Shaggy dog litter-ature

I’ve always been partial to literature with absurd, off-the-wall, shaggy-dog, irreverent humor. I remember with better clarity how good it felt finishing my first Kurt Vonnegut or Tom Robbins novel than how it was closing that first John Banville or J.M. Coetzee book. I vividly recall how Robbins’ Still Life with Woodpecker had as its hilarious literary conceit, creating a story from what we see on a pack of Camel cigarettes – and that was read a quarter of a century ago. But if you ask me about John Banville’s elegiac The Sea last year, I can only shrug and say it was very touching and sad.

So, if you like your humor subversive and over-the-top, I submit to you Christopher Moore’s latest, and the first novel of new kid-on-the-block Will Clarke.

As metafiction writer Donald Barthelme once wrote, "Those who never attempt the absurd, never achieve the impossible."

A Dirty Job

By Christopher Moore

Morrow, 387 pages

Available at Powerbooks

It was 1991, and in a London bookstore, I espied the first novel of Christopher Moore, Practical Demonkeeping. The jacket blurb promised a story so fresh and warped, I just had to give it a try. Moore more than delivered, so I’ve been ensnared ever since; a peak being 2001 and his Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. Moore is very adept at mixing the ridiculous and obscenely funny on one hand with the very humane and sympathetic. It’s never just cheap laughs he’s after, but something deeper – comedy as an avenue to make some comment about the human condition and this contrary world we live in.

Moore’s latest is A Dirty Job and it’s pure mayhem. Charlie Asher is your typical doubt-ridden Beta Male, and he runs a secondhand store that basically deals in stuff left behind by the recently deceased. Married to Rachel, whom he constantly wonders about in terms of why she married such an underachiever as himself, he spies a suspicious looking character standing beside her right after she has given birth to daughter Sophie. The figure is equally surprised by Charlie seeing him and explains himself as an Agent of Death.

In Moore’s madcap world, Rachel does expire right after, and this sends Charlie into a spiral of wondering as to whether his viewing the figure means he is also one of Death’s representatives on Earth – perhaps even the Luminatus himself, the modern reincarnation of the hooded figure we see in tarot cards and folklore.

Moore’s particular charm is the world he conjures. At Charlie’s store we have Goth teenager Lily, who covets the assignation of being a minion of Death, and there’s Ray, an aging hippie/slacker whose goal in life is to find his "true love" on the Net. He avidly surfs Desperate Filipinas and Ukranian Girls Loving You.com. Lily’s classic put-down to the latter site is to check out the initials of the site – UGLY.

The city of San Francisco, in all its splendor, becomes an integral element of all that transpires. There are mythical creatures from the Underworld, there are hounds from hell, an army of re-animated miniature warriors, and a daughter whose very gaze leads to death. A hilarious running gag is how a succession of pets (goldfish, hamsters, a kitten, etc.) all mysteriously expire when bought for Sophie.

Each character is wonderfully drawn: Charlie has a lesbian sister who loves it when Charlie says she reminds him of David Bowie. There’s a character from Castro Street that Charlie encounters, a Mr. Fresh, and when Charlie inquires about his new acquaintance’s choice of clothes and their color, the following exchange takes place:

"My name," said Mr. Fresh.

"Pardon?"

Charlie stopped tying himself up.

"I dress in mint green because of my first name. It’s Minty."

The world of Christopher Moore is twisted, skewed and absurd – and these are precisely what make it so great. With all his novels, he never fails to surprise, pulling out of the hat characters that we remember with a wry smile and laugh. His books are the type you don’t take with you to a library or for quiet time, as you’ll guffaw out loud or fall off the chair. Neither should you read them while drinking, as you’re bound to sputter or have your drink gushing out of your nostrils.

* * *

Lord Vishnu’s Love Handles: A Spy Novel (Sort Of)

By Will Clarke

Simon & Schuster, 293 pages

Available at Powerbooks

Will Clarke is a new name in the ranks of comedic fiction, but on the strength of Lord Vishnu’s Love Handles (his new novel is The Worthy); it looks like we have a very worthy addition to the likes of Moore, Bill Fitzhugh, and Carl Hiaasen. With Lord Vishnu, Clarke gives us what can only be called a "domestic, spy, conspiracy thriller/comedy." Sounds like a jumble of genres, but with Clarke’s pen, it all works out, giving us laugh-out-loud reading hours.

Our protagonist is Dallas resident Travis Anderson. He’s a pure trailer-trash Redneck but thanks to the dotcom boom has moved up in the world. Blessed with trophy wife Shelby and son Noah, Travis is up to his neck with impending problems. Profits from his company are being "hoovered up" the nose of his druggie spoiled-son partner. The IRS comes knocking, but it turns out that it’s really the CIA, armed with an outlandish offer. They’ve been monitoring his playing Psychic Cow on his laptop (guessing what color the next udder will be), and given that his results have been uncanny, they now offer him a solution for his financial woes. If he becomes a psychic spy for the government, his tax problems will disappear.

It’s a madcap, insane setup for a novel, and the brilliant thing is how Clarke delivers. Travis has visions and dreams, so he’s more than susceptible to the flattering image of himself as someone who can project thoughts and control minds. It’s a fantasy we have often daydreamed about and all Clarke does is bring that fantasy to an illogical but highly entertaining conclusion. Anomalous cognition and morphic resonance, these are just some of the exercises Travis is made to develop – albeit with sidesplitting results.

Travis is a piece of work, combining folksy wisdom with self-deprecating humor. As when he tackles his drinking problem: "A little bottle of Cuervo would make this all better. What am I saying? I want a drink because Shelby wants me to quit drinking? Now, that’s circular logic if I ever heard it... I just need to take it one step at a time. One step at a time? Oh, Jesus, I really do need help. I’m starting to talk in bumper stickers."

And when Shelby holds her weekly neighborly dinner, Travis sees the facade for what it is, "... one big brag-fest in reverse. Our friends are a modest bunch. Instead of boasting, we bitch. We grieve over our golf handicaps and we whine about our vacations to Bora-Bora and Ibiza. We moan about our Saabs being in the shop. We one-up each other with these high-dollar tales of woe. It’s like if you camouflage enough of your boasting with complaining, you won’t come off looking like a dick."

There’s a climax to the action sequences of the novel, which takes place at Disney World, and this Mouse Kingdom will never be the same. Even the Epcot Center globe takes center stage, as high jinx and sublime shenanigans rule! This is uncontrolled mayhem, and while we finish the book knowing it’s all shallow fun, it’s an exhilarating ride nonetheless.