That's Disgusting!, by Greta Garbage (Ten Speed Press, 1999)

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Quick! Think of the most disgusting thing you can. No, sicker still. Something that makes you ill just by thinking about it. Worse yet. Something that makes you cringe. Or get queasy. Or just plain leave the room.

Got it yet? Whatever it is, it’s probably tame compared to the factoids and blurbs compiled in That’s Disgusting! An Adult Guide to What’s Gross, Tasteless, Rude, Crude and Lewd. Even the book is disgusting, coming in a nice, tasteful shade of pea-soup green. Written by “Greta Garbage,” clearly a pseudonym for any number of authors who wisely don’t want their real names attached to this omnibus of the obscene, That’s Disgusting! is the sort of book that isn’t for the faint of heart, easily appalled, or just about anyone.

Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat. This book holds no punches. It lists the gory details of life’s finer and less finer moments in painstaking thoroughness. It covers dozens of topics in alphabetical order, starting with “Ass, Bizarre Objects Up and In” and ending with “Vomiting by Celebrities.”

In between, we’re treated to such spectacular conversational pieces as “Monkey Brains, Eating of,” and “Cats and Sex.” In fact, sex is a popular topic. There’s “Sex, Death During,” “Sex, Fowl,” “Sex, Kinky,” “Sex, Kinky, Oriental,” and chapters on Bizarre Sex with Dogs, Horses, unusual animals, and the Wild Kink-Dom.

Circumcision. Enemas. Farts. Freaks. Semen and Female Fluids. Smegma, Sootikins, Fartleberries and Dingleberries. Sneaks, Eating or Biting You. Urine, Drinking. Masturbation. Menstruation. Foot Fetishism. Sodomy. The list goes on and on, each topic just a little grosser than the one before.

This book is quite simply the end-all be-all of every subject you’ve ever covered in gross-out contests with friends, covered in scatological jokes, all the things your parents refused to mention, the subjects hygiene class skipped over with a quick mumble and a prayer.

Did I mention Penis Incidents?

I was smart. I waited until I was in the bathroom before I opened this book. I figured that would be the most appropriate place for it, and boy, was I right. I never realized just how many subjects squicked me until I flipped through this book. There were times when I had to throw the book aside out of sheer revulsion, twitching and crying for my mommy to come and reassure me that the world really isn’t that cruel.

Sex with Ducks?????

Now here’s the surprising part. This book is well-researched, well-written, and an absolute joy to possess. Never again will I languish in doubt over such dubious topics as whether or not an alligator bit off Wild Kingdom host Lorne Green’s nipple. (It did!) Never again will I ask how much hospitals pay for foreskins. ($35!) Never again will I ask about how deer masturbate. (By rubbing their horns against a tree!)

You get the point.

Death During Sex???

You’ll get it all. Factoids. Trivia. Alternate names for body parts. Celebrity gossip. Things you’d never have believed if you saw them for yourself. Jokes. Actual explanations as to the nature of bodily functions. The definition of a dingleberry. References, such as Bizarre Magazine and alt.tasteless. A bibliography and index. Web sites that go into even greater detail.

If you’ve ever wanted to be enlightened, educated, or nauseated, this is the book for you. Yes, I’m recommending it highly, because all things considered, it’s a downright disgusting and well-done piece of work. You won’t want to read it in polite company, but it might be fun to pass around at parties, or to scare off that unwelcome roommate, or your in-laws.

Dismemberment???

Castration???

It’s all here. So enjoy. Just don’t blame me if it grosses you out. After all, I warned you … and the book’s introduction will warn you as well. But for the brave, curious, and easily amused, this may amuse you.

Storm Front, by Jim Butcher, (Roc Books, 2000)

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In a world where magic is all too real, where the Unseelie Incursion of 1994 caused the entire city of Milwaukee to vanish for several hours, where a nasty drug called ThreeEye can actually awaken the user’s ability to see the spirit world, and where vampires and faeries do exist, Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden is the best — and only — at what he does. He’s not just a wizard, capable of altering the world with spells and conjurations, he’s a public wizard, one who uses his abilities to help people. He’s a private detective with magic, and one kept on retainer with the Chicago Police, for those cases that normal people just can’t solve.

“Harry Dresden – Wizard
Lost items found. Paranormal Investigation.
Consulting Advice. Reasonable Rates. No
Love Potions, Endless Purses, or Other Entertainment”

That’s his ad in the Yellow Pages, the only one you’ll find under “Wizards.” He’s a classic PI, with every one of the signs of a traditional pulp detective. He’s a hard-drinking, hard-luck guy with a heart of gold, horrible luck with women, too many bills to pay, enemies breathing down his neck, and a talking skull in the basement.

Hey, we all need friends. Or at least familiars. And since, as a wizard, sensitive to the supernatural forces of the universe, Harry tends to break and short out anything more modern than a bicycle, and computers are right out, he needs something capable of remembering how to create those escape spells and love potions.

This particular case, billed as “Book One of the Dresden Files,” starts off when a damsel in distress asks Harry to find her missing husband. Then the Chicago PD calls, needing him to investigate a murder that no earthly force could have accomplished. And before Harry knows it, he’s up to his staff in trouble.

There’s a magical killer on the loose, a mob boss who wants him off the case yesterday, bills to be paid, a reporter willing to … er … pump him for information, police demanding results, and oh yes, if Harry breaks any of the Seven Laws of Magic while pursuing this investigation, he’s marked for death.

This is where the carefully laid backstory begins to emerge in bits and pieces.

For unspecified reasons, Harry’s been slapped with the Doom of Damocles, a pretentiously-named punishment decreed by the White Council, those human wizards who regulate their own kind. Harry’s got Morgan, the wizardly equivalent of a hard-nosed parole officer, on his tail. One false step, and it’s death by Monday.

Assuming that the killer on the loose doesn’t cause Harry’s heart to explode right out of his chest, first.

Or the mob doesn’t beat him to a pulp with a baseball bat.

Or the demon doesn’t get him.

Or the vampire madam doesn’t suck him dry.

Now, any -sane- man would take the money and move to Florida. Right? Not Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. He’s possessed of all the common sense and survival instincts of any hard-boiled detective. He’ll solve the case even if it kills him. Both the murder case, and the missing husband case.

Yes, it’s one of -those- weekends for our hero. With a death sentence on his head, his resources — both magical and mundane — draining slowly, and a trail of corpses wherever he turns, he’s still going to be the hero.

This is one of the best books I’ve read lately. It’s not a classic, it’s not high literature, but it’s just plain -fun-. Combining the best aspects of hard-boiled detectives, in the tradition of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, with the best aspects of urban fantasy, it’s good gritty page-turning fun. I couldn’t sleep until I’d finished the book.

The characters are dead-on. Harry’s an archetype, yes, but a fully-realised one, whose dark past has only begun to come to light in this, the first book in what’s presumably a series. Director of Special Investigations Karrin Murphy, Harry’s contact with the Chicago PD, is a strong woman, fully fleshed out. She has a soft spot for Harry, but at the same time is fully prepared to do whatever the case takes, unwilling to let that soft spot interfere with her duty. If he becomes a suspect, so be it. Morgan, Harry’s ‘parole officer,’ comes off as the typical bad cop, but even he has his redeeming moments. Even the villain of the piece comes away with reasons for what he does, as opposed to being evil for the sake of it.

The plot is tight, and full of twists and turns, the various threads tying together slowly, and the picture being revealed. By the end, of course, all is made clear, but will it be in time?

Well, since this is Book One, and not “The only book ever,” about Harry Dresden, you can draw your own conclusions.

I haven’t been this excited about a first novel in a while. It’s reminiscent of Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake series, with that same dark atmosphere, but it’s also got a little of Emma Bull in it, with the ray of hope shining through. Harry’s a good man in a dark world, and he’s aiming to keep it that way. I’m looking forward to more about this character, and by this author. Give it a shot.

“The world is getting weirder. Darker every single day. Things are spinning around faster and faster, and threatening to go completely awry. Falcons and falconers. The center cannot hold.

But in my corner of the country, I’m trying to nail things down. I don’t want to live in his jungle, even if it did eventually devour him. I don’t want to live in a world where the strong rule and the weak cower. I’d rather make a place where things are a little quieter. Where trolls stay the hell under their bridges, and where elves don’t come swooping out to snatch children from their cradles. Where vampires respect the limits, and where the faeries mind their p’s and q’s.

My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Conjure by it at your own risk. When things get strange, when what goes bump in the night flicks on the lights, when no one else can help you, give me a call. I’m in the book.”

Kate Rusby, Sleepless (Compass Records, 1999)

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I must confess, that for quite some time, I was at a loss for words regarding this album. Several times, I started to form an opinion, and then found myself doing a complete about-face in terms of feelings and opinion. It took me half a dozen listenings at the very least before I felt confident enough to come right out and state my feelings here.

On one hand, I love Sleepless. On the other, I hate it. Sometimes it had me listening enraptured, and there were times when I had to lunge for the power switch to rid myself of the music. And that, my friends, is where the problem lies. It’s hard to remain ambivalent about Rusby’s latest CD. It will evoke a response of some sort, whether it’s fascination or disgust, or even frustration.

Let me make an aside for a moment. Sleepless has, according to my sources, won Best Album, -and- Folk Singer of the Year for Rusby, from the U.K. National Folk Awards for 1999. This means that someone out there honestly believes in Kate Rusby and her talent. However, I didn’t know this while listening to the album itself. So my opinions continue to remain unbiased by awards or accolades.

Kate Rusby, for those not in the know, is an up-and-coming English folk singer anbd songwriter, who’s taken the English folk scene by storm, starting with her debut album, Hourglass. She’s made a name for herself in only a few short years, helping found the band The Equation, working on an album with Kathryn Roberts (entitled Kate Rusby and Kathryn Roberts, it won Folk Roots Magazine’s Album of the Year Award), and touring with the group, The Poozies.

So what’s the buzz? I’ll tell you what’s the buzz. It’s her voice. Kate Rusby has the voice of an angel, as cliched a statement as that may be. It’s hypnotic, luxurious; and it caresses the listener like an familiar lover. It’s almost addictive in its own way, and, thank goodness, she knows how to use it. Instead of obscuring it with too many instrumentals, she’s accompanied by simple instruments, such as guitar, flute, mandolin and percussion. Most of the time, you’ll be so busy listening to the voice that you’ll barely notice the omnipresent background instruments — as well it should be.

Alas, strength is also weakness. For if the voice is what you notice the most, then occasionally it’s too strong, too present for its own good. When that happens, it becomes intrusive and even tiring. One can only take so much of a good thing.

Rusby’s songs are a mixture of traditional work and her own writing. As such, they reflect a mixture of old and new, then and now, yesterday and today. The first song, a traditional by the name of “The Cobbler’s Daughter,” is probably my hands-down favorite, a lively little tune that sounds so happy and innocent, until you listen to the lyrics a lot closer. Then it reveals a dark and twisted turn, a morbid ending that’s sure to shiver a few bones. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read the lyrics in the liner booklet and realized just what I’d been listening to.

You’ll find that a lot in Sleepless. Take no surface appearances for granted. The more you make a first impression, the more it’ll get yanked out from underneath you. Take “All God’s Angels,” for example. On the surface, it is an absolutely stunning duet sung between Rusby and guest musician Tim O’Brian. Something of a love song, you’d think. Not so, but a heart-breaking tale of a man, his pregnant mistress, his wife, and suicide. Gee, thanks, Kate. Way to cheer us up.

Seriously, though. “Sweet Bride” ends happily ever after, with a man on a horse carrying off a woman to his castle under the sea. Now, I’ll take that as a happy ending. Ah, love. Unless, of course, there’s a twist I haven’t quite caught. Rusby’s songs are evocative, beautiful, speak of the traditional ballads and stories, and are surprisingly complex in some ways.

“The Duke and the Tinker,” for example, is about a duke who finds a tinker asleep by the side of the road, takes him home, cleans him up, and treats the befuddled man like a king. He gets the tinker drunk, and tosses him back to the side of the road, the whole experience to seem like the dream. Now, does this sound familiar? A-ha! Shakespeare. The prologue to Taming of the Shrew. I got you this time, Kate. I’m on to your sneaky tricks.

Yes, I enjoyed this album. I enjoyed it a great deal. As I’ve said, I’m fascinated by Rusby’s voice. Unfortunately, not every song is a winner. “Sho Heen,” which appears to be cast as something of a quiet lullaby, only serves to grate against my nerves and give me a headache. It’s at least three minutes too long, and I found myself wanting to forward past it after one listening.

The good songs are very good, and the bad songs are equally bad. At least Rusby doesn’t do anything in half-measures. I can certainly respect that.

Also appearing on this album are the aforementioned Tim O’Brien (vocals, mandolin), Roger Wilson (vocals, guitar), Dave Burland (vocals), Ian Carr (guitar), John McCusker (fiddles, banjo) and others. However, Rusby provides the majority of the vocals, as well as acoustic guitar, and piano.

Is this good? Yes. Is it worthy of the awards it’s garnered? I’m not going to argue. Sleepless is worth a look and a listen. Just don’t get too complacent while listening to it, and you’ll be fine.

Cris and Tret, Radio Quiet (Goldenrod Records, 1998)

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Cris Williamson and Tret Fure are an interesting pair of female musicians, best known for the feminist/healing/spiritual niche they’ve carved out for themselves in the alternative musical arena, both as individuals, and together. Their Web site goes into some details regarding the two, which was a blessing, as it satisfied my curiosity. Essentially, the two (described as musical and life partners) act as musical healers, using word and rhythm to sooth the spirit and ease the heart.

Cris Williamson is described as a pioneer of women’s music, a spirit healer, and a teacher of the “art of possible,” who’s been performing since the Seventies, and who has no less than 17 albums to her name. Her work has almost uniformly been independent, overlooked by the major labels and spread through word of mouth and the luck of the draw. She’s a champion for the environment, human rights, and anything that makes the world a better place.

Tret Fure, on the other hand, is noted best for her songwriting abilities, her grasp of musical technology, her wit, and her “intrinsic sense of musicality.” She first began working with Williamson in 1981, when she engineered a children’s record for her, and they’ve been partners ever since.

That’s the biographical aspect out of the way. Frankly, I’d never heard of Cris and Tret before I picked up Radio Quiet, and I went in without any real preconceived notions. So let me tell you a secret.

You don’t have to be a fan to appreciate Radio Quiet. Admittedly, it’s not the best album I’ve ever run across, but it does succeed and entertain in its own way. It’s hard to truly describe the tone of the songs within, because every time I try to nail them down, something changes, and I’m back where I started, unable to label or define. I have a feeling that that’s the intention.

The tone of the album is one of positive thinking, optimism, hope, and energy. There’s a very strong feminine/feminist aspect to the music, and I can very easily see some of the songs appealing to both a feminist and a lesbian sensibility. Those songs which don’t carry a positive note to them act in different ways, alerting us to the plight of the world around us, subtly encouraging the listener to make a difference.

From what I can tell, and going by the liner notes, the vocals are split between Williamson and Fure, with instruments (piano, guitar, harp, banjo, bass, accordion, mandolin, drums, fiddle, and harmonica) played by both Williamson and Fure as needed, or by accompanying artists (such as Leo Adamian, Jean Millington, Michelle Goerlitz, Janelle Burdell, and June Millington).

Half the beauty of Radio Quiet lies in the liner notes, for it’s there that the lyrics to the songs are contained. And I’ll confess that frankly, some of those lyrics are touching, and downright beautiful. Take, for instance, these lines from the title track:

There are places on the earth that are so quiet

You can hear the whispers of space

We stand beneath the stars and the heavens

And we search the Chaos for a face

We listen to the Matter for voices

From another time, another place

We’re a dim and lonely star, and it’s so lonely,

And it’s so lonely…

My favorite song, hands down, has to be the upbeat “Tomboy Girl,” which is, quite simply, an anthem for every girl who’s wanted to defy the rules and expectations and gender biases that society insists upon laying on them. Not because I’m a secret tomboy, mind you, but because it’s a really good song. (I’m not a tomboy. And the fact that I get mistaken for a woman at least twice a month by short-sighted cashiers and drive-through fast-food employees is a mystery that has my wife and me completely baffled…)

Ahem. Getting back to the topic at hand. Is this a good album? Yes. Is it great? Well, the jury is still out. When I started this review, I was all set to give Radio Quiet something of a pass, but strangely enough, it grew on me during the latest listening. Something finally clicked, and I was able to appreciate the tone and sentiment. No song truly disappoints, and at least one or two stand out as above average. I’m going to have to give this one a thumbs up, especially if you happen to like feminist/healing independent/alternative music.

Terry Radigan, Radigan (Vanguard Records, 2000)

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Wow. Where do I start? I’ve had the hardest time trying to find the words to describe Terry Radigan’s self-titled solo debut album. Known for her contributions to the New York City-based group, Grace Pool, and for co-writing “Love Wouldn’t Lie To Me,” which was made popular by Trisha Yearwood, Nashville’s Terry Radigan finally breaks out on her own with this energetic, talented album, which captures the spirit from the very first song and doesn’t let go until the last moment of the last song.

I’m not kidding. “My Love Is Real,” the first track, is also the most powerful, and most attention-grabbing song on the album, and it was the one that hooked me quite thoroughly. It’s got a certain beat, energetic and demanding, the sort of song that just urges one to move to it, to dance and surrender to the music. It’s a ballad of true love versus false love, a cry for belief and trust, and words just can’t do it justice. This song alone is worth the price of admission, and deserves to be played as loud as possible, somewhere where you can thoroughly enjoy it.

“G-O-O-D-B-Y-E” is a slower, less frantic song, solemn and sorrowful, heralding the end of a relationship. It’s about love and loss, and moving on.

“Blink” revs up the engines again after the quiet interlude of the previous song, and it sums up Radigan herself perfectly. “Blink and there’s no telling what you’ll miss / Think how foolish to let the moment slip / Slip by with your eyes closed / By with your heart so cold / When all you need is that girl.”

After that comes the slower, jazzy, smoky feel of “The Things You’ll Do,” which explores the real ranges of Radigan’s voice, something I’ll come back to in a moment. This is a slow, sensual song, serene and and sly, and it’s not until you look at the lyrics that you realize that it’s not as happy a song as it could be.

Then you get a song like “So What,” which opens as an unearthly intrumental solo, and then segues into a powerful love song. It’s possessed of a quiet energy, subtle with a hard-to-define electricity and jazz to it.

“Happiness” is perhaps the strangest song of the album, a crooning anthem to booze and cigarettes and sorrow, the title something of a mocking regret. It’s slow, and comes off almost as a love song, when it’s much more of a tragedy. Radigan approaches it with smoke and tears in her voice, and the image of her singing this in a dark nightclub just can’t escape my mind. The lyrics are short, but extremely evocative: “Whiskey bottles like candles on a cake / There is one for every one of your mistakes / Party lights of glowing cigarettes / Surrounded by a few of your closest regrets”

Luckily, “When I Get Around You” speeds up again after the almost sorrowful pacing of the previous song, and things liven up once more.

Then, just when you’ve been lulled back into the warm happy places, “Let Him Go” comes out of nowhere, slowing down to a crawl, another one of those thoughtful, mournful ballads dealing with life, love, loss, and moving on.

The last song on the album, “50 Kisses,” changes tone and style to something almost challenging and demanding, strident and self-assured. It’s a strong, passionate, and definately upbeat way to end things, with its playful claiming of a man who’s stolen a woman’s heart.

Quite frankly, I know I’m not doing this particular album justice with my words. It’s the sort of thing where you need to hear it for yourself. Radigan is a talented performer, whose voice ranges across the spectrum, containing smoke and whiskey, love and loss, joy and regret, blues and country, and so much more. It’s like a long-lost lover, both welcoming you back into the fold, and chiding you for your absence. She’ll make you feel right at home, just before kicking you out the door and dangling the key in front of your nose.

Radigan itself is thoughtful, fun, sensual, and multi-genred, speaking of country, pop, blues, and more. I highly recommend it.

You can find lyrics and audio samples at www.vanguardrecords.com/radigan. This site also goes into details about news, reviews, tours, and the plethora of talented musicians who back Radigan up on this, such as Kenny Greenberg (electric guitar and drums), Michael Rhodes (Bass), Chad Cromwell (drums), David Davidson (violin), Kris Wilkinson (viola) and more. And for those keeping score, Radigan herself sings, and plays piano, guitar, banjo, mandolin and autoharp.

Don’t blink, or you may miss this one.

Paris Out of Hand: A Wayward Guide, by Karen Elizabeth Gordon, (Chronicle Books, 1996)

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Come take a tour of a Paris that never was, but honestly should be. It’s the Paris of absinthe dreams and opium wishes, the Paris of starving artists, unknown writers, and one-of-a-kind tourists. It’s the Paris where anything goes, and nothing is exactly as it seems.

Visit the Cafe Nada, famed for its unusual meetings between authors and editors, while agents are left to languish on the sidewalk, and where the food is as literary as the patrons.

Make a reservation at the Hotel Rien Plus, where reservations are indeed accepted, advance payment taken, but where no one has ever actually stayed.

If that’s not to your taste, you can always stay over at the Hotel Carrington, an unusual little place where you’ll be expected to make a debutante-style appearance at your window before going to bed, for the benefit of the audience in the street.

Hungry again? Eat at the Cafe Conjugal, where spats and arguments between couples are strictly forbidden. To eat here is to declare a temporary, unspoken truce, no matter how angry you are with your mate.

For entertainment, might we suggest L’Ange des Sables, a cinema which only shows movies filmed in the desert? How about La Pudeur Aux Yeux, where the performers actually put -on- clothes in a reverse striptease?

For the daytime, you might consider the Musee des Levres et Livres (The Museum of Lips and Books), where everything has to do with, what else, the juxtaposition of the two themes.

Shop at Tous les Deux: Brasserie et Brassierie, a combination lingerie shop and bistro. Take a ride on the Metro Josephine, or the Metro Marquis de Sade.

Whatever your tastes, the Paris Out of Hand probably has something to suit or offend you. After all, it’s a phantom Paris, a wildly imaginative, impossible city that exists only in our minds, and in this faux guidebook by Karen Elizabeth Gordon, author of the Deluxe Transitive Vampire.

Gordon loves to play with words, and nowhere is it as evident as right here. Every page is filled with words, and they’re all in the right order, as a friend of mine is wont to say. Written in the style of one of the more esoteric guidebooks, it’s easy to believe that this could be real, and on some levels, one hopes that it is all true. If some of the places listed within don’t exist, it’s high time we created them.

Yes, this book will gleefully direct you to sights, entertainment, shopping, hotels, cafes, nightclubs, and transportation, places as unreal and surreal as you can get and still believe in magic. With a thorough key that offers symbols to denote everything from “uncomfortable beds” to “closed during tulip season in Holland” (and let’s not forget “windmills cannot be heard from any room!”), this is the guidebook your mother warned you about.

I confess. I’m in love with the oddity that is Paris Out of Hand. I’ve never encountered a book quite like it, and it occupies a special place in my bemused subconscious. I take this book with me when traveling as a way of soothing the traumas of the mundane world. Description alone can’t do this book justice, nor can it convey a proper sense of the beautiful artwork, maps, signs, symbols, sketches and drawings that are liberally splashed across every page.

Whether you love or hate travelling, this is the guidebook for you. It’s subversive in its creativity, and manipulative in its subtlety. I highly recommend it to fill that extra space on your shelf.

Mark Twain: A Literary Life, by Everett Emerson (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000)

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“Mark Twain endures. Readers sense his humanity, enjoy his humor, and appreciate his insights into human nature, even into such painful experiences as embarrassment and humiliation. No matter how remarkable the life of Samuel Clemens was, what matters most is the relationship of Mark Twain the writer and his writings.”
So begins Mark Twain: A Literary Life, a scholarly yet welcoming volume which takes on the task of studying the man and myth of Mark Twain — not Samuel Clemens! — and looking at the man’s writings in the context of his actual life. In short, it juxtaposes the literary output of Mark Twain with the life experiences of Samuel Clemens, in an attempt to understand, and to better appreciate.

I must say that Emerson has done his homework. Insofar as I can tell, this book is meticulously researched, thoroughly documented, painstakingly put together, and near-obsessively written. It’s a paradoxical book, much like the subject matter. On the one hand, it comes off as an extremely scholarly book, or an extended research paper. It quotes rampantly, frequently, and eagerly from hundreds of sources, including Twain’s books, Clemens’s personal letters, and just about everything else under the sun related to the topic at hand.

Further footnotes direct the reader to a most extensive bibliography, more notes, and an index. The bibliography itself is divided into categories like “Manuscripts by Mark Twain,” “Published works by Mark Twain,” “Personal letters of Samuel Clemens,” and ten pages worth of “Secondary works.” In short, the sheer amount of material consulted and collated to produce this book is staggering.

On the other hand, we have the book’s attempt to stay friendly and open, trying to retain its readability amidst the footnotes and quotes. For the most part, it succeeds. I read the majority of the book while waiting in the veterinarian’s waiting room, and was hardly bored at all. And trust me, if a book doesn’t bore me, it can’t be all bad.

The book follows a roughly chronological path, with the chapters dividing his life into easily-swallowed morsels, usually marked by a change in lifestyle, a change in residence, or the publication of one of Twain’s major books, such as Huckleberry Finn, Connecticut Yankee, or Tom Sawyer.

It details Twain’s attempts to justify his personal views on politics, race, and the world around him through his writing, and helps us to understand why he included some things in his books and left other things out. One fascinating segment follows the writing and rewriting of Huckleberry Finn, pointing out the numerous incongruities, flaws, and internal errors that came about as a result of rewriting and changing his mind halfway through.

A Literary Life is certainly that. It’s not a biography, but neither is it a pure study of Twain’s works. Instead, it’s a hybrid, sometimes awkward, sometimes unique. If you like Mark Twain at all, this is probably a useful addition to your collection.

Is it a great book? Maybe not. At times it does drag, and the sheer number of quotes and citations does lead one to wonder how much of the work is Emerson’s, and how much is just regurgitated from a hundred other sources. Of course, as Emerson is described as being a Professor of English, Emeritus, at University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, and as the author of several other books concerning Mark Twain, and is the founder of the Mark Twain Circle of America, I guess we can acknowledge him as the expert on the matter.

It is important to note that he doesn’t seek to idolize or worship Twain. He freely admits when Twain is being racist, nationalistic, or even “obtuse and pretentious.” Mainly, Emerson offers facts. Facts backed up by solid historical documentation, wherever possible. Yes, the who’s and why’s and where’s are all there in black and white and photographs. This is that rarest of biographies, an honest one.

I’ll gladly give this book a thumbs up. The casual reader may be stymied at points, or bored by the material, but for Twain readers and aficionados, it’s a good add to the bookshelf.

Mardi Gras Madness, edited by Martin H Greenberg and Russell Davis (Cumberland House, 2000)

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Not all masks hide innocent revelers. Not all floats belong to harmless partygoers. Not all Krewes are as they seem. In fact, during Mardi Gras, nothing and no one is as they appear.

After all, don’t we wear masks for a reason? To shuck inhibitions, to cast aside normal morality and subscribe to a deeper, more primal Bacchanalian mentality?

It’s a time to party, to run wild, to give in to all those urges, to become a voyeur and exhibitionist all in one, and to explore the deeply-hidden aspects of our personas. Eat, drink, and make merry, for tomorrow we fast. Isn’t that what Mardi Gras used to be for, that time of excess before the period of Lent?

I have news for you, friend. It’s a lot more than that. A whole lot more goes on in the shadows. Not everything that wears a mask is human; it’s a chance for them to walk among us, in the open, and we’d never realize a thing. It’s a time of older rituals, ones meant to appease ancient gods. It’s a time when certain aspects of the spirit world are closer to this world than ever before.

Mardi Gras is more than you think, and in Mardi Gras Madness, eleven authors take you on a terrifying, intriguing tour of what really happens when the lights are dim and the parades pass through the streets.

Michelle West tackles the themes of life, love, and loss, in “Faces Made of Clay.” It’s a haunting, regretful journey for one woman as she struggles to place the past, and her dead son, behind her at last. Will she be able to let go through the mysterious intervention of a group at Mardi Gras? Or will she cling to her strictly routinized life? It’s not as easy a choice as one might think.

Bruce Holland Rogers brings out the excess side of Mardi Gras with “King Corpus.” Andy’s just a nice, normal guy, who comes to Mardi Gras for the “biggest party of his life, one last blowout between college and the working-stiff tedium he was sure would follow for the rest of his life.” But when he’s made the King of the Krewe of Corpus, he finds that it’s easy to be given all you’ve ever desired, and still be hungry for more. His last blowout may be more then he ever imagined. But why is the Krewe of Corpus giving him so much, and why is the old fortune-teller warning him to leave before it’s too late?

“Masking Indian” is Charles de Lint’s contribution to the story. Unlike the rest, this one takes place in Newford, and guest-stars everyone’s favorite, Jilly Coppercorn, as well as Wendy (who has a Tree of Stories.) We’re introduced to a new character, Marley, who works as an art director’s assistant, and has a haunted Mardi Gras costume — haunted by memories of a happier time, and of a deceased friend. It’s an odd story, in de Lint’s typical style. The unknown isn’t necessarily something to fear, but it does deserve healthy respect. It’s all about coping, growing, and moving on, as well as about secrets, ghosts, and magic.

“Sacrifice,” by Jane Lindskold, is another story about ancient deals and old gods. In this case, the titular sacrifice refers to the young woman who, every year, is given to the river god to perpetuate the pact between New Orleans and the river. Since the city’s built so close to water, one angry god could mean one drowned city. Mirabelle is just one of many potential brides for the river god, and no one knows who it’ll be until the end of the ceremony. It’s a compelling story of the prices we pay to uphold our end of the bargain. For these people, Mardi Gras is more than just a party. It’s a celebration, and a time to mourn.

“May Oysters Have Legs,” by David Bischoff, is a truly unusual tale of zombies, hitmen, Mardi Gras, vengeance, and loyalty. All I can say about this one is that it’s not what you expect.

Then you get “Fat Tuesday,” by R. Davis. How much fun -can- a vampire have in a city full of drunken revelers?

Perhaps my favorite of the lot comes from Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, in the form of “The Invisible Woman’s Clever Disguise.” Quite simply, Vanessa, the invisible woman, is a sad victim of society and perception, rendered invisible because she isn’t young and pretty anymore, and no one cares to look at her in that manner. Invisible, she finds more out of life than she ever did before. Unafraid, uninhibited, she can go anywhere, stay anywhere she likes, take whatever she wants. But she can’t interact with normal people. So when she’s invited to a Mardi Gras ball, she accepts, intrigued. Little does she realize that the Krewe of Melusine is not what it appears to be. It is, in fact, the home for others of society’s rejects and mysteries. It’s a tale of perception, acceptance, and possibly, just possibly, love. It’s clever, and plays on pop culture and literature in a new way, and positively begs for more stories in that same vein.

Gary A. Braumbeck gives us “Down In Darkest Dixie Where The Dead Don’t Dance,” (phew, what a title!) which is quite simply a ghost story with several twists. Based partially in fantasy, partially in everyday science, it blends the various elements together to give us the tale of a just-dead cop investigating the murder of a Goth girl. It’s got revenge, mystery, ghosts, love, regret, and of course, the chaotic surreality of Mardi Gras, a time when spirits are able to again touch the earth.

To round it out, there are also stories from John Helfers (“Farewell To The Flesh”) and Peter Crowther (“Songs of Leaving”), as well as Nancy Holder (“Skeleton Krewe”).

While at first, from the description of the book, and the authors involved, one might be tempted to pigeonhole this in horror, it’s more of a dark fantasy anthology, one that thoroughly explores some of the many storytelling possibilities inherent in the Mardi Gras atmosphere. I recommend this book, especially if you happen to be a fan of any of the participating authors. Because it’s not from one of the standard publishing houses, you may need to look around for it. Good luck, though. It’s worth it. There’s bound to be something for everyone, so even if the stories don’t all resonate, at least some should. And with an anthology, it’s always hit or miss anyway. So say farewell to some coinage, and enjoy a feast of stories while you still can.

Legends Walking, by Jane Lindskold (Avon Books, 1999)

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“Vera looks at the shapeshifter, realizing he is not using a metaphor. Suddenly, she feels very shy. Remembering the changes through which he has lived, the ancient working alongside her seems far more alien than the fish that dart and play around her in the water. For him, geologic ages must have been like the shifting of the seasons.
She shivers.
‘How do you bear it?’ Her voice is a whisper, yet she can hardly believe she has spoken aloud.
‘Change is the way of the world,” he replies, “the one great constant, and I am the Changer.'”

The Changer is back, and with him, the rest of the mythological beings known as the Athanor. Once again, we’re treated to the complex maneuverings and interactions between such figures as Arthur Pendragon (once ruler of England), Lil Prima (formerly Lilith, mythological precursor to Eve), Eddie Zagano (once Enkidu, the Wild Man of the Gilgamesh legends), Tommy Thunderburst (once Elvis, and Orpheus, and more), and Anson A. Kridd (Anansi the Spider).

Joining them are a veritable pantheon of characters. For instance, we meet Frank McDonald, who owns the Other Three Quarters Ranch, a haven for the unicorns, jackalopes, gryphons, werewolves, and other immortal creatures that would otherwise be threatened by modern-day humanity. Caring for animals is definitely in character for the man once known as Saint Francis of Assisi. There’s the Wanderer, a gender-switching enigma who may or may not be the Wandering Jew of legends. Then there’s Dakar Agadez, who you might recognize better as the African god Ogun. And Katsuhiro Oba, also known as the Japanese god of storm and thunder, Susano. And …

But that’s enough names to throw at one time. What are the Athanor, you ask? Well, as detailed in Lindskold’s previous book, Changer, they are a race of immortal beings, possessed of powers far beyond the ken of mortal man. They have been gods, leaders, tyrants, saviors, devils, angels, saints, warriors, and myths. Trace any myth back far enough, and chances are good that one of the Athanor was behind it. They’re also mythological creatures: the unicorns, jackalopes, gryphons, yeti, fauns, satyrs, tengu, pooka, and so forth that infest our folklore and fairy tales. They’re also ordinary creatures, who just happen to be gifted with immortality. In fact, all they have in common, the underlying factor of their shared existence, is immortality, and participation in a form of existence and energy known as Harmony.

There’s that, and a need to live in secrecy, to avoid the watchful eyes and intense scrutiny of the mortal world. No one wants to believe that the legends are real, after all. Not in the age of science.

However, things are happening within the Athanor community. For instance, Tommy Thunderburst is planning his next major tour, entitled Pan. It’s going to be a show to blow away the competition, and he’ll do it with the help of Lil Prima, his manager and lover. Just wait until you see who he recruits for his backup dancers, though! Is the world ready for a gaggle of oversexed satyrs and frisky fauns?

Vera, once known as Minerva, is spending time building the underwater city known as Atlantis, a possible refuge for the Athanor should things go poorly on the surface world.

Eddie Zagano and Anson Kridd are traveling to the (fictional) Nigerian city of Monamona, there to broker a deal between one of the native Athanor (once known as the god Shango) and a Japanese representative (Katsuhiro Oba). What they don’t know is that smallpox, once thought eradicated, is making a return in Monamona, and it’s all thanks to Shopona, the former God of Smallpox, who may or may not be one of the Athanor.

The Changer’s coyote daughter, Sharazad, has been brought to Frank McDonald’s ranch, there to learn more about the world and the people she’s a part of. However, her sister (by way of one of the Changer’s earlier matings) has plans for Sharazad and the ranch.

Before the story is over, all of these threads will tangle together, and not everyone will escape unscathed. Because when gods clash, people get hurt. Kidnappings, murders, betrayals, old grudges, new friendships, new discoveries, personal growth, and resolutions are all part of life among the Athanor. To say more would be to give away some of the surprises, both pleasant and unpleasant, that litter the path of the storyline.

Yes, I know. It does sound terribly complex, and it is a fairly substantial cast of characters to keep straight. However, Lindskold is an excellent storyteller, quite proficient at weaving the epic tale without losing her readers. She switches from one scene to the next with precision, keeping us updated without losing track of any one character for long. Also, she’s careful to remind the reader just who’s who, and who -was- who once upon a time. It’s not as easy to get lost as one might think, especially since she has a good four hundred pages to play with.

I’ll be frank. (Not MacDonald!) This is an excellent book. It’s urban fantasy at its best, tackling the themes of immortality and mythology with enthusiasm and skill. As a general preference, I don’t usually find African myths very interesting. Thus, I went into this book with a bias above and beyond my dislike of stories written in present tense. But Legends Walking overcame both biases, and drew me into the story. It’s easily as good as Changer in its own way. It does rely on the events of the previous book at times, making it less user-friendly than a new reader might hope. However, this book offers enough of a recap to get the new reader started.

So what are you waiting for? Come check out the latest book by the author that Terri Windling calls, “One of the best new writers to emerge in the fantasy field in the ’90s.”

Reptile Palace Orchestra, Iguana Iguana (Omnium, 1999)

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There is just something mind-bogglingly unreal about the Reptile Palace Orchestra. Unreal, surreal, and captivating. I can honestly say that I’ve never heard anything quite like them before. And I’ve listened to a wide range of styles, thanks to Green Man.

These guys are a breed all unto themselves. Every time I thought I’d found a way to nail down just what this group was about, they’d switch tracks completely, hopping from one train of thought to the next like musical hobos. Part Bulgarian, part Colombian, part swing, part Balkan, part guy-with-an-iguana-head-riding-in-a-motorboat-with-three-kids, the Reptile Palace Orchestra certainly can’t have any rivals for whatever the heck it is they do. For one thing, I don’t know if the world’s big enough to support more than one of them!

I’ll say this, they play more instruments than I ever dreamed existed. The liner notes’ listing of the musicians that make up the RPO, and the instruments they play, runs like this:

Siggi Baldursson: drumkit, dumbek, surdo, shakers, percussion, vocals

Seth Blair: Jenson 6-string electric cello, vocals

Doug Code: clarinets, saxophone, accordion

Bill Feeny: guitar, vocals, Arp Odyssey

Anna Purnell: lead vocals, trumpet

Robert Schoville: surdo, bells, shaker, cajon, other percussion

Biff Uranus: electric and acoustic violins, Mandoblaster, Stratocaster, Therolin, balalaika, vocals

Now, the reason I went to the trouble of listing all of those is because you have to comprehend the sheer range of instruments utilized in turning out the music that the RPO does. (Biff Uranus? Do I even dare wonder?)

Now, curiosity took me to the RPO’s Web site, located just off of the Omnium Web site. Fascination made me stay. I just have to share this blurb from their site, as it sums up the RPO in less words than I can:
“RPO delight concertgoers with their original mixing of East and West, Funk and Folk and skin-shedding torch tunes. Gypsy Rock? Traditional toe-twisters? Balkan Lounge Funk? There’s a lizard trying to fit into a pigeonhole. Elvis + Armenia + Funkadelic + Bulgaria = RPO.”

Macedonian guitar jock? Scientist turned Turkmanistani cello star? Grapelli-cum-Zappa? These guys really do have it all. And I haven’t even gotten to the music.

By the eternal lateness of Godot, the music. Compelling, haunting, jaunty, personal, demanding, and devouring. I’ve wrestled with this CD for months, trying to find a way to do it justice.

Where do I start? At the beginning, with “El Pescador,” a charming little classic Colombian tune about a fisherman? As the notes say, “If it’s Colombian and it’s about a pescador, it’s going to be good.” Seriously, it’s the perfect introduction for the band that can’t be introduced. Cue rain forest, enter foreign-language singing (always a treat at parties!), bring up the instruments stage right, and straight on until morning.

How about the semi-title track, “Enchanted Reptile Palace?” It’s a swing tune about Cowboy John, his dream, and a tacky roadside attraction out in the Badlands, a place we just had to call the “one true Enchanted Reptile Palace.” The RPO completely changes styles to handle this one.

Up next is “Sombre Reptiles,” which resembles the previous song in the same way that rain resembles a hail of frogs. No singing this time, but plenty of haunting, luring music.

“Gankino Horo” is described as a classic Bulgarian kopanica. I have no idea what that means, but it seems to be an invitation to dance wildly, most likely flailing about with a partner. Lord knows, it feels like a dance tune! Well, for the first few minutes. Then it suddenly takes a left turn into a more discordant, unharmonious, downright hostile field, becoming a cacophony of music that is nevertheless compelling, and even frightening in its intensity. And wait, there’s more. I have to admit that the latter half of this selection is one of the most disturbing, mindblowing, soul-shivering songs I’ve ever heard. It has to be heard to be believed, but any selection that can chill me to the bones is hard to ignore. Wow. Just … wow. Turn the volume up, and the lights down, and experience it for yourself.

“Speak Softly Love” brings back the vocals for some fun in the sun, a bastard blend of croon, ballad, and swing that I can’t quite put my finger on.

“Small Horizons” is yet another departure from what’s gone before, this time with more of a lovesong feel, but without the lovesong reality.

With each subsequent track, RPO seems to reinvent itself, leaving me unable to define them as anything else besides “immensely talented and a little insane.” “Lupita” is as different from “Catwoman” as the London Symphony is from Metallica, and all of those are different from any of the other songs.

Wow.

And guess what? The ten tracks you hear on your CD are just the beginning. Iguana Iguana also comes with ten more bonus tracks recorded in MP3-HTML format, which you can listen to on your computer. If you have a CD-ROM device, of course. It’s double your pleasure, double your fun, for everyone. It’s not often you get this sort of value for your money, in terms of quantity and quality.

And yes, the ten MP3 tracks are all as diverse and fascinating as the regular ones. Drawn from assorted RPO CDs and performances, they’re a nice sampler of what else you can expect from the unexpected. “Sex and Death” has an almost-jazzy feel, while “Are You Satisfied” feels almost techno-pop-something in its atmosphere.

Two thumbs up. Highly recommended. I’m serious. Any more talking on my part would be wasted. Buy this one. Buy copies for your friends. Catch them in concert. They’re a Wisconsin-based group (of all places!) which means that you’ll most likely run into them in Wisconsin, Minnesota, or Michigan.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some CDs to hunt down.