Softly He Lifts His Snow White Mane ...

Despite his work life incarceration in the enforced gezelligheid (Dutch) of the modern era, here he skips bringing a sweet offering called Platterland. It is by Rob Hunter. It is sub-headed You'll Be Happy Here. But this is less an imperative and more a winsome blandishment softly uttered in anticipation rather than trepidation, one imagines. The author calls it a “hypertext puzzle box.” And — filled with nine stories and a novella — so it is.
Certainly “The Orange Virgin” —  the novella in question — is a quandary box filled with the seminal clutter of a well stocked mind made redundant — thereby free to gambol — by an errant world devoid of all nous about the classicism once imparted to a tender youth through a stern apprenticeship to Greek and Latin Masters frequently mistaken, though no more, for antarctic birds. In it a clash of titans fills the foreground as the earth goddess and sky demon jostle one another back into their proper dominions. A lavish palimpsest of characters spatters the way, like the texture of a well painted flat, rich in hue and vast in breadth while the depth leaves the reader breathless. Call it Ulysses in Willapac or the Decimated Decameron. Hell, its really Shakes' comic countrymen gathered in a giddy fête to gigue around the good old phallus. Lots of slap the stick humor. The image of a thousand clowns emerging from a VW or a deux chevaux is commonplace. Conjure the effort of stuffing the 957^th clown in! In the 30 years Rob struggled to create his Parnassus he must have felt like that when he wasn't envying the easy life of Laocoön. Oh far far better to cope with seas snakes than with narrative strands! Golems dance with demi-urges to the heady rhythms of cigar chomping manticores while Ur Goats nod and udderful bulls bellow to be milked though they know not where. Life is confusing for a bas relief left to the imagination below the belly button.

Notice must be taken of the cover art by Anna Wilkenfeld. Two of Swords distils Platterland — You'll Be Happy Here to a heady liquor while serendipitously capturing the current political scene.
But there is more. Nine stories more, sort of like this:
What is alien? Perhaps no more than your full on normal point of view, but seen out of the corner of another's eye?

So a Fixer says to the Golem behind the bar somewhere in the Larger Magellanic Cloud: Which way to the Poconos?

Now appearing nightly: Ernie Kovacs and Arnold Stang in "King of the Wood" the new off-off Willapaq hit play from the Golden Bough.

"Three smashed thumbs!!!" — The Carpenter of Kennebunkport.
"Huh?"  — Burt and I.
"Nertz" — Unperiodic Variety.

Who was that white suited dude with the handlebars?
You mean a mustache?
One of those too.
Was he driving a late model Fulton Riverboat?
No he was in the subway. In Milan.
Oh, Mark Twain.

Memory is the available time machine. Our own Doc Wonmug dials the relevant and irreverent past to show: 'here be dragon'.

But, seriously folks... Rob Hunter has assembled a delicious assortment of adventures with an interstellar cast of characters including Flyin' Ed. Those of you who have read Rob's work before will dispute my clumsy attempts above to assault the flavor of Rob's wit, imagination and sheer narrative dazzlement. Those who don't know Rob's work ... first, I envy them the encounter whose consummation is devoutly to be hurried to commencement and savored in the repletion during. There is no second because you are already clicking on the handy order form.
For those so churlish as not to have done so, follow the links for print, e-book and audio book formats. all for the amazingly low price — offer only available this century —of absolutely not a nickel, no shipping or handling, free — except where otherwise stated in the fine print.
— ml

Is Imagination Wasted on Children?

Or only on school boards?
Literature, like enoki, should not be wasted on children. Fortunately there is no question that Magnetic Betty, another effort by Rob Hunter, is literature. For one thing, its cover does not proclaim that it's word choice is level appropriate, or class specific or meet any other double entendre friendly rubric. This means that this volume is not approved by the Global Council for Excessive Explanation of Pointless Innuendo's Dumb Down Project (GCEEPI:DDP). This relieves all serious adults of any responsibility to attend the remainder of this review.
Now, for the rest of us:  Yes! Rob Hunter has done it again! He has added a highly polished small industrial diamond to the crown wrought by Carroll, Sendak, Thurber, and a few others.  Too few others for our own good. With the omelette pan I join in giving this book a full "zoop!"
It is available from Lulu, or through Rob himself. You have your directions -- follow them!
--ml
This update is to correct a terrible omission. This tale is splendidly illustrated by Lee Suta, a superb choice to complement Rob. My apologies to Mr. Suta.

The Writer's Dilemma

A writer's worst dread is to be unread.

However gratifying the praise of crickets may be, only the publisher's check, if accepted by his, oh so clever (just ask him), banker, puts beans and such on his table.

Every one can write.

Just because you are good, does not mean you are good for that market.

Craftsman enough to be published, the duration of a reader's notice is short.

Few trouble to spend much time reading.

The only thing more petrifying than reading last month's issue is the medical appointment that usually follows.

How to cope with the half life of short fiction is every writer's knotty dilemma.

Along comes Rob Hunter to whack it in two like Alexander did the Gordian Knot. He collects a bouquet of his published short fiction, including one novella, into a handsome paper back. This removes the stigma of 'past issue' while opening the tales to broader audiences who may not be readers of a particular magazine. Is the candle worth the game? Yes. Emphatically yes. If you had a character cellar to pepper your stories with saps, clowns and God's fools in the manner of a Damon Runyon, a William Saroyan, a Ring Lardner, Junior, all rolled into one, while keeping the tale original you might almost match Rob's efforts here. These works are as varied as the nine patch quilts he limns so evocatively while remaining the clear effusions of a single master story teller.

For examples:

A Pass on the Tabouli offers a slice of peripheral vision. The characters inhabit the world we only glimpse out of the corner of our eyes. That world vanishes if looked at full on, lost in a fog of conventional feelings we choose to call reality. One might call a spade a spade in either world, but only in that peripheral world are we not too polite to admit that when we do the reason we refuse to dig is that we are lazy. Even that only when the tabouli is off.

Boys Night Out: Lycanthropy offers a plausible diversion from a narrative of conversational mixed doubles that illuminates suburban gender roles.

I Want to Share Your Wheat. A passage de danse for fore and back brain, digits and a cool green monitor filling with ampersands. Only those who know the horror of a blank page will appreciate the depth of this fantasy.

A Perfect Homburg. Further adventures of Jim Everhardy, our proxy mystery player: Everywriter. Who knew that a “38 Dodge chrome hubcap beats a gent’s best felt in the muse's duckpin league?

An Unwarmed Fish Artemis' Friday stand in nymph, Bambi, teaches Everywriter the value of not appearing with only a soundbite at a satire fight. Especially if it is a Friday duello in a modern day Duffy's Tavern caught in a Thursday time loop and well larded with spoonerisms. Wellerisms! Can't get enough of them.

Klein, the Clone Explores with nostalgic eyes the joys and perils of growing up twin and cloned in a blue rinse world of flags of all nations, noodle kugel, Mah-jong parties and an absent father – his body, not his head-- lost in Willipaq. Mistakes do happen.

The Nine Patch Variations. Libby Pease contemplates the infinite finitude of memory as she discovers the true, and only, existential question: Now, where did I put... what was it I'm looking for? Meantime William, call me Bill, Powell, detached from the silver screen, kibitz's on Libby's quilting, while the scallop casserole simmers seductively.

The Runaway Bungalo. Santa Expidito choreographs Mama Coca's tainted clams into a pas de trois for waitress, gentil hombre, and machine pistols. Not only the butterflies die. Oh, yes. Pirates!.

In all, there are seventeen entries to odd corners of Manhattan, Massapequa and Maine, and points South, North, East and West. Views of paranoid borders with Canada and the id abound. At just over a buck a tale this is the perfect bound perfect gift for the quirky and normal on the list. Go see Rob’s site: onetinleg.com for ordering details.

Not convinced? Rob, it turns out, is incredibly generous as well as marvelously gifted. Besides containing lanolin he is a voice artist of dexterity with timing to die for. Many of his stories are available as Mp3 files.

Hear him tell it.

Own and give your own copies.

Delicious.

Let me close with a poor song of my own but inspired by the The Song of the Rice Barge Coolie

In the interstices angst may provide
Glimpses of ids or sills inside.
Inevitable suicide?
Or wonted homicide?
You decide.

--ml

Tags: Robert Hunter, Dum Luks Community