Painted Bird Review

The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kosiński
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Cruelty and brutality follow a Jewish child hiding out with Polish peasants during the Second World War. Overworked, beaten, the boy often runs away only to find his next home is basically identical to the one he just escaped. Author Jerzy Kosinski, who survived German savagery in Eastern Europe, made his tale fictional because it "forces the reader to contribute: he does not simply compare [as in autobiography]; he actually enters a fictional role, expanding it in terms of his own experience, his own creative and imaginative powers."

That said, the story was indeed relentless in its violent depictions, highlighted by a ruthless German attack on a village and the stomach-turning barbarities inflicted on a helpless populace. But after a time, you're almost numbed to the horrors  because they're always there. In the aftermath of the war, we see Warsaw become Lord of the Flies at night as parentless children, used to living on their wits, run in gangs, taking what they will.

A raw look at a slice of the Second World War unknown to most Western readers. And while well-written, with a note of hope at the end, it batters you with humanities' dark side.


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Famous People Born 12/5

From December 5, 2011, I repost my birthday thoughts on fame and fortune. What have I learned in three years? A kind word opens many doors and that no man stands so tall as when he stoops to help a homunculus.






Thank you very much to all who have, so far, wished me Happy Birthday. In thinking of this day, I am reminded of several famous Americans who share my date of birth. I will list three and examine their accomplishments as compared to mine.

1. Martin Van Buren - b. Dec. 5, 1782

2. George Armstrong Custer - b. Dec. 5, 1839

3. Walt Disney - b. Dec. 5, 1901

4. John P. McCann - b. Dec. 5, 1952

1. Martin Van Buren succeeded greatly in becoming the 8th President of the United States but was hardly remembered even in his own day. He had a large bull frog stuffed and used as an ink well in the White House. However President Taft later sat on it by accident and they had to throw the thing out. That's about it.

2. George Armstrong Custer succeeded greatly as a soldier in the Civil War but had a mixed record fighting Indians. (1-1-2, I think.) He is best remembered for his spectacular fail at the Battle of the Little Big Horn. At first, everything was going well; then it all fell apart under an Indian tsunami. In later years, Custer had a park named after him as well as a monument and a movie where his part was played by Errol Flynn. That's a whole lot more than Van Buren ever got.

3. Walt Disney succeeded greatly in animation, a pioneer in the field, creator of iconic characters—but not the word 'iconic' which has been seized upon by junior execs.—established Disney studios and Disneyland and is fondly remembered to this day. Nonetheless his body is frozen in a vault beneath Disney's Burbank lot and should Walt be reanimated and start making decisions again it could effect his legacy.

4. John P. McCann was greatly successful as a Hollywood atmosphere player. McCann was the ship-board stand-in for a Canadian actor portraying Errol Flynn in My Wicked, Wicked Ways. In addition, he is visible catching Dennis Quaid's jacket at around 1:19 in a clip from Great Balls of Fire.
More successful in animation, McCann created the non-iconic character of The Huntsman. For the next fifteen years, he piggy-backed onto as many successful shows as his friends would allow. While the record is still being written, outsiders agree that McCann will be remembered by Bank of America and several other creditors who might reasonably feel aggrieved should he pass from the scene within the next several months.

Images: whitehouse.gov, Parcbench, fold3

Jesus' Son Review

Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Down and out in the Midwest, this collection of short stories invites you into the lives of addicts and petty criminals as they self-destruct, screw up the lives of those closest to them, and, in some cases, find hope. Denis Johnson's prose is a good mix of rich metaphors and sparse description as he walks us through the taverns, abandoned homes, and aging cars of his suffering protagonists.

The paperback edition is 160 pages and reads quickly as you encounter stories about losers who can't rid themselves of a physically powerful mute, a shooting that seems accidental and leads to the burden of an unwanted death, an addict Peeping Tom who really hopes to view a place for himself in the world. Overall, a good look at alienation, loneliness, and the expectancy of better days.

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7D Pick Up

Image: Disney 7D

Thus saith producer Tom Ruegger over at Cartoonatics. Disney has sprung for 39 more half hours, which translates into 78 shorts which translates into steady employment for many. Themes to be explored in the new season involve Dwarf rights, common sense magic control, and the strangling of democracy at the hands of imperialism by Queen Delightful and her little crown-wearing dog.

50 Shades as Read by Ellen

h/t: The Ellen Show

In the same spirit, 50 Shades of Zane Grey combines the steamy world of exotic sex with the Old West in a blend of leather, whips, and lariats, but all used differently in a satirical send-up of the best-selling trilogy.

Read Part I, II, III, and IV of 'Zane Grey' here on Write Enough! And look for the complete eBook and softcover versions on Amazon in February, right in time for the '50 Shades' film premiere.

Best Black Friday Deals from i09

On your mark, get set, Christmas shop! i09 presents update deals for the early birds—those not eaten today, that is. According to i09:

"The deals below are confirmed, and we've vetted them for quality. We'll be hyperlinking as they go live, replacing deals with better ones, adding price matches, and of course adding lots more, so stay tuned."

Choose from items such as:

• 30% off ANY BOOK on Amazon with code HOLIDAY30, $10 max discount, one use per account
• Get a $20-$50 Amazon gift card with SONOS components, including the PLAYBAR, read more here
• GoPro Hero4 Silver ($400) | Amazon | Plus $50 Gift Card and 32GB MicroSD Card
• Seagate Backup Plus 5TB External ($130) | eBay | Read more here
• PS4 Console + GTA V and The Last of Us ($399) | Best Buy

Review of Catastrophe 1914

Catastrophe 1914: Europe Goes to War by Max Hastings
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Fascinating look at the first five months of World War I. Hastings touches on action in Eastern and Western Europe as well as the Balkans, war in the air, and the conflict at sea. Though long, this is very readable and accessible to non-history buffs, covering in detail the amazing slaughter that occurred as a result of defensive weapons and tactics having advanced more than the offense. Outdated plans, poor generals, and an unwillingness to rapidly adapt to changing circumstances also added to the carnage.

Hastings' research contradicts popular notions of the conflict, such as that the enormous casualties could have been avoided, or that sensible heads might've prevailed that first winter and brought about peace. He points out the fate of occupied France and Belgium under the Germans—deportations, property confiscation, executions—to make a case for the Allied cause.

An excellent book for the 100th anniversary of a war that forever changed Europe.


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Mo LaMarche Sings P&B

Yeeees, he does sing the Pinky and the Brain theme songover at Craig Cumpton's Voice Actors in the News. See Mo and puppeteer Victor Yerrid engage, reflect, muse for no cost but the time it takes you to enjoy. As an act of balance, here is "Pinky" Rob Paulsen singing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle theme song with the very same puppet guy.

puppetsnshit

50 Shades Trailer Plus Satire

Universal Pictures UK

Coming Feb. 13. By then I hope to have 50 Shades of Zane Grey up on Amazon in both eBook and softcover formats. Until then, Happy Thanksgiving to the USA, and keep an eye on this blog or Facebook at JP Mac for updates. 

Image: Old Picture.com

Alone in the Pullman car, heart still rippling from our close escape, I marvel at the rich appointments: the tasseled lamps, the velvet drapes, a redwood desk featuring an ornate oil lamp and a disturbing paper weight of a naked man cringing in ecstasy. A faint smell of cedar mixed with aromatic pipe tobacco and saddle leather permeates the car. My soft chair is finely upholstered. I sip from a water goblet made of expensive European crystal. Oh my, holy jeez crap. I can’t believe I’ve been transported from the dangers of the frontier to a place of safety and mostly good taste. Gradually, my beating heart resumes normal tempo. I’m thankful it is no longer in my mouth. Medical professionals have deemed this tendency odd and fraught with hazards. I wish it would stop.

My Inner Spinster and Inner Bawdy Woman have ceased their panicked brawling. Inner Spinster sullenly tends to bruises dotting her face. Inner Bawdy Woman naps with mouth open near my temporal lobe. In my left ear, hearing returns in time for me to detect a discreet knock on the cabin door. From the landing outside, Mr. Grey’s private secretary steps inside the car. I bite my lip and give my eyes a practice roll. For a large man, he moves softly, gracefully. Dressed in a neatly pressed dusty suit, he displays an extensive array of facial scars. Grey’s secretary sneers at me. In his cultured English accent he says, “Is there anything you require, Miss? A jug of whiskey? Some gingham? Fiddle music?”

Contempt falls from him like wool at a sheep shearing; contempt and something sinister and cruel. I find his facial scars most disturbing, particularly the horizontal one running from one ear, under his eyes and across his nose to the other ear. It’s as if he were held down while someone tried sawing off his head.

“I’m quite fine, I’m sure.”

He indicates a long cord hanging from the ceiling. “Should you require anything at all, perhaps a corn cob pipe, education, morals, simply engage the sash.” He departs, taking my parasol without comment. I hope he returns it.

What had I done to deserve such treatment? My Inner Spinster rolls her eyes, cackles, then drinks deeply from my spinal fluid causing me to temporarily lose all sensation from the neck down. I mumble, murmur and whisper, wishing I’d accepted Butte’s offer to accompany me inside the Pullman car. Despite his deplorable gun work, he’d behaved gallantly on the road, saving me from robbery, as well as mutilation by Indians. Eileen Harrison will be deeply in my debt. But then my Inner Spinster reminds me that Butte also saved his own life and property. Where is the gallantry in that? Argh. I have made an inner pirate sound. Why?

Voices rise from outside the train. I peek out a curtain. Grey’s secretary supervises the unloading of the dynamite. Butte tends to our horse team, speaking with a man beyond my scope of vision. This man, this Mystery Voice, sounds youthful and confident, serene, commanding. I blush, bite my lip twice and listen.

“’Butte Parker?’ Didn’t you scout for the late Major Artis?”

“Told him not to go up the Rosebud. Only a few of us made our way back to Fort Sheridan.”

I marvel. Are Indians so torpid that indifferent marksman Butte Parker could shoot his way to freedom? Not on the evidence I have seen. I open the window a bit wider, drawn to the Mystery Voice like a cow to a salt lick.

“Parker, I’ve been told your tracking skills equal those of the savages. They say you could find an Indian in the middle of the desert, half drunk, blindfolded and snake bitten.” 

“Me or the Indian?”

“Let’s begin with you.”

“Even so afflicted, I reckon I could, if you cut my sign.”

“Do they bind you upon capture, the Indians? Rawhide thongs. Very tight.”

“Might. Depends. If mutilation is on the plate—and it usually is—they’ll tie you; otherwise you’ll buck some and spoil their work.”

“Could you possibly obtain me an Indian, or Indians, who might be persuaded to demonstrate their binding skills? In return, I would improve their station in life with training in basic hygiene.”

What a noble sentiment. Who was this Mystery Voice, reaching out to those less fortunate? Clearly, he possesses high moral standing. I go into a half swoon.

Butte responds tersely. “The Red Man’s around here in numbers and eager to make your acquaintance. Me and Anna Ironhead were just about hell-served-for-breakfast until your English fella and his men rode up.”

“I shall assume that is a ‘no?’”

"Reckon you cut my sign."

“By Hercules, sir, I always get what I set out after.”

 Butte spit a stream of tobacco juice.

Rapid footfalls ascend to the platform outside the car door. I let the velvet curtain drop and assume a more dignified position. I pre-blush and prepare my most business-like murmur. The car door opens and Grey’s secretary pokes his marred face inside to announce, “Mr. Lash Grey will attend you now.” Back lit by the sun, a shadowy figure steps inside.

I nervously rise to greet him but stumble like a drunken farm horse, knocking over the ornate oil lamp and starting a small fire. As the secretary extinguishes the blaze, I blush furiously, my color hidden by the smoke and a two-minute coughing fit.

Windows are fully opened, airing out the car. I am startled to find myself coughing into the cravat of a young, attractive man in an expensive suit unmarked by mud or horse apples. His fascinating eyes impale me, one pupil gray and the other a shade of teal. His reddish hair is combed back and his teeth are even whiter and more incandescent than those of Romegas. What’s more he is clean; cleaner even than Harney Calhoun.

With a ghost of a smile, he cocks his head and says, “By Hercules, girl, you are clumsy as a calf with square hooves.”

“I’m so very sorry, Mr. Grey,” I murmur, blocking a gasp at his handsome  features.

Grey dismisses his loathsome secretary. “That will be all, Manclutch. And do sit, Miss Ironhead. What the deuce became of Miss Harrison?”

My chair is only slightly scorched by the recent blaze. From my bag, I remove the paper with Eileen’s questions as I crisply whisper, “Unfortunately, Miss Harrison was wounded covering a shooting at R.I. Perryman’s Sporting Palace. But she has sent me with her queries, which I understand will be published in the Wolf Tongue Chronicle.”

“I regret her maiming. Miss Harrison’s persistence and drive are quite admirable. Now then, interrogate as you will,” he says and I wonder if he’s laughing at me. His domineering voice and odd eyes make me feel strange in a feminine way that defies description but involves DOWN THERE.

I stutter from nervousness. “Who is your pa-pa-partner in the Grey and Grey Railroad?”

“No one. I enjoy hearing my name pronounced twice. Sit up straight, would you please? I loath slouching.”

So arrogant. So controlling. I immediately comply.

“Do you have a great many engines and cars?”

“Yes. Quite a few.”

“Do you have cabooses as well?"

 “I do. I like to see a caboose on the end of every train. It’s like a period at the end of a sentence, brandy and cigars after dining, being hog-tied and caned after . . . never mind.”

Is he again laughing at me? And what of these questions? Eileen must’ve written them under fire. They stink like dish water in which miners have bathed. I note Lash Grey’s exceptionally long ring fingers and recall the worlds of Butte Parker. Suddenly my mouth opens like a coal chute and words tumble out unbidden, “Are you a Dandy Man with a yen for obtuse delights?”

Part I, Part II, Part III

Jurassic World Trailer

Now up over at Troy Benjamin's site. According to Troy: "Dr. Ian Malcolm told us that life was going to find a way but, apparently, so did humans and Jurassic Park (now World) is a thriving theme park akin to the Disney empire. But, as they famously say, something goes wrong."

You'll have to wait until June to find out.

But first, a teaser for a trailer.


Universal Pictures UK

50ZG Part III

(After her reporter friend is wounded covering a saloon shooting, bumbling innocent Anna Ironhead agrees to interview mysterious railroad tycoon Lash Grey. In the company of a laconic, heavily armed frontiersman, Anna sets out on a dangerous journey across the Wyoming Territory, dogged by a number of squabbling entities living in her head. Suddenly Anna and the frontiersman find themselves confronted by a notorious bandit.)

Image: Wickipedia

“A most good day and I must rob you,” he says to Butte. “Ah, but who is this delightful young lady? Surely not your wife.”

A wife? How could anyone think of me as a ‘wife?’ Nevertheless, I feel a feminine thrill course through my clumsy body.

“Not married,” says Butte and spits. “But she’s with me.”

The thief holds me in his brown-eyed gaze, a smile upon his lips. “May I have your name, most beautiful sparrow? In return, I will not rob you so much.”

“Anna Ironhead,” I murmur.

Leaning forward in his saddle, he replies, “Only a little bit could I hear.”

“She’s a murmuring woman,” says Butte. “You’d better come closer if you want to hear right.”

“You tell me her name.”

“Don’t reckon I will.”

“Even though I could shoot you today and you would remain shot?”

Butte spits out another stream. “If you’re Romegas, and I reckon you are, you won’t shoot me.”

Despite his low moral character, I find the bandit’s smile enchanting.

“Ha, yes, you know of me. Oscar Romegas kills no man lightly because then I cannot rob him again.”

My Inner Spinster returns with syrup dripping from her chin. She stomps her foot in fright. I whisper to the bandit, “Should you steal from us, Lash Grey will, no doubt, be personally insulted and send detectives to haul you before justice.”

Amused, Romegas rides closer, “You are like a little bird singing in a derecho.”

Butte calls out, “She said Lash Grey will sic the Pinkertons on you if you don’t clear the road.”

Nodding as if weighing this new intelligence, the bandit urges his horse nearer to the wagon. “Such a mighty friend to have. They say he is a Dandy Man of the first rank. But why would a great man like Lash Grey visit with poor people? I assume no. So you must have money. I assume yes. Give it to me now.”

“I suppose we’d better hand over what we have,” says Butte. He reaches for his hat while addressing Romegas, “Keep my poke up here.”

“Not for long.”

In a swift move, Butte removes his hat and grabs a pistol, a four-barreled pepperbox—secured to his thick brown hair by means unknown—and fires. He wounds Romegas’ horse. I am almost deaf from the report going off so close to my ears. Simultaneously, Romagas fires both pistols. His twin .36 caliber rounds splinter the wagon box and shoot off the handle of Butte’s boot knife.

Terrified, my Inner Spinster and Inner Bawdy Woman run for cover. They crouch behind a ropy portion of my brain. I prepare to faint, but a nagging thought holds me in the conscious world: these men are terrible shots. At point-blank range, they have damaged a wagon, wounded a horse and missed one another despite clear intent to do otherwise. They would not last an hour in R.I. Perryman’s.

Weaving like a sapling in a cyclone, I prepare to resume my faint when over Butte’s shoulder, I catch sight of a large dust cloud. From the west, the cloud moves rapidly in our direction, parting briefly to reveal war ponies. Holy triple cow pie. My loudest murmur fails me. I can only point, making noises like someone who has swallowed a shawl.

Art: Rhyodon Shishido

Weapons leveled, Butte and Romegas see nothing but each another.

“Blasted pepper-box. Always shoots low.”

“Were I not out of practice from not shooting so many people, you would stand at the Gates of Heaven, explaining your foolishness in testing Romegas.”

“I’m game for another go. Let me draw my Smith.”

“You will draw nothing but your last breath.”

“Indians,” I murmur at last.

“Anna, hold on. I gotta ventilate this bandito.”

“‘Anna.’ I will whisper your name tonight in my sleep, after I drop this teamster with the impressive moustaches.”

“Coming fast,” I whisper. “Right for us.”

“What is she saying?” asks Romegas.

“Something ‘fast’ and ‘fuss.’ Can’t put a hand to it.”

A round cracks overhead with a sound like a bee. Butte and Romegas turn, as the Indians gallop faster, firing from distance.

 “Damn it all—pardon me, Anna. Arapaho, I reckon.”

Romegas shakes his head and sneers. “You have the eyes of a salted ham. They are Nez Perce.”

Butte munches on a corner of his moustache. “We can finish this now, Romegas, and the Indians will hang the winner, head down, over a slow fire. Or we can run like hell and complete our business later.”

“No one wounds Romegas’s horse,” snarls the bandit. “You will live until we meet again.” He favors me with his brilliant teeth. “And you, my confection, have the most wonderful big eyes. You could hunt mice at night without hindrance.”

Panic and fright give way as I blush and loudly murmur, “Is that a compliment?”

“More gracious wording awaits you another time.” Romegas wheels his tan mount and gallops quickly to the east.

Butte drops his pepper-box, and snaps the reins. Our wagon lurches across the rolling terrain as the team flies forward. I bounce and sway, fearful at the possibility of being captured, despoiled and tortured to death, all in one day. It seems like a lot.

And yet, I bask in the compliments of Romegas. He liked my eyes. He really liked my eyes. But then my Inner Spinster calls out from hiding, reminding me that Romegas is a bandit. He would have swiped my hand bag. This extinguishes the glow of his recent compliments.

“Grab your bonnet,” yells Butte as we descend into a rocky wash.

I almost topple from my seat as we rattle and careen down the trail, along the bottom, and up the other side. More shots. Whock as a bullet passes through the wagon. I think of the dynamite cases and pale.

I see the Indians clearly now: lean, coppery feathered men with carbines, bows and arrows, and skull-splitting hatchets. They race ahead, yelling and laughing, to cut off our escape. To the north, beyond our straining horses, I spot another dust cloud.

“Might be a second war party,” says Butte. He sounds anxious. His eyes dart about as if seeking another path, some exit from the ground itself. “If so, our elk is most truly skinned. But don’t fear, Anna, I’ll put a bullet through your head.”

My Inner Bawdy Woman croons sarcastically that Butte’s offer is a sign of true love West of the Mississippi. Then she lifts her skirts and sprints for my left ear, seeking escape from my head. Interesting. Where would she go? However, my Inner Spinster also flees the same way. They collide, tussle, pull hair, curse, and scratch. My left ear loses all sound-gathering ability. An arrow strikes the wagon near my feet. Butte glances at its markings and nods in satisfaction.

“Knew they was Arapaho.”

Image: legacypitchengine

Part I, Part II, Part IV

(Part Four will go live on Wed. Nov. 26)