David Thayer

Live from Druidical & Literary’s Election Central: Mayor James Warden was re-elected to an eleventh term, turning back a last minute challenge from D&L reporter Anna Nicole. The mayor garnered 50.3% of the vote, while Anna, running as an independent, captured 39.7%. Frankie Pins of the Give US Your Money Party was limited to 10%. The Dowager Princess was on hand to bestow the ceremonial First Graft upon his Hizzoner in Wellington Leg’s historic Hadrian’s Wall restaurant. Jimmy’s Free Beer message carried the day, said political correspondent J. Alfred Prufrock: “Free beer for the masses borders on product placement,” warned Judge Crater.

The inaugural was interrupted by a cloudburst that sent supporters scattering. For several minutes the downtown area experienced a deluge of cantelope, corn husks, and those Italian candies no one likes. Hizzoner’s limo sustained minor damage when struck by a can of Chili that fell from the sky shortly after dusk. Admiral Howe, once believed too short for naval service, explained the incident: “Someone threw a turnip at the Roman garrison on the Isle of Mitch. They have moved catapults to the edge of towne. It’s fairly clear that the Romans have been to Costco and are retaliating.”

City officials suspended memoir writing during the emergency. Mrs. Agatha Pelphry, who voted eleven times in the election, reported Roman skirmishers “amongst her snap peas” last night. Units from the Flying Squad are investigating. Hizzoner issued the following statement: “I urge the citizens of Wellington Leg to remain calm. This is a food fight and we’re going to win.”

As a precaution, large mounds of turnips have been assembled near Burnham Wood. The pleasure destroyer “Prinz Wilhelm” is making steam for the Outer Banks where it will “menace enemy formations while fishing for perch.” “When launched with ill-intent the perch is a formidable weapon,” the Admiral said, standing on a crate. Concette Comedia della Arta reporting.

Aboard the battle dinghy Forthright off the Isle of Mitch: Geraldo here. I’m with the Earl and his embittered dogsbody Urquhart Depew. We’re navigating the fog enshrouded waters of the Perth of Anacostia approaching the Roman garrison by stealth. All of Wellington Leg trembles tonight as the Roman causeway nears completion. The police are helpless; the army is on manuevers and the navy is bottled up by the mighty “Prinz Wilhelm”, destroyer and pleasure yacht. It falls to the Earl standing in the back of the boat, I guess that’s the stern, yes, he’s nodding, he’s in the stern. Depew is forward manning the oars. We are a tiny force and, as a noncombatant, my role is limited to reporting what I see. Wait, the “Forthright” is slowing. The Earl is bending, reaching for something, struggling it appears with that lower back pain that can be so debilitating…

He’s holding a turnip! My goodness the fate of Wellington Leg is at stake here; the Earl is hefting the turnip, issuing hand signals to Depew. The bow is swinging toward the shoreline. I see a Roman sentry on the causeway, his armor gleaming even though its dark, the horsehair on his helmet glistening even though that doesn’t seem plausible, but it is exciting! “Turnip away,” cries the Earl and with a mighty heave he sends the vegetable end over end through the near darkness. The turnip strikes the Roman sentry on the head with an audible clank.

“Row, damn you,” cries the earl and the Forthright turns away from the Isle of Mitch for the mad dash across the freezing waters of the Perth. This is Gastropod Alley and below the surface lurk ceatures as strange and frightening as any that swim or float or whatever gastropods do to move from one spot to another…drift maybe. We’re ashore and I kiss the sand.

“The Romans will abandon this mad enterprise,” the earl says. “They’ll be gone by morning.”

“We’re saved?”

“Yes, Geraldo, Wellington Leg is secure. Spread the word. We sent our turnip straight and true and the enemy is unnerved. All is well.”

“Spell my name correctly,” Depew calls. To the earl he says, “He won’t, will he?”

“Probably not. I’ve prepared my famous turnip meringue in celebration of our triumph. We’ll pick up some Cool Whip on the way home.”

“Master and Commander.”

“We’ll pick that up too.”

Dateline Wellington Leg: With the runoff election looming none of the candidates have run off according to Prudentia Chalfont-Smythe, chair of the election commission and heiress to the Smythe Oven fortune. The incumbent, Hizzoner Jimmy Stones, held a slim lead after Sunday’s baby kissing fiasco wherein Hizzoner kissed the mom not the proferred baby. The unidentified woman retaliated with a bottle of Windex leaving Hizzoner’s glasses fogged although remarkably clean after aides and sycophants applied a damp cloth to his specs. Frankie Pins remains in second while writein candidate our own Anna Nicole has gained ground. Lobbyist Puffy thinks the race is too close to call.

The winner will be the master of ceremonies at this year’s Literary Faire. The long list for the coveted Snooker Award, won last year by Chalfont-Smythe, is sequestered on the Isle of Mitch visible from shore on Tuesdays with fair winds. It was Anna Nicole who discovered that troops from the Vicesima Claudia legion were constructing a causeway from the island. Causeway construction is a class B felony according to Constable AJC Constable of the Marine Patrol. “The Romans may simply be dumping large rocks into the sea,” he observed. Indeed skirmishers crossed the American River “offering taunts and challenges” to the Governor. “That’s not fair,” Constable Constable added.

With the weather clearing the invaders are emboldened said DCI Borchardt. Over the weekend elements from the Valeria Victrix legion were routed after Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe read from her epic poem “Wolfman Jack.” The 405 will reopen vowed Borchardt and outlet malls, a favorite target of Roman derision, will once again be operational. Borchardt’s “Wellington Leg Confidential” is believed to be on the long list if only because of his torrid affair with Chalfont-Smythe. Concetta Comedia della Arta reporting.

Special to Weekend Edition of the Druidical & Literary: these stories while based on fact, are not based on facts relevant to the stories but rather other facts such as the exact height of the Colossus at Rhodes. Your reporter, armed only with a thesaurus and a primitive map of the New World, can only speculate as to how these facts may influence the course of human events. Call it budget cuts, call it shoddy journalism, these stories are sponsored by Bill’s House of Cars on the Romantic Road. Need a car? Bill’s Pledge to You: Your credit history is not a problem at Bill’s House of Cars. Free loaners for life. Tell Bill the exact height of the Colossus at Rhodes and win a chamois! Here now the news:

Judges from the Court of Public Opinion were arrested in a dawn raid by members of the Flying Squad. Acting on an anonymous tip police and paramilitary units from Fort Santorum assaulted the residence of Judge Crater. Several of the jurists were discovered in the neighboring village of Flagrante Delicto according to witnesses. A crate of Richard Cheney masks were confiscated along with a quantity of knockoff French Perfumes. “The smell was terrible,” reported Mrs. Jolie of Portobello Court in Goth. Barrels of watered down Chanel fragrances floated ashore near the estuary late Saturday night. “Red abalone beached themselves,” said DCI Borchardt. “We’ve nipped this smuggling ring in the bud.”

Suspicion fell on the Earl whose high street emporium The Nose Knows has violated anti-witchcraft ordnances. Mrs. Anderson-Cooper, Prosecutrix, interviewed in a hot air balloon, believes that the master of MV Longueduc conspired with the earl to flood the market with cheap perfume. “This is a scene from Voltaire’s Miasma,” she claimed, referring to the earl’s self-published potboiler wherein a philosopher turns to piracy. “They’re guilty of barratry.”

Counsel for the Defense Mr. Putts reminded everyone that the earl was in possession of a “Letter of the mart” signed by the Dowager Princess. “He is an authorized buccaneer.” Opening arguments will be presented in a alphabetical order according to Judge Crater. “There will be order in the court,” he vowed.

If you’re wondering what’s become of fine writing and a strong story David Lawrenece’s Cold KIll will help ease your mind. Set in London’s Notting Hill Gate and Holland Park the novel follows Detective Sheila Mooney and her squad as they pursue a serial killer. When a man walks into the station and confesses to the latest killing he presents the cops with the question, is he the killer or someone equally dangerous, if innocent?

Christmas is approaching, the temperature’s falling, and darkness comes early as the story moves from various points of view to pull the reader into the swift moving current of this detailed procedural. The set up is familiar to fans of British cop sagas and Lawrence leaves the formula intact, preferring to add depth of description and characterization rather than twist the established order into some new shape and form. There were starlings roosting in the Holland Park woodland, their feathers fluffed because of the frost on the wind. In among the trees the scene of the crime team had pitched a four sided blue PVC screen…a crowd of hard edged shadows moved on the blue backdrop.

Lawrence brings those hard edged shadows to life with skill and a poet’s eye. Non UK readers will stumble here and there on some of the slang, and punctuation fans will receive a tutorial of the use of the much maligned colon. Why have US and UK rules of usage diverged over the years? I don’t know: if I knew, I’d tell you. After reading Cold Kill you won’t care.

As summer approaches…no it’s here, on time for a change. As summer approaches it is okay to wear a plum sports jacket on Public Television as long the topic under discussion, ICBMs, North Korea, has a certain gravitas. Rick Santorum has proof of pre-war weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. I wonder what William Penn’s level of regret might be that his beloved sylvania is represented by Rick. Penn might draw solace from the knowledge that, short of an invasion by French dissidents from Quebec, his commonwealth remains secure. North Korean missiles can only reach the West Coast. Whew, that’s a relief if you live in our nation’s capital or travel frequently. The missile might land in a field of hops somewhere near Yakima causing a brief hiatus in summertime fluff pieces about global warming.

It would be cause for greater consternation if we personalize North Korea’s ICBM story. Okay, you’ve laid your money down for a writer’s conference. You’ve arrived at the venue in a picturesque hamlet on the West Coast of the United States. You’re about to pitch your manuscript to an agent when an ICBM strikes the red roof above your head. There are no refunds, according to the volunteer. The guy behind you looks a lot like Rick Santorum.

You’ve just had your 1989 Honda detailed and an ICBM falls right on top of it. Why, oh why, did you move to Hoquiam? Life in Pittsburgh was good, wasn’t it?

I would avoid writers conferences this summer unless they’re in Delaware. It’s a small state, but when you’re in Delaware, you’re not aware of that, you’re not thinking, “man, this is small.” Flee to Delaware, my friends, they don’t even have global warming.

Not to be outdone by mainstream publications, the Druidical & Literary has prepared a list of beach reading. This represents a poignant moment for residents of Wellington Leg so recently entangled in the gun boat diplomacy waged by the European Union. Op-Ed reporter Grealdo notes, “the fact that Europe must accomodate a more difficult monetary policy, break up into 1568 fiefdoms, principates, duchies, and city-states in no way warrants unbridled agression against Wellington Leg, and unincorporated Goth.”

Oiver Castinstone is wondering what’s new from Hard Case Crime. Oliver carries those editions when he goes to the beach. After having sand kicked in his face “by some Palooka” Oliver also packs a weathered edition of “Gravity’s Rainbow” for use if things get rough.

The Earl, not one for surf and sand after his abalone attack off Santa Cruz, one of the few recorded assaults of that nature, recommends Ken Bruen’s “The Dramatist” with Patrick Quinlan’s “Smoked” as a fallback. “Red Abalone are dangerous when riled,” he added.

Field reporter Anna Nicole recommends Eduardo Santiago’s “Tomorrow They Will Kiss.” She also applauds the city of San Francisco for selecting “The Hummingbird’s Daughter,” as its one book choice. Anna hopes to unseat Mayor James Warden as a writein candidate. Mayor Warden’s popularity among the deceased represents a significant obstacle to her candidacy: “They love him,” she admitted.

Financial writer Stanley Morgan is reading John Sclazi’s “The Old Man’s War” as well as Donald Trump’s latest thoughts on wealth. He noted that the Piltdown Exchange suffered minor damage after the shelling over the weekend. “We’ve lost our Live Hogs Pit,” he lamented. Pork belly trading will continue in the overflow lot outside Goth Costco according to DCI Borchardt. “We’ve been resupplied,” he added. Crime had come to a virtual standstill after a shortage of yellow tape hindered policing efforts. The new tape is not yellow but rather a cheerful amber.

More staff recommendations are forthcoming promises Beach Editor Scooter. Has the latest Adrienne Barbeau title along with the new Updike. “Man, she can write,” Scooter said.

I think of publishing as the Big Lebowksy, those 170,000 books, or 300,000 books, or whatever the number, cascading forth from the publishers of the world, an annual output of prodigious scale. Literary agents all agree that fewer than 2% of manuscripts are accepted for publication. That suggests to me that 8,500,000 maunscripts must be submitted each year to sustain 170,000 printed titles. Those are US figures; they do not take into account 15,000,000 additional English language manuscripts required to configure the output of Great Britain, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and Ireland, to name a few. Let’s throw in books written in languages other than English and round up. There are 25,000,000 manuscripts in circulation. A couple of them are mine.

Let’s envision this scenario: all 25,000,000 manuscripts find a home. All are published. Don’t tell me that scarcity equals value. Scarcity is preserved; book buyers in search of a title or an author want what they want, unaware of the scale of available choices. Does anyone watch 250 channels? Does the fact that C-Span is available haunt the fans of CSI Miami?

We have the capability to ramp up production from 170,000 to 25,000,000. Certain aspects of the process need to be modernized, streamlined, and rationalized. Let’s take the book party. To accomodate this many titles, one continuous party would be organized. Each day 68,493 authors would be feted, lionized, heralded, and praised. Sure, a noon timeslot would be more coveted than one at 3am, but it’s a party, and who knows who might be awake at that hour craving something to read. The event could be televized, fed into the homes of those tired of watching CSI Miami.

25,000,000 books. Let’s not flinch my friends. This is big, bigger than big. We can build a Greater Lebowsky and use the state of Delaware and certain possessions and archipelagos for storage. They don’t mind. As we grow, they grow. Delaware from sea to shining sea, book capital of the universe.

The literary sub-culture is storming the barricades over John Updike’s remarks about the future of publishing, the Internet, and the quotient of narcissism he equates with blogging. Miss Snark called Updike a nitwit in a post that helps illustrate some of what Updike has been trying to articulate, a task complicated by the release of his novel The Terrorist. The author is in the position of defending both his ideas and his most recent novel, all wounds self-inflicted to be sure, beginning with his speech at BEA.

Perhaps what he’s strugling with most is his perception that to be a writer in 1957 required a different set of skills than in 2006.  It was a meritocracy then with publication the reward for elite talent. The process was pure because writers, novelists in particular, were revered in the United States as much as in Russia, Poland, India or Japan. Novelists were second only to poets in prestige. It was an elitist model, the consolation being only the best of the best made their way to having their books bound and delivered to dusty bookshops on Elm Street.

Updike’s memory is not faulty. He is perhaps insulated from the cultural whipsaw that has turned elitism on its ear and pushed the publishing buisness from first class all the way back to the bar car where the most influential tend to be the loudest. There’s a party going on. 74 million people are back there saying whatever pops into their minds and everyone is talking at once. Drinks are on the house, John. Have a few belts and try not to cringe when a frothy guy puts his arm around your shoulder and tells you that he’s a writer too.

The appearance of the French dreadnaught “Adrienne Barbeau” caused consternation early Sunday as the Sultan’s forces gathered aboard the “Prinz Wilhelm” to discuss strategy. Fearing the “Adrienne Barbeau’s” big guns and reputation for ruthlessness, the Sultan ordered conscripts to report for duty at the gathering place outside the Hotel Faz. Admiral Howe reviewed the first rank of volunteers, whom he described as “quiet, rather formally dressed fellows, who, when provided rifles and ammo belts, departed the rally point without a word.”

It was hours later that the Admiral realized that his conscripts were emperor penguins. Blaming Costco for his new prescription, the Admiral was shocked and relieved when the penguins mounted an amphbious assault. The “Adrienne Barbeau” withdrew to international waters rather than face the “determined fury of these unconventional fighting birds.”

Citizens were heartened by the sight of the earl in full, if somewhat snug uniform. A team of tailors had worked throughout the night to prepare the majestic garment. The earl appeared in his restored Hispano Suiza, armed only with a broadsword, believed to have been taken from a local theater’s production of “Pirates of Penzance,” a performance whose noon debut is much anticipated. The earl’s driver, erstwhile sports editor Mandy Rice-Davies, wore Louis Vuitton combat gear with matching ammo case.

“Upon arrival at the beach, the earl raised his sword leading the pengiuns into the surf line whereupon the Interlopers fled.” The earl was rescued by crew members filming “Baywatch Wellington Leg” for GoogleVision. “He forgot to wait two hours after eating,” said lifeguard Pam. “We were like…wow, is that guy crazy?”

DCI Borchardt reported that the penguins dropped their muskets on the beach before entering the fray. “Stout fellows all,” he said.