Travel. Read. Rinse. Repeat. Reflect? We are on a beach and yes that makes us dicks. Which is to say we have been travel and read and beach since June, and work, yes, sure, but travel, and read and beach, rinse, repeat, all summer, and so we are dicks. The summer is over though, one last weekend of sand and books and such now behind us and the children back to school tomorrow. It may have been the busiest, if not, best summer in some time, and with each stop there was read. Slouching Towards Bethlehem in Los Angeles, Conquistador of the Useless in Philadelphia, Apocalypticon and Annihilation in South Carolina, and so many other books, and beaches along the way, including, but most definitely not limited to Where Alligators Sleep by the Sheldon Lee Compton. What struck us between train rides and books and so many drinks, is that a summer is comprised of moments, eating donuts in L.A. strip malls, listening to podcasts about Robin Williams while running on the beach, the endless Gin & Tonics, and that these pieces while wonderful in and of themselves, merge and twist into something else: a picture of something whole, nuanced, and full of details that make for a life lived. This too is what Compton has done with Where Alligators Sleep, pieces of flash and fiction, that linger in your brain, but then as a whole become something, a picture of what it means to be a man, full of violence, work, death, relationships, children, and what it means to be alive and part of the world. That Compton writes so descriptively, including passages like: "In two years I'll be gone. My end and your beginning. When you speak to people, any people,try to be polite. Don't look directly at them. Keep your tone soft and never let them see what you are, where you came from. It most likely won't help, but try anyway. And have a son. Teach him to hold his head high. Teach him to take it like a man. Teach him something, anything;" or stands so ably among his peers, especially the Appalachian writers such as Charles Todd White and Rusty Barnes, is merely a bonus, that his work may just change your life, is certainty.
Quite dig the weird. And quite dig this. Excerpt? Word.
"In a way, he shows how sacred fatherhood is by stripping away the facade of anything hallowed and dealing honestly with the funny, wacky, sometimes paradoxical nature of being a dad. He engages the weird, which is engaging the truth of it all."
We suppose there must be something out there called "Dick Lit." Said lit would be the spawn of High Fidelity by Nick Hornby, who can legitimately be called out for exposing state secrets, and might be described as literature about men as boys not quite wanting to be men. Said lit is also required to touch on music, sometimes books, and lists, girls, escape, if not outright quest, outsiderness as cool, and the idea that John Cusack, bless his heart, is all we need to know or aspire to. Post-Dick Lit, there is the nebulous next stage in life, as well as, lit manhood, and books such as Fathermucker by the Greg Olear, which neatly, and brilliantly, capture this world. These books retain the same touchstones, but are a sort of coming of age tale for those who have already come of age, have found some kind of adult groove, are now faced with what comes next, and how any of it can possibly work out. Conquistador of the Useless by the Joshua Isard falls into this latter group, and in doing so, is rich in both detail and humor, and is not only hits the touchstones, music, lists, quests, etc., but fluidly creates a whole suburban world of marriage, office, neighbors, and aging, though not aged, parents. What's needed for these books to truly work though, is two-fold. First, there must be a new take on the old wrinkles, and in this, Isard is not only successful, but possibly prescient, in creating a protagonist who is all about work, and yet is comfortably striving for nothing more than happiness and contentment. Work is work, and necessity, certainly, but it is not life, nor intended to be anything greater than what we do day to day so we can do everything else, assuming we know what that is. Secondly, and harder to capture, the story must be authentic, or at least have moments that are so authentic, or real, that they elevate the tale beyond good writing and storytelling. Olear wrote several such scenes, including one in which the protagonist fulfills his quest after such a bad day of fathering that he, and we, are utterly amazed, and moved, he could do so. It is a scene that feels so real, it indeed elevates an already terrific book. Isard accomplishes this as well, and there is one scene that resonated with us in particular. The protagonist has made a connection with a young, female neighbor, actions that will always feel suspect, because they are always suspect, and then tells his wife that this young woman will someday be hot, something which is ultimately no different than saying she already is. When his wife calls him on this, he pleads ignorance, though there's no point in doing so. Like Hornby's best characters, he has spoken the unspoken, something men think, but shouldn't say, much less imply: in this case, the idea that really young women won't always be so young and men are all to aware of that. It is in speaking the unspoken where literature has the chance to take off, moving from good to great, and changing lives, even if only briefly at that.
Quite yes. And so endlessly appreciated. Excerpt? Word.
"Tanzer’s flash pieces each hit on a single element of fatherhood, which
is an effective way to approach the experience and give the little
things, both funny and serious, their due. This series of stories
reminded me a little bit of Abbott Awaits by Chris Bachelder, a novel
about fatherhood in flash-style vignettes. The stylistic similarities
are easy to see, but the mix of wit, humor, and sensitivity to the
sometimes paradoxical nature of fatherhood is what makes Tanzer’s work
stand up there with Bachelder’s."
