As a former Montrealer, I found Brite’s descriptions of New Orleans oddly familiar; strangers in a strange land, the excommunicated Frenchmen that populate New Orleans are precisely what the Frenchmen of Montreal hope to avoid becoming (downtrodden, stripped of their language and culture, and—presumably—black), and whom they fear, despite holding a virtual vigil in remembrance of their Cajun ancestors’ suffering with their license plate motto, Je me souviens. What do you remember, mes amis? English oppressors, being looked down upon for your accent, and other pettiness—all of which is currently perpetrated by francophones on their English-speaking counterparts, though god forbid one should ever point out this blatant hypocrisy!

Montreal, je t’aime, but you’re bringing me down.

But back to Brite, this book’s got bite. Gay protagonists Rickey and G-man ring relatively true, eschewing the typically flaming stereotypes of many gay fictional characters, making their relationship a simple fact without constructing a federal case on the rights of homosexuals. Refreshing and unique to see gay characters protrayed in such a straightforward (no pun intended) and honest way, with nary a mention of Madonna or club music in sight. The only potential loop-thrower (SPOILER ALERT!) is the way they’re revealed as also being black, towards the end of the book, when race had never previously been a factor.

“You know what?” [Rickey] said. “Except for the band, we’re the only black people here.

“I hate to tell you this,” said Terrance, “but y’all ain’t black.”

[...] “It’s kinda weird, though, huh?” Rickey said. “Opelousas seems like a pretty black town, but we got an all-white crowd in here.”

“Are Cajuns white?” Terrance asked. “I thought they got themselves declared a separate race or something.”

“Look like a buncha crackers to me,” Marquis volunteered.

Is there any relevance to this revelation? Not particularly, though acknowledging that the main characters of the book are not white, as many people may presume, is certainly an interesting wrench thrown into the works.

As a novella, the action mostly works, though I was led to believe by the jacket copy that there would be slightly more at stake. A “nutcase waiting in the wings” seems to imply that the action will be derailed by said nutjob, at some point, though this never happens. Sure, the mayor of Opelousas may be a deranged asshole who thinks random war games are just peachy, but there’s never any real threat that Rickey will be unable to cook for his childhood hero, Bobby Hebert, much less knock his socks off. Where’s the tension in that? Have the psychotic mayor kidnap Bobby Hebert and then you’ve got a story, but anything less is fairly anti-climactic.

Still, I can’t say Brite isn’t a talented writer with a knack for keeping readers involved. A kind of female Anthony Bourdain (if Anthony Bourdain wrote fiction…. which, technically, he did at some point), Brite describes life in professional kitchens with skill and ease, perhaps the product of having married a professional chef. Still, the idea of an all-duck menu is intriguing, particularly with reference to Chef Rickey’s liquor-soaked restaurant menu, and the rough-and-tumble nights in the kitchens, backstabbing former co-workers and need to constantly re-invent oneself ring true. I simply would’ve liked more of these scenes, as the story felt truncated somehow.

All in all, D*U*C*K hits the right notes, and leaves readers hungry for foie gras, as well as plenty more of Brite’s take on New Orleans, chefdom, and the concept of “right purpose” in life.

For more of Poppy Z. Brite, check out her blog, Dispatches from Tanganyika, or follow her on Twitter @docbrite.

“Boy meets girl. Boy stalks girl. Girl already has a stalker. Boy becomes her stalker-stalker.”

A humorous detective novel? Sure, why not? If the neo-noirs can have their cake and eat it too, let’s not deny the comedians a piece of the action. After all, even wiseguys like to laugh.

The book is additionally told entirely in the form of blog entries, and despite the fact that epistolary novels were all the rage back in the 18th century, we’re not sure whether the “blog novel” carries quite the same weight in 2010 (especially when some of the action is clearly happening in “real time,” rather than being described later for the blog). Still, it’s an interesting effort, chronicling the life of Gomez Porter, who enters into a research study and becomes infatuated with the doctor monitoring his progress.

While there are a number of things that don’t seem sufficiently explained, even when readers remind themselves to suspend disbelief (why a doctor would hire a patient to stalk her stalker instead of just calling the police, for instance), the overall story is amusing enough to push forward with the bumbling Gomez, a sometime antiques dealer in search of his true calling in life. The scenes in which he attempts to discover his “knack” (particularly when it comes to painting) can be quite hilarious, demonstrating Parke’s strength at creating self-deprecating dialogue for his characters as well as showing off a penchant for useless trivia.

Equally, the secondary characters often steal the spotlight from Gomez himself, such as when Gomez puts his employee, Hicks, up for auction on eBay. While readers may occasionally wonder where these amusing interludes are going, since they almost never directly relate to the plot, they are humorous enough that we want more of them despite ourselves.

In the end, it seems there is some kind of hope for Gomez (with or without the exclamation mark after his name), and although jokes about his “Swedish” heritage fall flat, he’s a likeable and odd enough character that readers will want more of his antics. After all, if his involvement in the research study has only recently caused him to notice how truly bizarre his day-to-day life is (not to mention all the people in it), there can only be more misadventures awaiting Mr. Porter in the future.

For more information on No Hope For Gomez! or to order a copy, check out Graham Parke’s website at nohopeforgomez.com.

(Originally published at Crack Books)

Can you really write cuss words in your fiction? Can crazy people really be heros? Yes and yes, says Lorrie Moore. And goddamn if those things won’t take you to the top, too. Fuck the naysayers.

Birds of America is an excellent collection of short fiction by an unconventional writer. They’re all about modern forms of insanity which, really, are signs of sanity in an insane world. At least that’s how I’d describe them. I’m sure the literary types are shaking their snoots and dipping their piggy tails in ink to scribble some nonsense right now about some highfalutin’ themes and messages and other such dreck, but screw ‘em.

Who needs an MFA from an accredited university when you’ve already majored in Life at L’Ecole aux Frappes Dures?

(Originally published at Crack Books)

I am contractually bound to keep the details of my scoring gigs confidential, so I’ll say no more. Suffice to say that after this particular gig, it was readily apparent to me that Hawaiian students–much like Texan students–are either very poorly educated or simply don’t bother to perform on standardized tests.

"Honolulu Hawaii at Night" by Flickr user Sheepback.Cabin

But back to Theroux, whom I stumbled upon totally by accident, thanks to a mandate from my husband to find anything and everything Hunter S. Thompson while I was browsing the UT library with my TexPass. By some quirk of the alphabet (plus Library of Congress shelving), Theroux and Thompson were next to one another. “Hotel Honolulu,” I remember thinking to myself, “That sounds intriguing…”

Theroux, a travel writer who also writes fiction (or is it the other way ’round?) pens an autobiographical account of his time in paradise, aka Hawaii, with much humor and compassion. I particularly enjoyed his account of regional variations on Scrabble, where he is miffed that his hotel employees will allow him to play with them (given his status as a writer), and then doubly miffed that he is always the loser in their games–which allow “Whyan” terms. (I was mostly amazed that they had that many U’s in their bag of letters!)

The kicker? Theroux objects to the term “shim,” which the Hawaiians claim is something used in “consruction,” and he has it stricken from the game’s record. Later on, he looks the word up in the dictionary, only to discover it’s a “Howlie” (i.e. white dude) term he should’ve known all along, meaning “a thin often tapered piece of material (as wood, metal, or stone) used to fill in space between things (as for support, leveling, or adjustment of fit).” The “near illiterate” janitorial crew gets his goat once more, proving that book smarts don’t necessarily equal real-world smarts. Touché.

(Originally posted at Crack Books)

I think it’s safe to say there’s a “cult” of Cormac McCarthy followers, now that both The Road and No Country for Old Men have been made into films. Nevertheless, this was my first read-through for McCarthy, and it was kind of an assignment (a potential employer wanted me to read the first 30 pages and write a summary and analysis as part of a writing test), but I just couldn’t put it down.

Granted, part of that may have to do with the fact that today was my last day of work, and there was literally nothing to do there all day but stand (or sit) there reading.

In other words, I was paid to read this book. Inadvertently. (In other words, my employers probably wouldn’t want to know that, even though they’re the very people who sold me the book, and at a discounted rate, to boot. Keep it on the DL willya?)

Still, it was a pretty compelling read. Sure, it was pretentiously wank-y in parts (“The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.”), and then draggy in others (how many homes CAN these two dudes explore, all the while feeling scared and worrying that a bunch of cannibals will descend upon them and carve up their bones?! oh, sorry, was that a spoiler?), but overall I enjoyed it.

I have a bit of a problem with post-apocalyptic literature, in general, in that I always want to know WHY the earth is scorched and barren, and HOW a bunch of people died horribly, but this book doesn’t give those kinds of answers. It’s just supposed to be obvious that whatever happened was our fault; we fucked up, and Mother Earth kicked us in our collective vaginas. I don’t really accept that (lack of) explanation, but here I think it works. I’m not entirely satisfied that the man’s illness is never explained (does it connect to any of the reasons why everyone else is dead?), but I guess it’s a mystery I can live with.

In the meantime, if you want a real head-scratcher, riddle me this: what’s up with the seemingly random apostrophes in this book? In places like “can’t” and “shouldn’t,” they are often left out (i.e. “cant” and “shouldnt”), but in possessives like “we’re” and “it’s” they are absolutely there. Is this an indication that the narrator is rushing to write this all down, perhaps before his untimely demise? Are these all just a ton of mistakes? Is there any other meaning that can be ascribed to them? Seriously, peeps, I need to know.

Oh, and P.S. — in case of the apocalypse (or mere death by misadventure), my corpse is valuable, son! Don’t you just be burying my rank-smelling ass in the woods beneath some krusty old blankets when you can sell that mofo for scientific purposes!
$4775.00The Cadaver Calculator – Find out how much your body is worth.

This review appears courtesy of our partner site, Crack Books.