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340 pages, Paperback
First published January 27, 2004
I’ve been a problem baby, a lousy son, a distant brother, an off-putting neighbor, a piss-poor student, a worrisome seatmate, an unreliable employee, a bewildering lover, a frustrating confidant, and a crappy husband. Among the things I do pretty well at this point I’d have to list darts, reclosing Stay-Fresh boxes, and staying out of the way.
“Here” is Waterbury, Connecticut, which is right now the main show in terms of the cutaway news, because of the standoff. You can see Stephanie or me, the Hostage, at the windows every so often on TV. We watch ourselves. (Kindle Loc. 89-91)
I’ve been a problem baby, a lousy son, a distant brother, an off-putting neighbor, a piss-poor student, a worrisome seatmate, an unreliable employee, a bewildering lover, a frustrating confidant, and a crappy husband. Among the things I do pretty well at this point I’d have to list darts, reclosing Stay-Fresh boxes, and staying out of the way. (Kindle Loc. 147-150)
I have a hold of Stephanie’s ankle. For the longest time I’m not hurt. Her rate of fire is spectacular. The ordnance coming back at us sets everything in the kitchen into electric life. Our overhead fixture’s doing a tarantella. (Kindle Loc. 228-229)
There are events in which every second can be taken out of line, examined this way and that, and then allowed to move along. This is one of them. (Kindle Loc. 230-231)
Egk is a fat little man with boils. Meinert considers him to have been well named. (Kindle Loc. 277-278)
[Gnüss] goes below and stops by the crew’s quarters. No luck. He listens in on a discussion of suitable first names for children conceived aloft in a zeppelin. The consensus favors Shelium, if a girl. (Kindle Loc. 411-413)
Inside the hangarlike hull, they can feel the gravitational forces as Captain Pruss brings the ship up to the docking mast in a tight turn. The sharpness of the turn overstresses the after-hull structure, and the bracing wire bolt that Gnüss overtightened snaps like a rifle shot. The recoiling wire slashes open the gas cell opposite. Seven or eight feet above Gnüss’s alarmed head, the escaping hydrogen encounters the prevailing St. Elmo’s fire playing atop the ship. (Kindle Loc. 475-478)
The fireball explodes outward and upward, annihilating Gnüss at its center. More than 100 feet below on the axial catwalk, as the blinding light envelops everything below it, Meinert knows that whatever time has come is theirs, and won’t be like anything else. (Kindle Loc. 479-481)
So? we said to ourselves. Everyone knew that learning to fly meant little more than learning to land.
But pilots are taught to land by flying alongside instructors. There was no room for two in these things. So we’d have to be told, rather than shown.
“Does the landing,” Ziegler asked in a classroom session, “have to be perfect?”
“No,” Wörndl shrugged. “You could die, instead.” (Kindle Loc. 4663-4667)
The cockpit was filled with a black-and-red-and-yellow soup. The yellow looked like chicken fat. The fuel cells had shattered and the fuel had poured into the cockpit. Those who understood explained it to those who still didn’t: Glogner had been dissolved alive. (Kindle Loc. 4724-4726)
The next Komet exploded on the flight line. When we reached the spot, there was only a blackened and steaming stain. Medical personnel found a bone fragment, and brought it in on a stretcher. (Kindle Loc. 4733-4734)
Rösle’s Komet flipped on landing just before the perimeter. It didn’t explode and he was pulled from it just conscious, but pints of the fuel had run over his back while he hung there, and when they tore off the flight suit, the skin underneath was a jelly. He was on enough painkillers to last until April. (Kindle Loc. 4827-4829)
My turn came next. “Come come come, Baby Bird,” Uhlhorn said as I held up my straw. “Your one-six-three-B is steaming and ready to blow. We need to put you in it or it will blow up for no reason.” (Kindle Loc. 4735-4736)
We are all insomniacs. We are, as a group, a picturesque compendium of physical tics. (Kindle Loc. 4779)
WHEN I WAKE there’s an impromptu celebration and meeting around my bunk. It transpires that Wörndl’s Komet caught fire right above the field. He had to bail out forty meters from the treetops and his parachute caught the upper branches of a big pine, insuring he only cracked his ankle. He tells everyone that it was like jumping off a church steeple with an umbrella. (Kindle Loc. 4823-4826)
This is wildly disparate, uneven collection. Of its 23 entries, I really liked nine, and five of those are almost consecutively placed within the final 100 pages. For me, the best-written and most enjoyable story here is "Batting Against Castro," about three sad-sack scrub baseball players who decide to play in the Cuban league during the U.S. off season just as Castro is gaining national popularity; if you, too, like this one, you'll really like the even more accomplished novel Castro's Curveball by Tim Wendel.
The melancholic, atmospheric "Piano Starts Here," a story of unrequited (or barely requited) love, has what might be the collection's best sentence: "I had the patience of a coral reef."
The odd story "Krakatau," with its effectively extended metaphor of the narrator's psychologically troubled older brother and the titular volcano that wiped out a city, has maybe the best opening sentence: "I was twelve years old when I figured out that the look my brother would get around his eyes probably meant that there was a physiological basis for what was wrong with him."
"Won't Get Fooled Again," a sort of homage to The Who, told from the band's least and really only non-colorful member, bassist John Entwhistle, is amusing.
Possibly the funniest entry--but also one of the most trenchant and disturbing for what it reveals about the un-self-awareness and empty rhetoric/double talk behind U.S. political leadership--is "John Ashcroft: More Important Things Than Me." I'm not sure if any or all of the vignettes presented in piecemeal fashion here throughout the story's 20 pages (feels not right to even call it a "story") are actual or made-up Ashcroft quotations, but together they make for a sort of tour de force, and the one with the line "more important things than me" is downright sad.
"The Creature from the Black Lagoon," about a lonely, homicidal monster, while certainly no "Shape of Water," is entertaining and good.
"Runway," the sixth story in the collection, starting some 70 pages in, is the first of the bunch with something resembling a happy family, except for the fact that the husband/father has an inexplicable death wish. Memorable imagery, though.
And coming in with easily the best title, "Glut Your Soul On My Accursed Ugliness" tells the sad tale of Anson, a very troubled seventh-grader and the parental units behind his self-loathing.