Monday, June 27, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Driven to desperate measures by rejection, artist Willard Stukey resolves to bring attention to his work by committing mass murder.
He choose Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida, as the appropriate setting for his exhibition of "live art."
An anguished Disney chairman hires freelance trouble-shooter Jeff Dalkin, who suffers from Tourette's syndrome and curses uncontrollably, to help contain the media circus the ensues.
Meanwhile, Stukey makes the most of mammoth publicity with spontaneous demands to showcase his paintings.
Eringer's tale is a brushstroke of suspense, shaded with comedy, tinged with farce. Its hue is popular culture, glazed with insanity; art versus humanity.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
A freelance government operative is on the job. He has Tourette syndrome and looks exactly like Bruce Willis.
It gets even zanier.
When agents from the IRS appear, two divergent stories become hopelessly intertwined. The recalcitrant characters revolt and fight for primacy, and a reluctant author is forced to arbitrate. He uses the opportunity to have some fun of his own.
Crankum Crankum is a thriller that takes a sharp twist into surreality.
This is an unusual, outrageously funny yarn that plunks the traditional novel on its spine.
It may be a metaphor for something. Certainly, Crinkum Crankum is one writer's brave attempt to wave his pen as if it were a magic wand.
Monday, June 6, 2011
I return to room 206 and open a window for fresh air; a chill breeze pervades.
After a few puffs from a Hemingway Short Story, the Arturo Fuente cigar. I pluck my ballpoint from a back pocket and commence scribbling notes of the day’s events into my leather journal.
Suddenly a word stream enters my consciousness. “I used to call this room Glamour House.”
It startles me, and I dare not move eyes from scribble. I didn’t hear a voice. I’m not schizophrenic. I ignore the intrusion and continue note taking.
The ethereal voice adds, “But if I was here alone, without my wife, I’d call it Hemingstein’s Mixed Vice and Dining Establishment.”
I lean back into the sofa, not daring to peek at the leather club chair on my left, from which the voice seems to emanate. Have I fallen asleep and now I’m dreaming? Or has the martini and wine at high altitude led to audio hallucination?
“I was very thrilled with this suite,” the voice continues to penetrate my skull. “Always safe here, in Ketchum. Had fun.” The voice pauses a few seconds, as if testing my reaction. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen ghost. What do you expect, loitering in cemeteries?”
The voice is real. I turn slowly--and I am flabbergasted to see a translucent figure, full beard, gray hair combed forward, wearing a suede vest over a shirt, sleeves rolled up past the elbow, shorts, and bedroom slippers, no socks. I suppress an urge to jump and run, and instead feel dryness in my mouth as I try to speak. “No.”
“Well, don’t l-let it bother you, chief. I’m not used to this either.”
I place my pen upon my journal, inhale, exhale, and reach for my cigar. “Have you ever shown yourself before?” I boldly ask.
“No. Some people think they see me at Finca. But it’s trick to l-lure more tourists to Cuba.”
I speak slowly, as if I’m talking to someone from another country with limited knowledge of English. “So why are you showing yourself to me?”
“Your l-lucky day, chief. Never planned to show myself for anyone, ever. I’m shy person.”
The apparition nods
I shrug. “Then why are you here now?”
“You did right. You sit in Glamour House, touch my Underwood, you eat at Christi’s, my table, stand at grave, not once, twice—in darkness, and rain. I hate rain. Proved yourself, kid. Others hike and cycle, fish and hunt. Not you. I used to hunt, l-liked shooting pheasant. Now I’m hunted.”
“And I’m haunted.”
“Good one, chief.” The apparition turns silent, as if in deep thought. “Would you l-like to know why I killed myself?”