David Thayer

Wellington Leg: Our correspondent, the Wellingtonienne, was unable to make Eugenia Phaeton’s birthday party due to a prior commitment. Drastic cuts in staff here at the Druidical & Literary reflect our ongoing commitment to you, our shareholders, hedge fund managers and investment bankers who understand that journalistic excellence and integrity are really vague and silly concepts when analyzed on a Pro-Forma or even GAAP basis. As a cost cutting measure we’re experimenting with different ideas when it comes to the news:

Ignoring news all together. Sometimes we overreact to things. A lot of things just run their course whether we report them or not.

Inventing news: fiction writers are cheaper than non-fiction writers according to our consultants. It’s hardly surprising then to discover that making things up is more cost effective than running around verifying sources and stuff. Anyway, who has the time?

Bandwidth: this is just too labor intensive, so we laid off the band members.

News aggregators: We have Phil who reads a lot and receives a case of Yoo-Hoo with our compliments.

Headline writers: We’re building a robot who will take over much of the creative work and sub-leasing the assigned parking spaces through a series of limited partnership agreements. Total capital investment should peak at around $12 unless we get an unfavorable ruling from you know who.

Real Time Literary News: this is why you read the Druidical & Literary, brought to you commercial free because of some glitch in the Google algorithm. Sorry for the long-winded explanation as to why the headline and the body of this entry do not correlate other than in re our continuing commitment blah blah blah. Yours Faithfully, Oliver Castinstone, Publisher. ( NB: Eugenia Phaeton’s birthday party will be shown in its entirety at its usual time.)

Special to the Druidical & Literary: Our correspondent, the Wellingtonienne, filed this report from embattled Los Angeles: A crackdown on texting has demoralized Roman soldiers stationed around Los Angeles. The commander of the Vicesima Claudia Legion has ordered an end to texting as his men prepare to leave Winter Quarters for Spring Training. Our own Wellingtonienne is on the scene.

“I’m all over this story,” she says. “I’m standing near the entrance to the Campus Martialis ( formerly Burbank) where the First Cohort of the Vecisima Claudia is going through stretching exercises, a little yoga, and aromatherapy in preparation for the campaign season. The legion commander announced a texting ban to take immediate effect not only for the First Cohort, but the others as well.”

How are the Romans adapting?

“Other than “Earltube” the troops have no access to modern technology. We gave them cell phones but one of the guys dropped his and then they all dropped theirs and pretty soon they were stomping on them probably in reaction to the opening bars of MY SHARONA programmed as the ring tone by either Boris or Natasha.”

How do they text?

“They have these sharp sticks and wax tablets and it takes like forever to write a message. I did one and by the time I finished I forgot what was going to say.”

Is Burbank chafing under Roman rule?

“Totally. I was ordering a soy latte when Jay Leno drove by and I’m like Oh My God and the Roman guy guarding the place carved the cash register in half thinking the barbarians were atacking or whatever. He almost killed a talent agent sitting by the window.”

Are you safe?

“Oh yeah, they know I’m like a citizen journalist and I have to wear this tennis headband that says SPQR which I guess is a Roman television station or something. The other today they played catch with the yoga teacher and I’m like Oh My God, dudes, that’s a monk you’re tossing back and forth!”

What are you immediate plans?

“Well, the Romans are kind of pissed about the LA Coliseum. I think we’re going over to Westwood and seize UCLA.”

Will that affect PAC 10 play?

“Wow, good question. I’ll see if I can get them to spare the gym.”

How do we know you’re the real Wellingtonienne and not a Roman spy? What’s the capitol of Ohio?

WKRP.

Geraldo here: be safe, okay?

Wellington Leg: Officials from the city government gathered on the tarmac at Gastropod International to greet literary critics assembling in towne for the annual Wellington Leg Literary Fete at the Hotel Faz. The band churned through its LOUIE LOUIE repertoire as the great airship MOSHULU touched down between an assortment of cones designed to resemble from the air a 1953 Nash Rambler. The mighty zeppelin carried a cargo of hot air not seen in these parts since the earl’s birthday party.

Upon arrival each of the critics was presented with a ceremonial sash and a small portrait of Mr. Big, the event’s sponsor and organizer. Mr. Big, a crime fiction fixture, emerged from his limo wearing a zoot suit and carrying his signature tommy gun. His moll, Prudentia Chalfont-Smythe ( THE BIG SNOOZE, FAREWELL MY PRETTY) sported a veil and pill box hat. “I like critics,” she said. “I keep one in the trunk.”

DCI Borchardt promised that literary criticism in Wellington Leg would maintain the highest standards. “No ad hominem attacks in our towne,” he vowed. A motorcycle escort roared off toward the Faz as each critic was handed a copy of  WELLINGTON LEG CONFIDENTIAL, Borchardt’s steamy work in progress. “It rips away the shroud and exposes the part behind the shroud,” said one critic.

Mr. Big vowed revenge after last year’s event. “This year Pru wins the prize or else,” he said. First prize is an autographed copy of the earl’s masterpiece VOLTAIRE’S MIASMA. Guests at the Faz are urged to avoid disturbing the critcs as they read. “They’re taking a vow of silence,” Borchardt said. A Mr. HUffington of Middle Wallop ordered a cheeseburger from room service and received the New York Times instead. Distraught, he ran through the halls of the historic hotel bellowing an anguished indecipherable rant about fiction coverage. He was subdued by staff and passersby. “We think he was a blogger,” Borchardt said. The cheeseburger was consumed by “persons unknown,” Borchardt admitted. Hamilcar Frist reporting.

1974 is in the rear view mirror. E. Howard Hunt passed away last week, or maybe it was early this week, a close relative of last week all things considered. Hunt was the CIA man who said “uh,oh” when the Watergate burglars were nabbed in the act by the DC police. Hunt’s death got me to thinking about 1974, the year Stephen King’s novel CARRIE was published, forever altering the book publishing business, not to mention how we view the Senior Prom. In many ways CARRIE and Dick Nixon were experiencing adventures in unpopularity, although Carrie never chewed the lid off a child proof aspirin bottle ( correct me if I’m wrong.)

Lest we think the Blockbuster Era began last week, or early this week, Hollywood had delivered AIRPORT and THE TOWERING INFERNO, and the Hardy Boys were in Hong Kong seeking the CLUE OF THE HISSING SERPENT. Karen Black appeared in THE GREAT GATSBY in 1974: she played “Karen” in EASY RIDER, and of course, was shooting NASHVILLE, released the following year. This ushered in the Karen Black Era and ushered out the Katherine Ross Era.

To paraphrase St. Paul we see life through a mirror darkly. The present feels unique and strange, but a glance back to 1974 reveals startling parallels. Mere months before the fall of Saigon. 1974 resonates with the message that we can survive horrible events, even Hollywood’s rendition of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Child proof caps have come a long way, every kid worth their salt knows how to open one for you, but back in 1974 they were kind of a novelty. E. Howard Hunt mastered them quickly. And he could see across the street.

It’s instructive to examine the archives now and then to learn which posts attract the most readers, to hover like a cheerleader mom in a Dallas suburb lest the popular posts torment the others. A dire warning about the effects of Herman’s Hermits on the human brain remains number one with a bullet. Also a question from Mrs. Endicott of Cape Canaveral who wrote to ask, “why did Wellington Leg launch a spy satellite?”

Wellington Leg Spy Satellite LLC is a Delaware Corporation with corporate offices in Red Hook Brooklyn. All correspondence from them begins with the phrase “quite frankly” and concludes with lengthy passages from the works of Rilke. A serious desgn flaw requires developing spy photographs at Rite-Aid where the Muzak never stops.

Indeed, Mrs. Endicott, Wellington Leg is seeking real time information on the goings on in neighboring Goth. A border dispute has spilled over into the Costco parking lot, where even at odd hours copies of Rick Moody’s THE DIVINERS are sold from the back of Minivans. Goth has formed an alliance with the City of Carthago Nova, a planned community. Not even the creation of a Jimi Hendrix energy drink, recently announced in Los Angeles, offers succor to the exhausted troops. No, Mrs. Endicott, Wellington Leg will not lower its flag over the entrails of the abalone also known as “Big Red.”

Thus, we spy. Now that Hizzoner accepts major credit cards, the fiscal health of the community is assured despite outbursts of irrational exuberance and the endless complaints from outside agitators. NB: Should you encounter the Wellington Leg Spy Satellite while out and about don’t take the photos to your local drugstore. Contact Napoleon Bonaparte at the Red Hook address. Tell him you’re a Hermit fan. Or better yet repeat the phrase, “Quite frankly, I think you’re mad.”

Gastropod Alley: The Island of Gill, a windswept volcanic cone, has selected the earl’s masterpiece VOLTAIRE’S MIASMA as book of the year. The island, once thought to be uninhabited, is a critics refuge designated by the Dowager Princess as “Her Blessed Sanctuary, Aviary, and Potting Shedde” allows no construction or banging of hammer upon nail. The four year round residents live in caves under an agreement of condominium with the Crown, Her Assigns, Bailiffs, Wastrels, and Appointees. Previous winners of the coveted Bipectinated Gill Award include Aldous Huxley, Reggie Jackson, A French Guy, Sonny Bono, and the front line of 1954 Baltimore Colts.

The Earl, resplendent in traditional chain mail, set foot on the island bearing news from loved ones. He was greeted at the shoreline by a penguin and a wind-battered Toyota. They set off with the penguin at the wheel making a course across the Rocky soil into the churning waves of Gastropod Alley. Unbeknownst to the earl, penguins are  drawn to the sea. Fortunately for all, the Spanish Galleon Balboa lurked nearby, no doubt plotting yet another assault on the unsuspecting citizens of Wellington Leg.

The Earl, hoisted aboard by heavy duty crane, was allowed to “drip-dry” while Viscount Panza interrogated the penguin. After cigars and brandy the penguin was put ashore with a warning about staging literary contests under false pretenses. A photo of the penguin was dispatched to Wellington Leg Police Headquarters where CSI Caruso agreed that, “this is the guy who promised me literary fame during a sting operation near Tierra del Fuego.”

Queen Isabella has promised to return the earl “as soon as back taxes are received from the Californias.” Fearing the earl may become a political football, NFL officials promised to review the tape and consult with the Players Union before demanding his unconditional release. CSI Caruso vowed swift justice noting “we are unique among mammals in that we play football. But there are rules. That’s where I come in.”

The Penguin appeared to be smiling on the windswept security video. “He’d had two or three glasses of cognac. That’s a lot for a penguin,” said DCI Borchardt. “The Toyota was stolen,” he added. “In 1978.” He carried a valid drivers license, the only endorsement being “the driver is a flightless bird who feels compelled to plunge into large bodies of water.” Pierre Trudeau reporting.

You know that no one is more prepared than this reporter to cease and desist on the topic of the New York Times Book Review and its utter loathing of fiction. Norman Mailer may be cranky and a trifle carniverous in a vegan age, but it’s not as though he’s cooking crank in a West Village townhouse, or socking Rosie O’Donnell in the kisser, or giving commencement speechs at Vassar on the vagaries of chick-lit and the fall of civilization. Okay he wrote a novel about young Adolph’s formative years. Janet Maslin’s review innoculates the innocent with all the dudgeon the American Heart Association might muster in regard to the sausage and pepper sandwich. Read Norman at your peril. You’ll poke your Third Eye out.

Thankfully in the same periodical Leisl Schillenger writes an actual book review of Roddy Doyle’s novel PAULA SPENCER. It’s okay with Leisl that Doyle labors in this distasteful arena, and she pretty much sticks to the task with a one hand grab at the warning track of Roddy’s long fly ball. She makes it look easy! She discusses the book without a single reference to the futlility of fiction.

At least the Sports Section is on the job. The Yankees are stockpiling young arms ( not as gross as it sounds, my Bulgarian friends.) The Knicks lost a heartbreaker. To the New Jersey Nets. Strange odors waft across the river. Somewhere near Basking Ridge a reader is cracking open that new Norman Mailer novel. Oh, the horror.

Megan Abbott, author of DIE A LITTLE and THE SONG IS YOU is posting at the Rap Sheet. Megan has a series of thought-provoking and fun posts, especially if you’re a film noir fan or simply enjoy intelligent writing.

David Isaak, author of SMITE THE WATERS, HAS A NEW BLOG. It’s called TOMORROWVILLE the title of another Isaak novel and a personal favorite of mine. David’s novel SMITE will be published by Macmillan later this year under their Macmillan New Writing imprint. He’s written an eloquent backstory for your enlightenment.

Looks as though the ReganBooks imprint is leaving Los Angeles. Harper-Collins canceled publication of 7: The Mickey Mantle Novel, according to Publishers Weekly. Whew. A first person reimagining of Mantle’s days with the Yankees? Rights have reverted to the author.

Judith Regan’s move to LA coincided with the Roman invasion of Southern California, a bit of bad luck for Judith. Pasadena is controlled by the Valeria Victrix Legion while much of the valley suffers from raids by the Vicesima Claudia: the Romans have their eye on Burbank. No wonder the cultural melding of Socal and Judith has suffered. Next year’s Fox network programming may feature a number of shows in Latin. Not to worry, though, the troops enjoy The Sopranos.

I know that book length fiction behaves badly at times, punishing the author with subversive side trips, falling plot points, strange interludes of cross-genre heaving, the sinking feeling that Miss Snark is looking over your shoulder consulting the crapometer. Action verbs, gerunds, entire passages from Kaavya Viswanathan, Bibilcal references, and global warming riddle the page while you wonder if your career as a hod carrier will ever blossom the way Chairman Mao envisioned?

I cry uncle: much-loved manuscript FLAMINGO DAWN is home from the wars. Only two years old, it has encountered schoolyard bullies, lost of few pints of blood, dislocated a few bones. So, it is now in Bay Three where a crack team of mechanics tore it apart and I have their estimate. Major rewrite. The little fellow needs new structure.

Step one: Weeping. I’ve hired a team of professional mourners. They shriek as I dissect the manuscript. Unlike dead frogs this experiment yields no tactile results, no cries from the faint of heart. Structure? I’ll give you structure…okay all the scenes from the protagonists point of view? Line up. This is gym class for the soul.

Wellington Leg: Poet Laureate Johnny Adonis is in custody today on a charge of piracy. Mr. Adonis downloaded several songs from the Golden Oldies collection orbiting high over towne; his primitive Oom-pod proved ineffectual, according to police sources. “The songs hurtled through cyber-space,” DCI Borchardt reported. “They careened into towne striking the Oom-pod a glancing blow before blasting a hole in the pavement.”

Boris of the popular Borscht in Gemini restaurant was reading an e-book when the download struck the earth. “Holy smokes I’m thinking a meteor shower,” he said. “Now I’m seeing smoking hole where once was street.”

City crews arrived with shovels to lean on while Professor Moriarity calibrated and triangulated before he postulated, “From the dimension of the impact I’m thinking this is from the Leslie Gore Era. ”

“If citizens of Wellington Leg wish to hear music, they can simply go to the Bandstand on Great Jones Street,” said a spokesperson for Hizzoner. The mayor, the first public official to honor credit cards, added that “we can’t have things whizzing around that create a danger to honest folk.”

A handful of stock analysts wondered if this would lead to a Frisbee ban. “The poet laureate has spoiled things for everyone.”

Rumors of free borscht incited a torch lit parade that fizzled quickly. The price of beets skyrocketed on the Piltdown Exchange but things were quiet in afternoon trading. “Beets are the new soybean,” said one trader. “This is the ground floor.”