Dave's Fiction Warehouse

Solitary road trips are always a time for reflection. But when the purpose of the trip is to see a beloved sister for what seems likely to be the last time, reflection turns easily to regret. Today I covered about 700 miles under a low sky the same color as the pavement, the dun fields on either side wheeling by like the gears of time. If there's a suitable venue for contemplating life and how it ends, that's as good as any. Every mile I thought of Val, the impetuous girl she'd been and the kind, patient woman she became, and how my memories between the two are far fewer than they should be. That's where the regret comes in. I could have have been a much better brother. Could have sent birthday cards, could have helped out, could have dropped by once in awhile with a bucket of chicken and a smile. I could have done a lot of things; I hate knowing that I didn't. I hate that every feeling I have about this is a cliche. Most of all, I hate that my sister is dying and t...

We saw Slumdog Millionaire yesterday. It's a gritty story, less buoyant than grim, until an improbable ending that could only happen in the movies. We loved it anyway. It's the only one of this year's best-picture nominees I've seen, but I'll go ahead and award the Oscar now -- and wait, as I usually do, for the Academy to rubber-stamp my pick. Rags-to-riches stories have universal appeal, especially one told so artfully as this. But I wonder if Americans aren't ready for a look at the other side of the coin: Riches to rags. As uplifting as it is to see kids overcome cruel poverty, a better fantasy might involve billionaires going in the opposite direction. Imagine Bernie Madoff in ragged shorts, combing through a garbage dump in Mumbai. Tell me that's something you wouldn't pay to see. But the rich never seem to get poorer, do they? Even the most venal and crooked seem to weather personal disgrace just fine. As far as I know, Mr. Madoff is still gazing...

Yeah, it's a minor deception, but it still feels like a letdown. Turns out that beautiful inaugural piece "Air and Simple Gifts" was not really being performed in the cold sunshine of D.C. It had been recorded two days before, so some of the best musicians in the world could finger-synch along. And yeah, there were a lot of good reasons for that: the New York Times points out "the possibility of broken piano strings, cracked instruments and wacky intonation" at a time when everything had to be perfect. But under that logic, maybe Obama and Justice Roberts should have taped the swearing-in part in advance too. After all, it also had to be perfect. And it wasn't. “No one’s trying to fool anybody," the woman in charge of the ceremonies said. But that's not quite right, is it? The entire point of a fake performance is to deceive, to create the illusion that here is a talent and a time too great to succumb to circumstance. In the case of Ashlee Simpson ...

That was quite a speech. I like the part about "a new era of responsibility," even though I have a feeling everyone is still thinking of somebody else when they think about responsibility. But you have to hand it to Obama. He wasn't exactly promising us a rose garden. And as far as I could tell, the man did not mangle one single sentence. It truly is a new day in America. It was classy of the Obamas to walk the Bushes down to the helicopter. Ex-President Bush looked just as small as he did eight years ago when he was standing next to Bill Clinton. The look on his face was identical, too: A man in over his head, feeling not quite equal to the day. His will be an interesting memoir, as long as he finds the right person and the right time to write it. Then again, maybe he'll want to leave well enough alone. At first I thought Obama muffed the oath; now I learn from CNN that the gaffe belonged to Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts. You know, it's not that long a...

In America, a new presidency has a significance quite separate from politics. It's personal milestone too. You remember what your life was like when the last president was sworn in, and you reflect on all that's different between then and now. You wonder what changes, great or small, will occur in the next eight years. The night before an inauguration is like New Year's Eve without the booze. It's a time for taking stock. When I think back on presidents past, each of their names is like a snapshot from that time in my life. Mostly, presidents are like wallpaper, a bland background to real life. But they become a entwined with your personal experience: Eisenhower and toy sixguns; Kennedy and Playboy magazine; Johnson and bell-bottom pants. Mention the name Gerald Ford and I think of Saturday Night Live, and the dopey clothes I wore as a cub reporter. I hope President Obama imparts more significant memories than that. I think he will. But thinking back on all the presiden...

Let the record show that it's Sunday, Jan. 18, and this is undeniably a blog post. This keeps alive my string of daily consecutive posts since the start of the year. And thus my New Year's resolution to post every stinking day. So suck on that. It was a day distinguished by the Philadelphia Eagles' ignoble loss to the Cardinals -- a team named not after a city, but a state jam-packed with oldsters. Arizona is the new Florida. Or maybe Florida is the old Arizona, I can never be sure. It's enough to to say that if you're going to cheer for laundry, you might as well cheer for laundry that wins. All hail Pittsburgh. On Super Bowl Sunday, I will be watching C-SPAN instead. Since there were no good games to watch, we occasionally switched over to stations carrying the orgasmic celebration of Barack Obama's inauguration. Let me just say this: Stevie Wonder is fat. Bruce Springsteen is not a working man. Samuel Jackson is wearing the same Kangol hat he was born in. T...

A few words in praise of Garrison Keillor, whose gentle, avuncular demeanor has been sorely tested under the Bush administration. Now that Bush is transitioning from leader of the free world to leader of the George W. Bush DVD Library, G.K. seems a lot more at ease. The role of political scold never fit him that well. Keillor's column in Salon is one of the few I look for each week. His latest, contrasting "girlish, moody fiction" with the sort of stuff people might really read, is something I dearly wish I'd written myself: "...what readers really want is the same as what Shakespeare's audience wanted -- dastardly deeds by dark despicable men, and/or some generous blood-spattering and/or saucy wenches with pert breasts cinched up to display them like fresh fruit on a platter. ... "Unfortunately, writers are a gloomy bunch given to whining about the difficulty of getting published, the pain of rejection, the obtuseness of critics, etc. They sit at the...

This month's poetry selection is not really a poem, but the half-remembered fragment of a poem. I came across it a decade ago while at work, and printed it out and memorized as much of it as I could. Now the printout is long gone, and my memory isn't much of a backup system. The poem, I'm pretty sure, is called "Song on Turning 70." It's by John Hall Wheelock, and even the power of Google has been insufficient to recover the complete work. Guess it's time for a trip to the library. My apologies to readers -- and to the estate of Mr. Wheelock -- for the words and line breaks I have inevitably gotten wrong: Shall not a man sing as the night comes on? Great night, hold back a little longer yet the mountainous black waters of darkness from this shore, this island garden, this paradisal spot the haunt of love and pain which we must leave, whether we would or not and where we shall not come again. More time. Oh, but a little more ... Does that ring a bell with ...

When's the last time you attended a live performance that did not culminate in standing ovation? Here in Wichita, I don't think it's ever happened. This city is charming in a lot of other ways, but the obligatory Standing O has become one of my pet peeves. You can be Pavarotti or one of the freak acts from American Idol , and people are still going to leap to their feet when the song is done. OK, we're nice here in the Midwest. But standing up while applauding is about the highest gesture of appreciation an audience can bestow, short of women throwing their underwear. This is not something you award to any schmuck who walks by whistling Dixie. Doing so rewards mediocrity and makes the standers look like rubes, grinning bumpkins who are just real glad somebody decided to spend the night here in Punkin Holler. I'm glad to see Miss Manners and I are on the same page on this: You reserve exceptional gestures for exceptional performances. You clap for everyone, that...

This reality show has been plummeting in the ratings for about six years, so the finale might not do so well either. President Bush gets on TV tonight (7 p.m. Central) to bid farewell to a grateful nation. Except the nation is not all that grateful. Yes, terrorists haven't knocked down any skyscrapers since 9/11, but they might as well have: The financial geniuses who worked in those skyscrapers have mostly decamped for the high weeds, taking with them the unearned wealth we'd all hoped to coast on during our golden years. So many of their offices are empty now, it's like a neutron bomb went off on Wall Street. Thanks, Mr. Bush, for keeping the country safe. Turns out the biggest threat to national security was thieves in expensive suits. They didn't even have the decency to send crappy audiotapes warning of their intentions. I was never a Bush hater. I always thought he was a decent man who had trouble putting sentences together. I was somewhat late in realizing that...

I suppose if a man runs a personal blog, there's no great harm in disclosing an embarrassing personal detail once in awhile. Here's mine for January: I watch American Idol . What the hell, here's another: I like it. Not that I would ever admit this while watching the show in the company of others. During the two-hour season premiere last night, I was all snorts and sneers, dismissive of the talented and untalented alike. Somewhere in my childhood, I must have been taught that it was unmanly to watch shows in which people willingly trade dignity for camera time. Of course, I may have been taught that it's unmanly to bloviate on topics about which I know nothing, but I've forgotten about that too. Every Idol season starts off scripted for freak-show appeal -- how else can you explain Humongous Afro guy or Monotone Bass guy getting in the door? I cringe at that sort of thing. But every now and then there's something surprising and funny. Biggest laugh of the night...

Look, I try not to be so cynical all the time. I didn't exactly make a New Year's resolution to see the good in all things, but I have flirted with the idea that a more positive outlook wouldn't hurt, in certain situations. So I'm grateful that Victoria Osteen is out there offering positive reinforcement. A wretch like me can use it. Victoria, the beautiful millionaire and co-pastor of the 16,000-seat Lakewood Church in Houston, is touring the country offering tips, to those who aren't beautiful and aren't millionaires, about coping during these uncertain times. If people ask, she will also mention her new book, Love Your Life: Living Happy, Healthy and Whole , which debuted at No. 2 on the New York Times bestseller list but has since vanished from view. In her interview with CNN, Victoria sums up the section on finances: "I think we could all do better sometimes of not overextending ourselves as much. It's easy in our day and age to just extend ourse...

Last night, while watching a bit of the Golden Globes, I wondered: What if actors had to write their own lines? We wouldn't be doling out movie awards each year like blocks of government cheese. That's because there wouldn't be any movies to see. How about that Mickey Rourke? He's begun to look like a claymation caricature of himself, and sound like the guy you encounter at Stockman's Bar after a few too many 7&7s. Kate Winslet is still easy on the eyes, but I now feel truly blessed by all the awards she didn't win: the woman is a windbag, babbling away like an 8th-grade valedictorian hyped up on Mountain Dew. Colin Farrell is even more tedious, boundless narcissism emanating from every carefully coifed hair as he rambles his way through far too many minutes of our fleeting lives. But we love that kind of stuff, don't we? Love to see the beautiful people make asses of themselves, clutching their awards and droning on like regional honorees at an Amway co...

I hardly ever get e-mail these days. In fact, without my good friends at Dell, Netflix and L.L. Bean, I'd go entire weeks without getting any. In 2009, it's come to seem as clunky and time-consuming as what we used to call snail mail. Blame the advent of texting and Twitter. A dozen years of rampant spam hasn't helped -- forever associating the e-mail inbox with Nigerian schemes and lurid porn come-ons and unsolicited offers to supersize one's salami. "You've got mail!" used to be good news; now it seems more like "You've got herpes." It wasn't always that way. I remember the dawn of the Prodigy network in the early '90s, how wonderful it seemed to write to somebody and know that they'd get the message instantly -- or at least as instantly as a 300-baud modem would allow. The graphics were chunky and the connection tenuous, but it was a heady feeling, typing out a few pithy phrases and sending them out into the ether with the p...

Raise your hand if at any time in the '70s or '80s you had a copy of The Joy of Se x tucked away in a bedroom drawer. No? Must have been just me, then. Monica Hesse of the Washington Post has a funny essay on the revised edition of this not-so-timeless classic, the original of which can still be found on the back tables of garage sales everywhere, sandwiched between copies of The Thorn Birds and The Complete Book of Running . I haven't picked up a copy in years, but I still remember how wonderfully erotic all those drawings seemed at first, and how quickly they became blase. The woman was cool; the guy sort of reminded me of Chuck Mangione . As Ms. Hesse points out, the drawings are now photographs, and the randy couple now look like J. Crew models, without the benefit of J. Crew apparel. This edition includes 42 new sections -- apparently a lot has changed since people started having sex in the primeval suburbs of 1972. I suppose I should have a look, to keep up with th...

I probably shouldn't admit that I'm kind of neutral on WALL*E , Pixar's latest animated feature about a couple of robots that rescue humanity. It scores 98 percent on my favorite film site, rottentomatoes.com , and even jaded critics are deploying phrases like "entertaining and inspiring," "flat-out thrilling" and "almost heart-breakingly tender." Only a small-hearted, small-minded man would conclude his Netflix screening with the phrase, "Well, I've seen worse." I loved Toy Story , Pixar's first computer-animated film about a lovable loser who eventually wins. But that's been 14 years ago, and every holiday season since we've seen a replicating mob of computer-animated films -- all about lovable losers who eventually win. For me, the cynical regularity of the plots and release dates of these things has become tiresome. WALL*E isn't a bad movie. In many ways, it's pretty good -- as long as you accept that robo...

Picture this: It's the day after a terrorist attack, you've lost everything in spectacular fashion and the media's dying to talk to you. You're expecting Anderson Cooper, but the guy who steps out of the van is Yoab the Drywall Man. You wonder: What the hell is CNN thinking? And I wonder: What the hell will Israelis think of Joe the Plumber as war correspondent ? Samuel Werzelbacher, the guy who skyrocketed to prominence by asking Barack Obama a single disingenuous question, has been hired as a reporter for the conservative Web site pjtv.com . He intends to let Israel's "Average Joes tell their story." I don't have much to say about Samuel Werzelbacher. I don't know the man. But I will say that Average Joes, the ones proud of uninformed views and crappy grammar, are way overrated when it comes to writing books or running for political office or wandering around a war zone with a press pass and a microphone. Samuel Werzelbacher has now expressed int...

We've all seen the movies: Lovable thieves make a nice living ripping off the corrupt and venal, until one day they rip off the wrong people and complications ensue. Maybe Sonja Kohn has seen those movies too. She's the Austrian banker who harvested billions in Europe for the cash-incineration machine that has come to be known as Bernard L. Madoff . Sonja has dropped out of sight recently. As this New York Times story mentions, it's probably not just to catch up on her reading. Turns out some of the investors she suckered are Russian oligarchs -- people not known for simply committing suicide when things go south. If someone must die as the result of a swindle, they generally prefer that it be the swindler. Dropped out of sight? Sonja Kohn is lucky she's not been dropped off a bridge. I'm guessing she's doffed that red wig for something a little less conspicuous. I'm just hoping this possibility has occurred to Mr. Madoff himself. Yes, being forced to pad...

When I'm at a party and the conversation lags (it tends to do that a lot when I'm at a party), I have one sure-fire technique for getting it going again that does not involve me leaving the room. I just start talking about some movie I've just seen. Movies are the one safe topic in any situation, unless you get somebody who loved The Horse Whisperer arguing with somebody who hated it, such as myself. But mostly, everybody goes to the movies, and everybody loves to go on and on about their favorites, to the point of reciting lines of dialogue and expressing inappropriate urges towards the actors. Don't get me started on Renee Zellweger's turn in Chicago . I fully intend to abide by the restraining order. Good thing party season is over, because these days I don't have much to talk about. Of the 22 films Variety.com lists has having a shot at major Oscars, I've seen exactly three of them: Burn After Reading , The Dark Knight and W. The rest? I don't kn...

I love this time of year: When everybody comes out with their lists of the best and worst things of all time, or at least 2008. Or at least in very recent memory. Without preamble, here's my list of the best lists out there. Well, perhaps not the best. But they are definitely lists: 1. The 10 Best American Movies by Stanley Fish. Surprising for its inclusion of Groundhog Day , which certainly belongs on some list. The rest of them ... meh. I don't want to see Double Indemnity on any more best-movie lists. I watched it in 2008 and it seems like a parody of itself. Ditto with Shane . That Joey kid was annoying in 1953, and he hasn't gotten less so. 2. The Best of 2008 by Malu Fernandez of the Manila Standard, which, in the manner of most lists, weighs in with the most recent moment the writer can remember: the profane rant by Kathy Griffin against a heckler in Times Square -- a pivotal moment in celebrity history that shall surely outlive us all. Malu also considers Kath...

I was born during the Truman administration, a time when all parents named their children Michael or Dave or Linda or Cathy and they didn't need a stupid book or Web site to do it. I took this for granted as a kid, but I've come to appreciate it later in life. Here in Wichita, every male I meet who's within a few years of my age is also named Dave, and those who aren't are named Randy. Needless to say, within this circle I don't forget names very often. I have a harder time remembering the names of the kids born to my various nieces and nephews over the last decade or so. In fact, I can't quite bring them all to mind. There is a Telmar, and a Shiloh and a Gabe and, I think, a Tiell. There is also an Aiden, although it may be spelled differently than that. Aiden, at least, will probably run into a few folks with the same name over the course of his life. According to this piece in the Wichita Eagle, Aiden has emerged as one of the most favorite baby names in Ka...

Turning now to the cinema, here's a plug for Ghost Town , the finest comedy of 2008. Too bad nobody bothered to see it during its brief run in theaters. The wife and I watched it last night, courtesy of Netflix and my great big 52-inch television. Ricky Gervais is not precisely the same character he played in the original The Office and Extras , but his role as a dentist named Bertram Pincus isn't quite a departure, either: a veneer of British civility stretched way too thin over a fundamentally misanthropic personality. After a colonoscopy complication leaves him clinically dead for seven minutes, Dr. Pincus finds himself beset by a variety of spirits who want him to help complete their unfinished business in the physical world. Complications ensue. It's Sixth Sense with a sense of humor -- and surprisingly, a bit of genuine poignance at the end. Ghost Town was hawked heavily in trailers and TV spots before its release; usually this means you see the funniest parts so o...

I drive an 8-year-old Subaru with average miles and a couple of dents. As of today, it's worth about 14,000 shares of Lee Enterprises . When I left the company in 1997, the same sort of vehicle would have been worth about 120 shares. Maybe Lee should have been selling used cars instead of newspapers. I worked for a Lee newspaper -- The Missoulian -- for 14 years. The highlight was the annual Christmas party, distinguished by a lavish buffet and easily counterfeitable drink tickets. As with all Lee papers, there was a stock-purchase plan. You bought stock through a payroll deduction at 15 percent less than the current value. Most of us then turned around and sold our paltry 15 shares and squandered the cash on a vacation or a VCR. The stock was always going up, but it always felt like we'd gotten away with something. Turns out, we didn't. Most of us were also putting as much as we could into the company's 401(k) plan. We all know how that turned out. The vacations and t...

This year I resolve to post something to this blog every day. If the past is any guide, the resolution will expire sometime after lunch on Jan. 27 -- about the same time the treadmills start emptying out at the Y. But until then, fasten your seatbelts: You thought my posts were windy and narcissistic before, wait until I start doing them like clockwork. So far, 2009 has been a good year. I got back from Montana to find a contract from Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine in the mail. They bought my story "Dead Black Cadillac," which I sent off six months ago. It takes forever for them to accept a story, and another forever for them to actually print it, but I love Ellery Queen . They buy almost everything I submit -- as long as I send them only one or two stories a year. Unfortunately, the pay scale hasn't changed much since the days of Dashiell Hammett. Let's just say I'm not planning on a new Lexus anytime soon. And I'm not sure about the readership, but I...