Listen Up, You Primitive Screw-Heads!

It’s been years. Why has the Tomb Gnome shaken off the dust of ages and roused itself from its sepulcher? Well, I’ve fixed my cigarette to my filter, downed three bourbons with a mescaline chaser, and am ready to tell you people (ALL of you people) what is going on. Even six feet beneath the earth, I hear the rumblings. You’ve managed to get a racist demagogue as your likely president. Guess what? IT IS YOUR FAULT. Even if you are on the left. ESPECIALLY if you are on the left.

The tiny-handed hairpiece isn’t the problem; he’s just an orange boil on top of a much deeper infection. Twenty years ago, the churches of black Americans throughout the south were being targeted for arson. You tsked. You shook your head. Cops on the street shoot unarmed black men in the back. “That’s awful,” you say, “but that’s not all cops, right? A few bad apples.”

IT IS EVERY. FUCKING. COP. That’s what the word “institutional” means.

You privately think that Islam is “different” than other religions. That it somehow bears a unique taint that infects it. You believe this because a.) the media thrives above all on fear, and b.) you are a lazy pig. You tolerate these kinds of viewpoints; you give them a “fair hearing;” you never once stepped back and looked to see how media coverage treated Islam and Muslims differently. Even if you did, you concluded that the “spectrum of opinions” was represented, when really it was just a spectrum of “we’re a little afraid” to “HOLY CHRIST WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”

That is not a spectrum of views. That is a single view with flavors. Racist Ripple, in low-fat and traditional, and you can’t shovel it down fast enough.

It’s not the money in politics any longer; it’s the hate. Tap into the hate. Use the rage. But the fascists have a monopoly on rage now, and the Left handed it to them. Once, there were marches on Washington. There were demonstrations. People stood up to monsters like Bull Connor and took their punches and came back for more, like a nation of Muhammed Alis. Now? Somebody tries a march on Wall Street and you dismiss them as “hipster protestors.” Right, because your envelope stuffing and charitable contributions are real agents of change.

So in the absence of a legitimate protest against the growing stupid fuck contingent, the media shifted. The national consciousness shifted. The party of Nixon became the party of random, beer-swilling ignoramuses. Say what you will about that evil son of a bitch Dick, he was smart. He was competent. He was the Devil, but even Hell takes management skills to keep it ticking over.

You’ve managed to trade the Devil for the King in Orange, and Hell for Leng, and you are about to find out how different those things are. AND YOU DESERVE IT.

At some point, America ran out of righteous indignation. We gave up on the Dream, and became a nation of sweaty lumps. This is the inevitable end-game of the American Experiment, because the Left has spent fifty years surrendering territory to the Right and the People have spent the last fifty years surrendering territory to money-choked fuckwits.

Now I want to be clear: I’m not advocating anything here. You’re all fucked no matter what. You’re rearranging deck chairs in Hiroshima, because you still think that the boil is the infection. YOU are the infection, as much as any tattooed neo-Nazi bellowing “Trump!” from a passing pick-up truck.  The entire country has gone septic, so riddled with gangrenous thoughts and people that taking out the disease would take out the patient. So instead you’re going to rot.

If you manage to get out of November without a hairpiece as president, you’ll wipe your brows and say “phew, we dodged a bullet!” Because you are ignorant, cowardly swine. You dodged NOTHING. It is raining lead from the sky on the heads of rich and poor alike, and it isn’t going to stop. 50,000,000 Trump Fans Can Be Wrong, and that album is just Taps, played at 1/4 speed. It’s all still happening, all still out there, and you all caused it. America doesn’t need a change, it needs hospice care as it waits for the end.

The message of the Tomb Gnome is simple: fuck off. Don’t speak to me of politics, don’t defend yourself to me, don’t think that I care. It’s too late. We’re dead already. I just have the good sense to see it.


Published in: on July 29, 2016 at 1:35 pm  Leave a Comment  

Worry not, oh consumptive maidens…

In the sunken Ossuary of Lost Books

the Tomb Gnome lies, not dead

but reading.

Published in: on September 17, 2007 at 6:33 am  Comments (1)  

Names are SO Important. Seriously. Cannot stress it enough.

Before I delve boldly into my review of Gothic!, a lovely little package of creepies and tinglies edited by Deborah Noyes, and featuring such luminaries as Neil Gaimen and Joan Aiken, I would be most obliged if you would indulge me in a small rant. ahem. The category of “Young Adult” is a needless barrier between readers and books. So many wonderful books are published and, often due to the simple fact that they contain a young protagonist, are slapped with the “YA” label and therefore cut off from legions of adult readers (at least those who maintain a sense of shame: I proudly lug whole stacks of library books back to the Ossuary with bright yellow “YA” stamps on their spines). I wonder if it has a similar effect on teen-agers, making them think that what they enjoy is somehow “lesser” than an “adult” book… It’s a complex issue, deserving of its own Tomb Gnome Rant (patent pending), and so I will leave it at the above. Gothic! mentions in its introduction that it is geared specifically for teens, which, however it may affect teen readers, set my teeth on edge and did not put me in a receptive mood.

However, the book itself was a wonderful thing. Following a bit of an old chesnut for short-story reviews, I will give a brief one-line summary of my feelings on each story, instead of trying to review the disparate parts as a whole. And so the reviewing continues:

 “The Lungewater” by Joan Aiken: a nice little gothic tale, with an ending that I found both tragic and utterly reasonable, marred by only one flaw which I shall deal with independantly at the conclusion of this review.

“Morgan Roehmar’s Boys” by Vivian Vande Velde was more of a traditional “horror” story than any of the others, but was also the only story to actually creep me out quite a bit, which is saying something.

“Watch and Wake” by M.T. Anderson uses subtle hints at first, and then more prominent ones, to let us know that his story’s real world and ours are only tangentially related, a technique I admire. This one had a “bang” ending, as did its predecessor, and probably comes in second on the scale of sheer spookiness (though its closing image is going to stick with you for a long time…)

“Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Nameless House of the Night of Dread Desire” by Neil Gaimen: oh, what can one say in the face of Neil Gaimen other than “please, please, please keep writing books, or we may have to use the pokers again.” This spoof, essentially a screwball parody of Gothic literature, is the jewel of the book, proving once again that dying is easy, and comedey is hard.

“The Dead and The Moonstruck” by Caitlin R. Kiernan left me as flat as an unattended egg cream. It was readable, and not terrible, but had nothing in particular to recommend it. A coming-of-age tale with a gothic twist.

“Have No Fear, Crumpot is Here!” by Barry Yourgrau was an amusing foray into horror/parody, but suffers from the fact that it is in the same book as Gaimen’s parody. That isn’t a fair way to judge a short story, but in terms of the book, it was definitely a weak entry.

“Stone Tower” by Janni Lee Simner skillfully combined certain elements of faery stories and Lovecraft to create an extremely tense and disturbing little story, with fascinating (and equally disturbing) psycho-sexual overtones. A lovely thing.

“The Prank” by Gregory Maguire: Though the first-person narrator’s “teen” voice was occassionally a bit forced, it was an interesting story in general, with only two real characters,  both of whom are sufferring from deep guilt: one for a recent act, one for a much older one. How they deal with their problems is more realistic than satisfying, but that only serves to make the story as a whole more resonant.

“Writing on the Wall” by Celia Rees. A haunted house story. Uses one nice effect, alluded to in the title. Other than that, fairly run-of-the-mill.

“Endings” by Garth Nix. Short, poetic, and pleasant, and a suitable closer, if a bit heavy-handed.

In all, this was a wonderful book, a nice collection to foist on any person you know who could use a few moments of creepy dread, accompanied by intermittent chuckling.

On The Imporatnce Of Names: a bonus mini-review. In “The Lungewater,” Joan Aiken (she of The Wolves of Willoughby Chase) has a villain. He is a count from an Eastern European country. Most probably Russia. His name is most likely taken from a mid-twentieth century author of books on Russian pronunciation and grammar; it is not a “created” name. However, in a book, particularly one geared towards teens, it might have been wise not to name a character Boyanus. Say it out loud. Let it roll around in your mind. Boyanus. There are two words there. They shouldn’t be there, but they are, and it detracted a bit from the story. What would have been wrong with Borzakov?

Published in: on September 8, 2007 at 8:37 am  Comments (9)  

The Primal White Jelly. On Toast.

It seems faintly ridiculous to “review” such a well-loved piece of fantastic literature (in both senses) as “At The Mountains of Madness,” so I will restrict myself to a few random reflections on it, as well as a comment on the particular edition I chose to read: the Modern Library’s “Definitive” edition.

As to the edition, it has two optional extras installed; one, an introduction by China Mieville (of Perdido Street Station fame, which you should read if you haven’t), and two, HPL’s essay “Supernatural Horror in Literature.” Both contribute to the value of the book significantly, and Mieville manages to cram quite a bit of interesting and thought-provoking criticism into a few short pages (and excoriating, and to my mind rightly so, those who would attempt to forgive or ignore HPL’s “foul racist drivel”). The essay, of course, is superb, in which HPL outlines, in a sense, his philosophy of what he does, and did better than anyone.

As to the text itself, it is of course magnificent, but suffers a bit (to me) from the fact that I know the tales and the cosmology of Lovecraft Country so well that I lose the sense of shock and cosmic horror that HPL was going for in his work. I feel, instead, almost a sense of comfort, as if Innsmouth or Arkham were hometowns from my beloved childhood, and I often reflect fondly on the fish-faced, hooded, chanting inhabitants. It caused me to reflect that a reader coming to “At The Mountains of madness” for the first time would be well served to if they could read it without context: without title and without author, so that the slow warping from clinical, scientific description to other-worldly horror with the shuddering shock that Lovecraft intended. “Lovecraft” has become a name to conjure with, making it near-impossible for we in these benighted times to read his work with one-tenth the suspense they initially contained.

“At The Mountains of Madness” is particularly notable for its slow build, from scientific certainty to the shatterring of all of our petty human certainties. It is the masterwork of using science to ground what is, in essence, a fantasy, and I couldn’t help but think of the modern cinematic masterwork of the technique (and the best Lovecraftian movie in the last thirty years, setting aside the HPL Historical Society’s brilliant silent movie “The Call of Cthulhu”): Ghostbusters. In one of his director commentaries, Ivan Reitman pointed out that since he knew going in that the movie ended with a ten-story marshmallow man rampaging through New York, he had to establish reality very quickly and with certainty, so that the world would be utterrly believable before he began twisting it to his own supernatural ends. So: scientists, a library, a university, a brush with the other side. Nothing more, but it prepares the viewer for what is to come. He could have been following the blueprint of “At The Mountains of Madness.”

Published in: on September 7, 2007 at 8:49 am  Comments (3)  

You Can Never Be Too Thin (and still cost $20)

I almost never buy books, being a booster for the free library system (there are several lovely libraries conveniently located to my home ossuary), and that allows me to read things that would otherwise slip by me. D.A., by time-travel/humor/sci-fi author Connie Willis, falls in this category, being in essence a short story hard-bound and illustrated by some quite amusing photo-images by J.K. Potter. The story of a high-school student in the near-future (one assumes: UCLA still exists, so California hasn’t slid into the Pacific yet…) who is, through no effort of her own (and against her express wishes), sent to the prestigious IASA space academy. The bulk of the text is devoted to her efforts at both trying to get outof the IASA Academy (a space station named after Robert Heinlein), and trying to find out who rail-roaded her into it in the first place.

The “mystery” of why and who isn’t all that mysterious, but the ride is entertaining, and Willis manages to keep the pace quick and the humor plentiful. Also, I am a sucker for a plucky heroine, and Theodora Baumgarten certainly fits that bill (with a name like that, how could she not?).

I finished the novella in about an hour, though individual user’s times may vary. Certainly worth the time and trouble of digging up out of your local library, though not exactly worth the price…

Published in: on September 7, 2007 at 8:33 am  Comments (2)  

The One Whose Soul Has No Price

In an effort to take a quick break from tiny, tiny text that has lead this particular tomb gnome to summon from the depths of the Abyss many a dessicated optician, I decided to strike off into the world of sequential art, and, in keeping with the theme of R.I.P., I thought how far wrong can I go when the very title of the story is “Gothic?”

Batman: Gothic, written by Grant Morrison and illustrated by Klaus Janson, was an incredibly entertaining read. It is a fast read, as comic are intended to be, but it managed to pack in a variety of references to both traditional Gothic fiction, early noir (particularly the unsettling Fritz Lang film “M”), and the very “personal” mythology of Batman, with, as an added extra, a very brief description  of the purposes of Gothic architecture.

This comic, beautifully, if traditionally, illustrated by Janson, isn’t quite a work of art, but it is certainly a highly skilled work of craft, with the dominant theme of arches, darkness, and spirituality brought out in the sharp, angular lines and occassionally surprising coloration.

As for the story, it is a laundry list of Gothic particulars. Debauched monks! Deals with the Devil! Black magic! Elaborate traps! Ghostly apparitions! Soaring cathedrals!  Prophetic dreams! Supernatural horror! It’s a phantasmagoria, with a certain emphasis on the “gore” near the end in a memorable discovery at the cathedral. It is still a brooding, violent Batman tale, with some incidental crime-fighting and a cast that includes a rogue’s gallery of interchangeable central casting mobsters, but the elements beyond that truly put this into a category worth reading: it is a true fusion as the title promises, wholly Gothic and wholly Gotham simultaneously.

A refreshing quote, to close my review, from the lips of a charming young woman we meet over the course of our sequential journey: “God’s not at home. He’s left and he’ll never come back here. The cathedral is God’s rotting refuse. People dig and burrow like maggots…”

With dialogue like that, who can resist?

Published in: on September 6, 2007 at 5:39 pm  Comments (2)  

The Post: Void of Mystery and Enchantment…

Recently, I ordered a book (this book) from the greatest innovation for readers since the free public library, Paperback Swap. This is all well and good, but I had thought, in my silly, addled way, that I had been ordering this book, which I have been seeking out for some time to refurbish the RPG collection of my childhood, lost to my mother’s insane bout of religious intolerance, now mostly abated (she hasn’t handled a snake in years). This is where the mystery begins…

I received the first book, that I had ordered, on the Tuesday preceding today, immediately after Labor Day (“workers of the world unite!”). But I also received, through a secondary retailer of, the second book, the book that I had THOUGHT I was ordering, at the same time. Both books were in my post-box, like little presents from a winged angel with marbled wings.  I have determined that neither I nor my life partner, in a fit of absent-minded book purchasing (not actually that unlikely), had purchased the book, and I am left thinking that the universe, through the auspices of L-space, have seen fit to give me a present. Of course, one of my friends, few though they may be in number, may have been thinking of randomly bestowing upon me a gift of a book, but why that book? Why then? I stand before the stacks of the universe in awe, still impressed that I show up in its card catalogue.

Published in: on September 6, 2007 at 9:23 am  Comments (1)  

Shelf 14: Lost Souls, Null Psychics, and Dull Satanists

The Inferno Collection, by Jacqueline Seewald, promised a great deal: set in an unnamed university, where the main character is both a reference librarian and a latent psychic (aren’t all reference librarians psychic, I ask myself?), who struggles to solve the murder of her friend with the assistance of not one but two romantic interests, and is opposed by a rogue’s gallery of academics, Satanists, and both. How could a book with this premise fail to entice, excite, and fascinate?

Quite easily, as it turns out.

I don’t particularly enjoy giving overly negative reviews (if a book is so bad that it need kicking down the stairs, I don’t finish it), so I am going to try to convey exactly how I feel about this book. It was not good, it was not bad, it was not engrossing but it was entertaining, and it held my interest for the full day it took me to read it, even though I closed the book with a wet thump of resounding disappointment. But those are generalities: I will move on to specifics, starting with the negatives.

This is not a “book” mystery. At no point does the collection of manuscripts (an alleged “Inferno” collection; which is a collection of books kept seperate from the main stacks of the library due to their salacious or heretical content: a Victorian concept, primarilly) figure prominently in the story, and when they are finally discovered I, for one, felt let down by their utter mundanity. This is also not a “psychic” mystery: although the protagonist is mentioned as having a “seventh sense,” she never manifests even the slightest psychic ability, and in fact seems to blunder about rather a bit more than a normal person operating only by common sense would. The “psychic” status of the protagonist (Kim Reynolds) seems more like a gimmick to explain her immediate attraction to a “hunk” of a police detective, who also happens to have “psychic” powers (and manifests them in much the same way; which is to say, not at all). And this is not an “occult” mystery: there are vague hints at Satanic practices and so forth, and even a suggestion that, at a certain moment, something actually outside of the realm of “normal” experience occurs, but it is given one line and never referred to again.

The positives of this book, however, are not to be discounted entirely. It is an interesting read, if only for the slow reveal of Kim Reynold’s history and the complex relationship she has with her mother, due to incidents in the past revealed throughout the book. The mystery of Kim’s friend Lorette’s murder is, frankly, slim stuff indeed compared to the depth of family secrets and pasts left untended. Seewald was both a reference librarian and a Creative Writing instructor at the collegiate level, and much of her book is given over to amusing but simplistic characters (caricatures?) through which she pokes quite a bit of fun at academe. (A lecherous professor from England who uses his accent to good effect with undergraduates rang particularly true for me…) Her workman-like prose bears up well: there are few phrases that will remain after the book is closed, but there are also few if any obvious gaffes. The mystery as mystery is also interesting in its way, and actually surprised me when the killer was revealed: a rather obvious set of connections (obvious in retrospect, as they should be in mysteries) failed to point me even vaguely in the right direction. The sting of this is somewhat lessened by the fact that it also failed to lead Kim Reynolds in the right direction, “psychic” powers and all. The mystery is not so much “solved” as “revealed,” and no character can really be called a detective in this story (except in the strict sense of “municipal employment as such”).

So, to sum up The Inferno Collection: is it worth reading? Yes, I think so, as light entertainment, particularly for those of us who have fond or unfond memories of our years up the Ivory Tower. But it is more a collection of missed opportunities than a solid mystery.

(For those of you interested in the kind of world that produces tomb gnomes, I thought it might be interesting to point out that my public library had an inferno collection when I was growing up: all books concerning sex, the occult, and certain other subjects were kept off of the stacks and could not be checked out by children [meaning anyone under 18] without parental consent, and had to be requested by adults. Since this was the 1980s, it gives you some idea of the backward clay that I have had to spin my life with…)

Published in: on September 6, 2007 at 8:48 am  Comments (4)  

The rattle of nails and artillery shells (Baltimore, by Mignola/Golden)

I just completed (indeed, this very morning before leaving the house) Mike Mignola and Christopher Golden’s latest effort, Baltimore, or the Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire. I am a long-time fan of both of these creators, particularly Mignola, whose fantastic and oft-times hilarious (while simultaneously creepy) Hellboy has entertained me for many years. Golden has written quite a bit as well, though I am only familiar with him as the author of a couple of Hellboy novels, and the editor of a couple of short-story collections. It is my understanding that he is big in the Buffy-authoring community, but I never quite “got” the whole Buffynominon.

None of that has anything to do with this book, though. This is an illustrated volume, enhanced with art of Mignola’s spectacular and unsettling artwork. When rendered in black and white, his drawings achieve something of a wood-cut quality, which makes them even more impressive. They are throughout the book, both as text-enhancing decorations and the occassional full-page image, and they add signifigantly to the story’s effect.

 I say story, but in fact Baltimore is essentially a frame story, in which three strangers, related only by their acquaintance with Lord Baltimore, tell tales of supernatural horror. The frame is the story of Lord Baltimore himself, and his experiences during a slightly altered (from our own experience) Great War, and the plague that follows. Each story is in and of itself entertaining, and also serves to create an aura of mounting dread a’la Lovecraft, that all that we know and think we know about the world may very well be wrong. There are (obviously) vampires in the book, but the tales of the three companions seemed to me more unsettling, dealing as they did with less explicable horrors. This is not to say that the story of Lord Baltimore, that ties the book together and gives it its structure, is not both entertaining and creepy. Even Baltimore’s story is a significant divergence in many ways from the “traditional” vampire tale, which is a welcome thing.

Goden and Mignola both think in a highly visual way, and it is evident here: there are several moments, several visual vignettes of text, that will stay with me long after the remainder of the book has rotted away to a gray paste at the back of my brain. Really, if you are looking for a tale of supernatural suspense that leans more towards the unsettling than the gory (though don’t be mistaken: there is the occassional flash of crimson), you probably couldn’t do a lot better from modern authors than Baltimore, or the Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire. (for those of you interested in such things, “The Steadfast Tin Soldier” is a rather depressing little tale by Hans Christian Andersen, that weaves its way throughout the book in interesting parallel paths) 

Published in: on September 5, 2007 at 8:50 am  Comments (5)  

It Begins!

So, because of something that I happened to encounter here, all of a sudden I have a blog! My intended use for this blog is going to be book reviews, of the various scatterings and scuttlings of my book-crab nature, for the edification of you, the humble and unwashed reader. Prepare to be improved.

Published in: on September 4, 2007 at 6:45 pm  Comments (3)