we whore and we drink too much; we pump gas and we steal and we cheat and we exist in the cracks at the edge of society. Old gods, here in this new land without gods.
'Now, as all of you will have had reason aplenty to discover for yourselves, there are new gods growing in America, clinging to growing knots of belief: gods of credit card and freeway, of internet and telephone, of radio and hospital and television, gods of plastic and of beeper and of neon. Proud gods, fat and foolish creatures, puffed up with their own newness and importance.
'They are aware of us, and they fear us, and they hate us,' said Odin. 'You are fooling yourselves if you believe otherwise. They will destroy us, if they can. It is time for us to band together. It is time for us to act.'

I love a good yarn. Give me all the fruity language and clever prose you want, but without a good story behind it it's all rather empty. Just look at the last blog post for an example of technique with no substance. I grew up obsessing and adoring folk tales and mythology - the Iliad, the golden fleece, aesops fables, arabian nights, grimms fairy tales, the list goes on. These books were full of what Joseph Campbell would call the 'Hero with a Thousand Faces' the everyman hero that would appear in limitless guises across the globe, from Oddysseus, to Jack of Fables, to Jesus Christ. Their commonalities being a hero the reader, or listener, could get behind and root for, a character that almost appealed to their own subconscious sensibilities about themselves. Neil Gaiman's American Gods is deeply immersed in this world of mythos and fantasy, but like most of his superb output, is set in a world much more familiar to our own. Gaiman is perhaps best know for his Sandman comic book series, arguably the best adult comic ever made (certainly superior to Watchmen in my humble position) and a precursor to the creation of DC's Vertigo imprint.

American Gods follows an ex-con called Shadow, from his penitentiary cell to a chance encounter with a mysterious figure called Mr.Wednesday, through 635 pages of travel around the forgotten places of America. Along the way he meets the forgotten gods of the old world now hired muscle, loneley apartment dwellers, and petty crooks and conmen. They languish in the recesses of the world's mind, swept aside by the fickle memories of mankind, now embracing the new gods of technology and commerce. The old gods have not yet given up though, and with the help of Shadow seek to wage a final confrontation with the new gods of the USA. The characters alone in American Gods make it worth the reading, from an Ifrit taxi driver, to a 6-foot tall hard drinking leprechaun, to a teenage god of technology who smokes cables. By far my favourite however was Czernobog, a hammer-wielding giant of a man, who acts as Shadow's dutiful protector based on the promise that he can one day smash out Shadow's brain with his hammer. The conversations between the two characters are superb, and have the sort of fairytale logic that really takes you into another place. Here's a beautiful example of an exchange between himself and Mr.Town, one of the new gods.

Town said, 'Whatever. You could save yourselves a lot of time and effort by going back to your homes and shooting yourselves in the heads. Cut out the middle man.'
'Fuck you,' said Czernobog. 'Fuck you and fuck your mother and fuck the fucking horse you fucking rode in on. You will not even die in battle. No warrior will taste your blood. No one alive will take your life. You will die a soft, poor death. You will die with a kiss on your lips and a lie in your heart.'

Gaiman's book is literally bursting with ideas and little plot movements and shifts. Though long, it's by no means a challenging read, and it whizzes along at such a pace it's really a dissappointment to arrive at the end. Many times the wider world can be quite off-hand about Fantasy/SF books, seeing them as an inferior model of prose. In some instances I can agree, a lot of the pulp SF, though entertaining, don't exactly fire off all cylinders. Novels like American Gods can demonstrate quite capably though that you can have your cake and eat it, there are plenty of beautifully written passages amongst all the chaos of the day. The story is rich and driven, the characters are fully fleshed out, and the book is an absolute joy to read. May it become a future HBO series.

Doghead Pamphlet Club - Slaughter/Memoria

T-shirt printing 'companies' are the latest phenomenon in the increasingly dull alterna-rebel music scene. Every other day some chump prints Kate Moss with corpse paint on a t-shirt hoping to breakout at the next Drop Dead clothing company, not realising that photoshop, google image search and Stu No Rules screen printing does not a company make. Organic Anagram is made up of what I can only imagine are earnest and well meaning kids, probably Europeans living in London, who are somehow trying to assimilate 24 clothing and Greg Bennick into a single package. Their 'products', albeit grossly overpriced, at least attempt to maintain some sort of DIY hardcore credibility, although capitalism is always going to be capitalism, no matter how much you try to dress it with x-swatches and limited print runs.

For some reason, perhaps in an attempt to reconcile intellect with fashion, Organic Anagram have decided to release a book of short stories. I say book in the loosest of terms, as the thing is less pages than my last zine. I say short stories in the loosest of terms, as you get two stories, one of which isn't even in English. Andto plump the whole thing out you get a lovely gallery of holiday snaps.

Anyway, the stories man the stories, this is a book blog damnit. Well, one story could well be the best thing ever fucking written, the limited-press, low-key introduction of the next Hemingway, I have no fucking clue though cos the story is in Spanish. It might be so funny it's like A Confederacy of Dunces throwing a cream pie at Trout Fishing in America, it could be so tragic it would make me tear the page out, fashion a knife and drive it through my broken heart, hell it could even be a bit shit, but I don't know because I can't read the bloody thing. Why the guy didn't put both stories in both languages and run them concurrently on separate pages I don't know. It's not like he was pressed for a word count, the thing's only 20 odd pages long.

The first story, Slaughter (which I could read) was passable, if not good.. If it had been in a compendium of upcoming writers, I would have given it time, plodded through, and thought to myself 'not really my cup of tea' and moved on to the next. However, given this is the only piece of literature within the bastard thing that I could understand, thus in essence have paid 8 euros for the pleasure of reading, I feel I should get a bit more of my money's worth. Slaughter is tortuously over-worded, it reads like a thesaurus. I am sure the dude who wrote this is super intelligent (he can write a story in one more language than me for a start) but it doesn't do a story any favours when you can't make out a story for 4 adjectives on top of each other. The closest comparison I can come up with is something like a badly translated Gabriel Garcia Marquez where the translator is some arrogant fuck who wants to make his translation the best shit ever and just pukes a gallon of uneccessary words in for no fucking reason. The worst is the final couple of pages where the writer is clearly trying to incorporate his Bennickian hardcore philosophy with supposed cave dwellers. Wow, what a juxtaposition maaan. Here's an example:

This bleak, pessimistic commitment. We barely sleep; we just let the dark feel some solitude, resting our minds while our body is lively in the depths of the gloom. Crying is a way of expressing our real nature. We feel this shortage acutely. We were given desks in adolescence, but why wake up when we could be lying down in bed, if not for the sake of our appearance? If one is given a glimpse at the future's features, he would be starring (sic) at the void. An insignificant encounter, left to the circumstances. Let the children sleep in peace, in a room where birds don't sing at night.

And so it goes on, ad nauseum. The thing reads like one of those junk emails you get with penis enlargement links that have titles just filled with nonsesnse like 'open your door to grassroots airplane opportunities' or 'swallow life encompasses your dairy love'.

This story pissed me off a great deal mostly because I paid 8 euros for the priviledge of reading it, like people involved in this venture feel the story is worth such a sum of money. It's not, it's offensive to literature. There were semblances of a good story within slaughter, totally obstructed by overwrought word craft and a sickening sense of literary superiority. I would be hard fucking pushed to read something that pissed me off more this year.