Literary Chicago

a review of James Payne’s poetry collection, Austerity Pleasures

Aw, man! Poetry?! LAME.

Just kidding!

But seriously, poetry kinda sucks.

James Payne’s collection of poems, Austerity Pleasures, does not suck though. Before you start screaming, “BUT MASON THAT’S CRAZY,” just hear me out. And please, for the love of God, keep your finger away from the caps lock.

Payne’s poems have all the intellect many similar poetry and chapbook collections contain, the kind of intellect you find in books that may as well come with a required reading list of boring, old, dead dudes, but with more wit and honesty, and therefore, less douche-baggery. It’s really nice to see something so well put together that, at the same time, doesn’t take itself too seriously. And Austerity Pleasures, by the way, is in fact well put together. Literally. A well constructed, little chapbook that’s nice to hold in your hands.

The poems inside encompass that mid-twenties angst that all of us youths are getting sick of. They’re self aware enough to entertain you though, to pull you in, instead of doing the opposite. The book combines all those worries – petty and legitimate – that freeze your mind and turn you into an insomniac. “Poem For Sitting in Panera,”  for example, tackles the future. Throwing worries like “where will I be in fifteen years” into a loudspeaker that exaggerates them comically while, simultaneously, keeping that keen sense of anxiety they initially cause intact. It’s a nice duality.

“Our Rattails” does the opposite, focusing on a better past:

Make my hair
back to when you were punk.
we had rattails, sure
things were fun.

Yeah, everything was fun, but if you read the rest of the poem, you’ll find a subtle undertone of what it’s like to look back: like the bad aftertaste of a great meal. It’s kind of pathetic. And depressing. That’s the impression I got, at least. Buy the damn book to read the whole poem and tell me if I’m wrong.

Many of James’ poems are quite small, practically one liners. He really excels here.  “Books of Love” examines a myriad of things (dating, pleasure, money, class…) in just two sentences. Also, it’s funny.

As a whole, much of Austerity Pleasures feels like it specifically rebels against pretension.  Against the significant others and peers in our lives that measure a person’s worth by the amount of books they’ve read and how smart they sound when they speak about them. Sometimes this rebellion is subtle, other times blatant, but always well written.

Regardless of the writing, battling pretentious jag-offs and heart-breakers is something I can get on board with – especially when it’s funny.

Austerity Pleasures is out from Monster House Press. Check out what James Payne himself has to say at  http://banalization.blogspot.com/.

Mason Johnson and James Payne

a review of Ben Tanzer’s novella, My Father’s House

When a loved one dies unexpectedly, their sins are suddenly pardoned, lifelong points of contention are forever set aside, and those left behind to mourn huddle together, able to recount nothing but good times, the joyful highlights of the deceased person’s life. It is a common phenomenon.

But what happens when a person’s death is foretold in low blood platelet counts, a mysterious seizure, a trip to the hospital that ends in a diagnosis of cancer? What happens when a family is denied the grace of losing a loved one quickly, and instead must find a path toward making amends, finding closure, and saying goodbye, all while their father and spouse is suspended in the disquieting limbo between life and death?

Ben Tanzer’s latest novella, My Father’s House, soon to be released by Main Street Rag Publishing Company, examines this conflict and several others others often found in Tanzer’s fiction.

For instance, the narrator of My Father’s House is a social worker by profession:

“I am at work. I work at a drop-in center for the homeless. When people first walk in, there is a ping pong table to their right and a bunch of couches to the left crowded around a television. After that there is a desk where we greet people and I am sitting at that desk, trying to greet people as they come in for lunch and trying my best to answer their questions.”

An oxymoron of marital terms (deeply loving but not strictly monogamous):

“I’m in pain. I’ve got a dying father and this girl has something to offer, something almost medicinal, and it’s okay then, okay, okay, okay, something I keep telling myself as we have sex in the backseat of her car, legs everywhere, and then I walk back to my father’s house, stopping long enough to shower once there before climbing into bed with Kerri and drifting off to sleep, drunk and restless.”

A son driven to make his parents proud, but self-aware enough to admit that at times there were detrimental oversights in their parenting:

“I remember that he and my mom asked me to sit down in the kitchen so we could talk…they sat me down and told me how my father was moving out for a little while, but that things would be the same, and that I’s still see him as much as I ever did. I remember sitting there trying to look nonchalant and unbothered by the news, staring straight ahead the whole time, no emotions, no nothing. They asked if I had any questions but I didn’t say a word, choosing instead to casually shake my head no, focused on getting out and moving on before the tears came.”

Much of this is explored during the narrator’s therapy sessions, amid parallel, nearly-obsessive inner monologues concerning the therapist’s tiny hands. “I’m at the therapist’s. She is looking at me with that curly hair. And those hands, those tiny little hands that I want to suck on.”

Tanzer’s latest work will immediately strike a familiar chord in those who have had the great pleasure of reading his previous novels and collections. Still, My Father’s House is in many ways a stunning departure from the writer’s thematic repertoire. The writing here is incredibly direct, emotional, tender and honest. And again, Tanzer weaves in musical inspiration throughout the novella via Bruce Springsteen, but does not hide behind these references or use them as a catch-all to articulate what his characters are feeling.

Lastly and perhaps most importantly, I beg you not to be deterred by Tanzer’s exploration of one family’s medical crisis. Heavy though the subject may be, this writer is one of very few who possess the ability to balance sadness with humor; dry and self-deprecating, and understated so as not to seem incongruent, his humor is thoroughly appreciated and at times much needed.

My Father’s House is a novella brave enough to strip itself bare and stand before its audience, vulnerable but unashamed. It is one you’ll hold to your heart after reading; a literary light capable of illuminating a story familiar to so many with nothing but utmost respect, love, and understanding.

a review of Alan Heathcock’s new collection of short stories, Volt

If you haven’t yet read Alan Heathcock’s debut book, Volt, published recently by Graywolf Press, it’s about time you do. Volt is a stunning collection of stories linked by one prominent commonality: the imagined town of Krafton, a place wholly unto itself in terms of geographical features, as well as the type of person Krafton seems to produce—hard-working, hard-earning, hold-no-punches, and God-fearing. They are coarse, weather worn at times, yes, but the characters of Volt also express an overwhelming capacity for emotional insight and depth, psychological complexity and poignant tenderness.

Take for example this excerpt from the collection’s opening story, “Staying the Freight,”

“But the grace of Krafton came with the seasons, sowing, reaping, breeding an understanding that last year has no bearing on this one; this crop might be better, or worse, and regardless there’ll be another and then another. In this there was only the future and diligent work, and not emotion but movement, just as the rain falling or crops sprouting was not emotion.”

“Staying the Freight” tracks the panicked, fleeing movement of Winslow, a man desperate to escape a memory he cannot bear to confront. He is haunted along his journey away from home by a “freight man.” Whether this man is a spectral manifestation of Winslow’s unexplored pain, or an actual being, Heathcock’s delivery leaves pinhole openings in which readers must settle many of the collection’s gripping mysteries for themselves.

Like “Staying the Freight,” each of the stories included here is written in a beautifully sincere, wide-eyed and open-faced manner. Heathcock wastes no time mincing words or meanings; his style is beautifully unfettered, quintessentially American. Volt is a novel woven of nature’s elements, human nuance, and heartrending honesty.

Volt sets a new standard to which all other fiction collections must now measure themselves. I sense it will be a long time before readers find anything worthy of close comparison, unless Alan Heathcock decides to publish another book, and soon.

Related Blog Post
An Interview with Alan Heathcock by Weston Cutter at Bookslut

a review of Ryan W. Bradley’s new collection of short stories, Prize Winners

Ryan W. Bradley has fronted a punk band, done construction in the Arctic Circle, and managed an independent children’s bookstore. He is the author of three chapbooks and a novel, Code for Failure, which will be published in 2012 by Black Coffee Press. He is now a freelance book designer and lives in Oregon with his wife and two sons.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will tell you that Ryan W. Bradley is a friend of mine. I will also tell you that I am stone-cold and impenetrable to favoritism and flattery. So if I didn’t think his newest creation, Prize Winners, was literary dynamite, I would not be reviewing it and concurrently insisting you make it your own.

Prize Winners is the first of Artistically Declined Press’ Pop Up Release series, which will, according to Mr. Bradley, “bring fun and surprise to publishing. It’s a project I’m really hoping works out because ideally it will allow us to publish a few more books a year, which would be awesome.” The man speaks golden truths. It certainly would be awesome; Artistically Declined Press has a Midas touch and a keen eye for stellar manuscripts.

Prize Winners is a 112-page collection of eighteen mostly flash-length stories, which is just right, considering the punch each packs – considering the unwavering gaze each levels at its reader, daring one to flinch, daring one to sync up one’s heartbeat with its own pounding pulse.

Several of the stories are preceded by dedications, one to Chicago’s own Lindsay Hunter. “Pubes” begins, “Girls were shaving their pubes now, Donnie knew from his friends and from the internet. And guys were doing it, too. His friend Jeremy said he’d done it. That girls went crazy for it. ‘Plus it makes you look huge,’ Jeremy said. Donnie was standing in the shower running his fingers through his mane of pubic hair. He pulled strands straight, thought why not. After all, tonight he had his first date in months and he wanted it to go well. If his dry spell lasted any longer he might just lose it altogether.”

Yes, sex is a sticky thread winding itself through every story here: awkward sex, hate sex, scared sex, underage sex, even Tom Selleck sex. But do not be fooled, gentle reader, there’s much more to this collection than meets the loins. These stories capture the best and worst of what it means to be a human who slips and sputters along the path toward being. Loneliness, sure, but forgiveness, joy, fear, boredom, and at times, many times, inexplicable love.

Prize Winners wins it. All eighteen rounds. All in a row.

Pre-order your copy at Artistically Declined Press. Ryan promises to sign your copy, and might even draw you a little cartoon.

Related Blog Post
Ryan W. Bradley

Last July, the Chicago Underground Library hosted its second annual “Science of Obsurity,” a science fair for writers, complete with dioramas, posterboards, and interactive experiments. In it, local writers found playful ways to present their works in terms of science fair projects: a story about a cantankerous crab, for example, was accompanied by an apparatus for determining one’s level of crabbiness. It was a lot of fun, and eye-opening, too. Through an experiment involving handwriting analysis, I discovered that I was in danger of developing an unpleasant foot problem that could only be prevented by reading Mrs. Dalloway and Jaws simultaneously. This is the magic of mixing imaginative writers and science. As entertaining and enlightening as this year’s “Science of Obscurity” may have been, however, something was missing.

The event was sadly lacking in Patrick Somerville.

(more…)

Some people have reacted to the cataclysms of the last ten years by reexamining their understanding of international policy, religious fanaticism, nuclear proliferation, global warming, and the depletion of our natural resources. Others have taken refuge in the pages of popular series fiction, especially that involving vampires. The magic of Evan Mandery’s second novel, First Contact: Or, It’s Later Than You Think (Parrot Sketch Excluded), is that it will make you feel like you have gotten far, far away from it all even as it leads you to ponder the most profound and complex questions of the day, all without the benefit of sexy bloodsuckers.

Ralph Bailey is the attaché to the president of the United States, which is really just a fancy way of saying that he fetches sandwiches and searches the globe for the perfect pair of underwear. His job becomes considerably more exciting, however, when he’s charged with the task of announcing to the president that aliens from the planet Rigel-Rigel have made contact with Earth. Failing to understand the historic importance of this communication, the president, believing the aliens to be Jewish, decides that hosting a Jewish-themed dinner party to welcome them to Earth might help him demonstrate his commitment to Israel—and, consequently, get him reelected. Ralph has his work cut out for him when he discovers the real purpose of the Rigelians’ interest in Earth: they want to prevent the Earthlings from destroying their planet. While he does what he can to save the Earth, he also falls in love, and we meet a diverse array of colorful characters, both human and Rigelian.

As others have pointed out, Mandery does an excellent job of channeling Kurt Vonnegut, presenting readers with a barrage of jokes that run the gamut from wacky and juvenile to graceful and sophisticated. His narrator indulges in a good number of digressions, too, as when, after a passage that describes the many ways in which Theodore Roosevelt “sucked the juice out of life” (itself a digression), he says, “By coincidence I am eating an orange right now, which I am doing by sucking out the juice but discarding the remains. This is how I like to eat oranges, though it seems like a waste and gives me some pause about the whole live-life-to-the-fullest thing. Any physician worth his salt will tell you the pulp is where the fiber is.” But Mandery’s wit and charm make readers oscillate between wanting to know what happens next in the story and wanting to hear more of the narrator’s wandering thoughts.

Take this book to the beach for a light, entertaining read or introduce it to your book club for a spirited discussion on ethics, objectivity, and existentialism. This is serious literature that reads like guilty pleasure.

Related Post
Interview with Evan Mandery