Author Archives: sonorareview

I fed a fish to a pelican in Frisco Bay

First thing: If you haven’t seen the above video clip, drop whatever you’re doing and watch it right now.  The thing has taken up permanent residence in my mind ever since I first saw it a few days ago, and rarely a minute goes by in which somewhere deep in my skull the phrases “Fuckin magnets, how do they work?” and “I fed a fish to a pelican in Frisco Bay” don’t reverberate like little, stupid ball bearings.  So in the interest of expelling this…this thing from my mind completely, I decided it’d be prudent to analyze it line-by-line.  First up, the standard warm-up rap intro:

(Smug, knowing laughter) We got a theory

See, like, we got a theory…about magic…and miracles (that’s right, that’s right)

Nothing too special here: Shaggy and Violent J (who will henceforth be termed “The Fat One” and “The Skinny One”, respectively) are getting ready, stretching their vocal cords, and setting the scene for what’s to come.  Next the two Cesar Romero as Joker-esque rappers fly upward through the sky on a sort of phallic telescoping tower and drop some science magic:

If magic is all we’ve ever known
Then it’s easy to miss what really goes on
But I’ve seen miracles in every way
And I see miracles everyday
Oceans spanning beyond my sight
And a million stars way above ‘em at night
We don’t have to be high to look in the sky
And know that’s a miracle opened wide
Look at the mountains, trees, the seven seas
And everything chilling underwater, please
Hot lava, snow, rain and fog
Long neck giraffes, and pet cats and dogs

Leaving aside the superfluous “please”, which is clearly an attempt to shoehorn a rhyme into an otherwise rhymeless couplet, my main concern here is the randomness with which both Fat/Skinny Clown describe their miracles to us.  Right away we’ve got the sky, mountains, trees, the seven seas, and “everything chilling underwater”, as well as lava (which ICP kindly remind us is “hot”), snow, rain, fog, longnecked giraffes, and “pet cats and dogs”.  Doesn’t bode well.  Next up:

And I’ve seen eighty-five thousand people
All in one room, together as equals
Pure magic is the birth of my kids
I’ve seen shit that’ll shock your eyelids
The sun and the moon, and even Mars
The Milky Way and fucking shooting stars
UFOs, a river flows
Plant a little seed and nature grows
Niagara falls and the pyramids
Everything you believed in as kids
Fucking rainbows after it rains
there’s enough miracles here to blow your brains
I fed a fish to a pelican at Frisco bay
It tried to eat my cell phone, he ran away
And music is magic, pure and clean
You can feel it and hear it but it can’t be seen

The key passage here is that referring to the Fat Clown’s fateful encounter with the pelican in San Francisco, which can be further understood by looking at this image:

In this we can see that the Skinny Clown is representing the Fat Clown’s encounter with the pelican by extending his right hand outward in front of him and his right foot behind him while simultaneously looking behind, presumably at the offended waterfowl.  Behind him a kind of mockup of the Golden Gate Bridge tilts slightly to the left, in order to represent the incident’s location.  Now of course the question here is: what makes this a miracle?  The sequence of events is fairly transparent: Fat Clown, perhaps relaxing near the water in SF after a long night of spraying Faygo on concertgoers, decides, out of the kindness of his overworked and failing heart, to feed a fish to a pelican, expecting that his efforts will be appreciated by the inscrutable creature.  Little does he know that pelicans can be aggressive and ungrateful: “On the 11 May 2008, Debbie Shoemaker needed 20 stitches after a pelican rammed into her face and died, believed to be diving for fish in the sea off Florida” (BBC News, 2002)

The irritated pelican then attempts to eat Shaggy’s cell phone, after which he “runs away” (an act ably illustrated by Violent J in the image above).  All well and good, and certainly par for the course in rap narrative (I could certainly imagine Ghostface Killah or Lil Wayne telling a similar anecdote), but why the connection with miracles?  There seems to me to be nothing particularly miraculous about a disobedient bird, upon receiving foodstuffs, interpreting an inanimate object in close proximity to the proffered foodstuff as further sustenance and attempting to consume said object, aggressively if necessary.  I can only assume that both clowns are unfamiliar with the habits of animals, having grown up in suburban Detroit (although this is debated).  Having spent some years of my youth on a farm, I can certainly attest to the fact that animals are unpredictable, capricious creatures, and will just as soon bite your hand as take food from it.  The lack of proper socialization available to a flighted animal in “Frisco Bay” was surely one of many factors that led to its attempted consumption of Shaggy’s cell phone.  I can’t fault Shaggy for running away, as an agitated pelican is nothing to fuck with, and I can only hope that the overweight performer took some time out afterward to calm himself and allow his heartbeat to return to its normal resting rate before resuming his seaside activities.  Also worthwhile viewing is this page on the symbolism of the pelican in Catholicism, which I hope might shed some light on Shaggy’s seemingly incongruous mentioning of it in the context of other miracles.

Next up:

Music is a lot like love, it’s all a feeling
And it fills the room, from the floor to the ceiling

I see miracles all around me
Stop and look around, it’s all astounding
Water, fire, air and dirt
Fucking magnets, how do they work?
And I don’t wanna talk to a scientist
Y’all motherfuckers lying, and getting me pissed
Solar eclipse, and vicious weather
Fifteen thousand Juggalos together
And I love my mom for giving me this
Time on this planet, taking nothing for granted
I seen a caterpillar turn into a butterfly
Miracles ain’t nothing to lie
Shaggy’s little boys look just like Shaggy
And my little boy looks just like daddy
Miracles each and every where you look
And nobody has to stay where they put
This world is yours for you to explore
there’s nothing but miracles beyond your door
The Dark Carnival is your invitation
To witness that without explanation
Take a look at this fine creation
And enjoy it better with appreciation
Crows, ghosts, the midnight coast
The wonders of the world, mysteries the most
Just open your mind, and it ain’t no way
To ignore the miracles of every day

The rest consists of the chorus, and Shaggy’s contemplative “Miracles all up in this bitch.”  The key line in the above passage is undoubtedly that referring to magnets, which has already struck the public imagination (I can see the T-shirts already).  But there’s little miraculous about magnets: a description of their processes can be found in almost any science textbook.  It seems the Detroit school system has failed Shaggy and Violent J, and their confused insults toward scientists seem to stem from a fear of knowledge, perhaps also spawned during some traumatic event at school; I can imagine the young Violent J slathering on his first experimental attempts at scary clown makeup in the bathroom during class, having duly asked for a hall pass, only to be discovered by some assiduous hall monitor and dragged by the ear down to the attendance office.  It’s not the scientists’ fault, Violent J!  Without scientists, how could your video feature such state-of-the-art computer effects?

–Jon W.

Fuckin’ magnets, how do they work?

AWP was big and shiny, smelled like a cinnamon roll, and filled with a whole lot of writers.  The ratio of those with glasses to those without glasses was considerably higher than it is in the general population.  Denver is clean (by Tucson standards) and the liquor there is expensive (again, also by Tucson standards).  There are a lot of journals with really boring  covers.  Writers need to quit dressing so well: I find it unseemly.  George Saunders is an exceedingly nice man and almost singlehandedly renewed my faith in the power of literature.  He is also to be commended for not turning violently upon the woman (I forget her name) who provided him with one of the dumbest and most ill-advised introductions I’ve ever heard.  I could have given my younger brother six shots of Jack in five minutes, spun him around three or four times and thrust him onto the podium and he would have given a better introduction than that one.

Panels:  I didn’t go to any.  Whoops.  Were they good?  One of them was called Black Holes No More, which sounded kind of presumptuous.  I’m disappointed that my panel proposal Tender Nipples: The Sex Scene In The Modern Novel was rejected, but we can’t all be lion-tamers.

Journals: We gave out a whole bunch.  For free!  You shoulda been there!  For a short yet beautiful time we fashioned ourselves as comically insane local-car-commercial pitchmen.  Take a gander at those prices!  They’re crazy, etc.  Next year: eagle suit.

Those at the Pinch: You are all lovely and nice people.  Also ditto for The Cincinnati Review (or at least your comely representative who came to chat with us at our table and brightened that somewhat tiring Sunday).  As for Black Warrior Review: you know what you did.  You know what you did. (Actually you are all very nice people as well; you didn’t do anything.)

So in conclusion, AWP was odd!  I don’t quite understand it, but the kids these days seem to like it, and they would, what with their texting and their Facebook and their Auto-Tune and their post-Scott 4 Scott Walker.  Considerably less rowdiness than I expected, except for an odd moment where two journals stood up holding signs or books or something and clapped at regular intervals, which was just weird and offputting and took my attention away from the W.G. Sebald book I was trying to read.  I am a 63-year old man.

–Jon W.

Online Move to Submishmash

We’ll be switching online submission managers from manuscripthub to submishmash on April 1st. At that time we’ll begin accepting online submissions to our contests.

Thanks to manuscripthub for their service and hard work. We’ve had a great relationship with them.

And thank you to those who have been waiting for the online submissions manager.

All best,

Jake Levine

John Hawkes: An Appreciation

Jim Shepard has written an excellent appreciation of the late John Hawkes, who is probably (IMO) one of the greatest authors of the twentieth century.  Nobody wrote like he did.  He wrote the most nightmarish fiction I can possibly think of, weird dreamlike wordscapes in which characters seemed to float from point to point, regardless of their own intentions.  A good starting point would be Travesty, which is probably the most comprehensible of his novels; follow that up with The Lime Twig, which is generally considered his masterpiece.  If you like those, read the rest.  It’s all good.

–Jon

RIP Barry Hannah

Barry Hannah has died.  He was a great short-story author; Airships, in particular, is essential reading.

best opening/closing lines

Here, a list of the best novel opening lines and a list of the best novel closing lines.  (note: second list is a PDF and, naturally, contains spoilers)

I like how William Gaddis invariably tells you the theme of his giant novels within the first few words (This is also the case with The Recognitions, although that book doesn’t appear on the opening lines list).

–Jon W.

Aleksandar Hemon and the David Copperfield Kind of Crap

This book is problematic.  I didn’t much like it myself, although conscience forces me to admit there’s some good stuff in here (particularly the sequence where the narrator participates in the savage beatdown of a pimp–the way that there’s absolutely no reflection on how “horrifying” it might be is disturbing and effective enough in itself, notwithstanding how excellently the scene is built up and executed).

The problem I have with this novel is symptomatic of a larger issue that needs to be addressed–the increasing lionization of the “immigrant narrative”.  It is perhaps unfair to single out Hemon’s book as an offender, as it’s easily more reflective and aware of its status as merely one of many such narratives (although, as I’ve said, the book just wasn’t much fun to read–Hemon writes in a dry, offputting style that is absolutely dripping with arrogance, which interestingly enough brings him closer to Nabokov than any facile comparisons regarding the number of languages both authors are conversant in.  The problem here is that Nabokov was a genius and could get away with this and Hemon isn’t and can not, his MacArthur, admittedly, to the contrary).  The problem here is that Hemon’s book follows a pattern that has become depressingly common recently in modern literary fiction: i.e. Modern Narrator Finds Self Through Connection To Immigrant Background.  This conceit single-handedly destroyed Junot Diaz’ otherwise wonderful Brief And Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and fuels the narratives of books as disparate as Everything Is Illuminated, Middlesex and The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.  Now what connects all these works (aside from the depressing consistency with which they seem to win Pulitzers) is the fact that the flashbacks are easily the weakest sections of each work.  Wao was excellent when focusing on its titular character’s difficulties with getting laid, Middlesex was fascinating when detailing the narrator’s teenaged love for the “Object,” and so on.  Why then these lengthy detours into the lives of the narrators’ distant ancestors and their adventures in the Old Country (Kavalier and Clay, to its credit, at least only focuses on its main characters’ adventures overseas, not their grandparents’.)?  Holden Caulfield would have called this the “David Copperfield kind of crap.”  What’s the point?

Full disclosure:  I personally can think of fewer things more boring than family history, genealogy and who-begat-who and who lived in whose house and who was whose nephew.  It holds no interest for me whatever.  I spent my early years practically drowning in family lore and it became an irritating slog.  There were too many family members to keep track of, too many farms (we’re Midwestern), too many marriages, too many funerals, too many births, too many christenings.  Also I stubbornly hold to the (almost certainly naive) belief that in America, past doesn’t matter, only the future does, you’re not defined by the actions of your father and mother but by your own, etc.  So it makes sense that these kind of books wouldn’t interest me much.

But leaving that aside, what accounts for the popularity of these narratives, and their frequency?  Hemon’s novel offers a depressing clue: grant money.  The book involves a narrator named Brik (whose biographical details are unsettlingly close to Hemon’s–I’m getting tired of authors trying to have it both ways, giving us narrators who are basically them but still trying to hide behind the device of fiction) who, upon receiving a fortuitous grant from a local cultural society, decides to travel to Bosnia to research the life of Lazarus, a Bosnian immigrant killed in cold blood by a Chicago police chief in the early 20th century.  Simply put: it is easier to get grant money to write a book if it involves some level of “familial research”.  It’s not hard to determine why this is so.  American literature is under fire these days from those who accuse (mostly the Nobel Prize Committee) that our work is too “insular”; that we don’t partake in the “great world conversation of literature”  (And how might we do that?  Write novels that don’t take place in our own nation?  Novels that don’t reflect the places in which we live our lives?  Good luck making any good art out of that, pal).  So, to placate these critics, we pump out novels in which the narrator can only look backward, novels that are basically great dumping grounds for grant-assisted genealogical research.  This was fine for a while but, as with anything successful, it’s becoming a formula, and it’s time for authors to move beyond it, and engage with the past in different ways.

–Jon W.

Bill Watterson interview

The Cleveland Plain-Dealer has scored the first interview with Bill Watterson in 20 years.

–Jon W.

How Fiction Works

An excellent review/takedown (reviewdown?) of James Wood’s How Fiction Works, a book that the instructors at the University of Arizona have, for lack of a better phrase, been shoving down our throats the past year or so.  My feelings are that it’s a worthwhile book so long as you realize that its title is a complete misnomer.  A useful rule of thumb to remember about critics is the only thing that separates them from you is they’ve read more books.  James Wood’s read a lot of books, and he likes Saul Bellow.  I’ve read a lot of books (admittedly probably one-hundredth of the number Wood has read) and I like John Hawkes.  Wood’s definition of “how fiction works” is depressingly narrow, and would make me want to give up the venture entirely were it not for this: he’s incorrect.  Fiction is not about–never about–one thing.  That’s why it’s still here.

–Jonathon Walter

The eternal battle between Gardner and Gass

At Bad Eminence, a lengthy, well-written post on the somewhat contentious (but always respectful) argument between William Gass and John Gardner on the purpose of fiction.  I am in Gass’ camp, myself, but it’s worthwhile to note that his fiction and his theories on same often contradict each other; just because Gass has doubts about the importance of such nebulous concepts as “character”, “plot” and “meaning” doesn’t mean that he eschews them in his own work.  I in fact would argue that Gass’ work in the short story form is among the greatest that has been produced by an American in the second half of the last century, worthy of being ranked with Carver, O’Connor and other masters.  His two novels are both, in their own way, practically without compare.  Omensetter’s Luck is the closest thing we have to a Midwestern Faulkner and The Tunnel is such a tour-de-force of metaphor and peculiar linguistic construction that the OED itself might seem starved for words by comparison.

Gardner’s work has not aged as well.  Grendel is clever and remains an excellent read, but October Light is one of the worst, most hideously didactic books I’ve ever read.  On Moral Fiction, his infamous treatise on the aforementioned subject of fiction’s purpose, happens to be an excellently written argument–but nevertheless one I don’t agree with a single word of.

–Jonathon Walter