Monday payday! I’m happy to announce that America’s $1 Funnyman NEIL HAMBURGER had this to say about THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE:
“Good Grefe! Jamie has safely documented some seedy, sexual situations involving unsavory sad sacks. More power to him! I would have run away from these people.”
(and don’t forget to purchase your own seedy copy of my book, you chuckle-bone)
The synopsis of Cameron Pierce and Jim Agpalza’s FANTASTIC EARTH DESTROYER ULTRA PLUS as stated on the Sinister Grin Press website reads, “In the mining town of Itchy Zoo lives a boy with pumpkin flesh. His name is Tetsuo, and he’d like to tell you about the terrible things that brought ruin to his town. How he shot his brother, how the people of Itchy Zoo became puppets, how he fell in love for the first and last time, and how Satan watched it all go down.” And this, dear reader, is the entrance to a most beautiful, layered, melodious, dark and touching tale of Bizarro love and transformation.
Masterfully illustrated by Jim Agpalza, FEDUP is an adult fairy tale, both precisely told and richly imaginative. If you are unfamiliar with the sometimes mind-boggling intensity of Bizarro fiction, this should serve as a perfect entryway into your adventure of such a multifaceted and surprisingly warm genre. Agpalza’s illustrations are pinpoint companions to the intricacy of Pierce’s literary vision and helpful for those among us who may have trouble visualizing the otherworldly body-mutations and imaginative leaps that Pierce so aptly employs: pumpkin flesh, whale feet, puppet people, or bodies with organs on the outside of their skin.
And the real beauty of this book is not in its strangeness, which, by the way, is completely organic to the universe Pierce has created, but in the originality of Pierce’s writing. It’s strong, strong enough to attract a wide readership, one that it deserves and only time will tell. As the book is separated between one page of text and one page of illustrations, it is easy for readers to not only follow and see this intricate story, but it also lets the story sink in on a different level, something pure and simple, universal and wet. At times, I felt as if I were reading a beautifully rendered children’s story for adults (and make no mistake, this work is most certainly not for children). At other times, I felt I were swimming in the musical word-verses of a more-fantastical J.A. Tyler or a more sinister Russell Hoban. However, those comparisons fail to give Cameron Pierce the praise he deserves (we shall not compare, only hint). This is a truly original and unique piece of work, fueled by a brother’s pain, by love, by choice and necessity, and by acceptance. It is a work where magic happens and happens again, where families are torn apart and where passions burn deep, burn oceans inside a person.
In conclusion, if you are curious or interested in Bizarro fiction and would like to own a book that you will be able to finish in one sitting, a book with gorgeous illustrations and a compelling story, then FANTASTIC EARTH DESTROYER ULTRA PLUS is a book that you should certainly consider buying and reading and re-reading. I have a feeling that when I dip into this book again, knowing what I know now from having finished it, that a different story will emerge from its ocean, and it will be even better than the first time around. It will be fantastic.
Buy all seven 2013 New Bizarro Author Series titles, write a review for each one, and get a grab-bag bonzanza.
From author Tiffany Scandal:
Something NEW: all of this year’s (Eraserhead Press) NBAS authors are contributing random gadgets/trinkets/awesome shit so that we can put together awesome grab bags for the people who review all seven of the NBAS books. You might get wind-up tit toys, a voucher to grab Bix’s junk, a handwritten love letter - who knows. The point: there will be a small gift from each author in the package. Message any one of us (Andy de Fonseca, Amanda Billings, Jamie Grefe, Bix Skahill, Daniel Vlasaty, Dustin Reade, myself) with links to the reviews. Once it’s verified, we send you what might be the best (or worst) care package you’ve ever received in your life.
Hello. If you are interested in reviewing my new book, THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE, either for an established review site, for your blog, or even for Amazon or Goodreads, please get in touch with me. Let’s talk. I am looking for reviewers/bloggers who want to help spread the word. You will receive a digital copy of the book and I will promote your review/thoughts across social media platforms.
Get in touch! If we haven’t spoke, introduce yourself and where you’d like to place the review. I’m looking forward to the interaction.
Thank you for reading.
J.A. Tyler writes rivers of word-circles to wrap his woods around us, cloak words of life to keep us from leaving, to keep remembrance of how brotherly love felt before it left and how it feels to be alone. COLONY COLLAPSE is a love story: you are dying, your brother has suddenly left, you are forced to make sense of life, to find your brother in the woods.
[the beginning: reimagined]
I am a deer who is dying. I am dying and it has been written on a note I was handed from my deer-brother: a white sheet of paper, a black dot to mark a wordless message of death. I am searching for my deer-brother in these woods and these woods are endless woods, houses that I build, burn, rebuild. These woods are alive with foxes and bears, magic, dreams, honey, and rivers. I will sleep in these woods, be here in these woods in a house for my brother who left.
[the second beginning]
J.A. Tyler writes magic words, linguistic spirals like melting nodes or water. He writes dreams of daughters and death-dreams of love. Tyler writes and the deer says, “I am in search of my deer-brother because I want to tell him what it means to be like this. I want him to see beneath my deer-skin, down to the brother-core, where there are love-words and moments of sky unencumbered by clouds.” These loops of rebuilt houses, of daughters and foxes, are ways to the heart, ways to read the message of the black dot written on the piece of white paper given by the deer-brother before the deer-brother left. Tyler speaks in the voice of one who knows love and one who knows loss.
[the second beginning: a reimagined end]
I make each choice to move closer to my brother, to hope for my brother’s return, that when my brother returns he may know me as the deer-brother I want to be known as. May there be love when he returns to this place in the woods where I dream of my deer-brother and daughters, ten daughters that could have been daughters or brothers sitting at tables on feast-days and the distance of a family, how far apart we are. I speak of love. I speak of life. I am a dying deer full of life.
Bud is in black suit, helmeted along the track. Engine jazz. A tank top and a towel. Load the van.
Profile closer than passenger, it’s grain. No matter the gas station girl, we are the focal point.
Gleam splattered bugs on windshield. A mailbox. Wood panels. I’ll kiss you with both hands in five minutes. Hurry to leave. I am a tail light like an empty mailbox or a highway.
The blurred profile is a sky made of houses and cars. A stop sign and too much green to behold. The green is how I blend into a picket. I have a brown sweater. I’ll wait at the door of a house where I don’t know how long it has been since you’ve been home.
Red hair turns orange and bored. Birds chirp. Nothing but a bunny rabbit. I live in LA where it’s small. There are no children there. Everything is brown. I’ve grown, too. The pool has been drained. There are no pools here anymore, no tablecloths where food should be.
The road melts black hair in Ohio. Roadside in leather. It’s a tired song, but rain is a car.
A pet store holds birds and fish and puppies and kitties and bunnies. Bunny life is five years, six until death. I want to forgive you.
Fried rice and chicken. Wash hands over white tiles. It is summer.
At the rest stop. White shirt. Your halter top landscape. I’ll walk past you. But when I turn, sit close, your face is a Lilly. Lips stare. The comfort of ghosts. Wait for the sun to turn blonde grass into hair. Frame it by an unending slope to silver.
I want to be tender. Fields are tender. Write the horizon stretched forever. She’s there in white kisses alone on a motel bed. The sheet is a skin. Be a comb or a gaze driving mountain to salt. I’ve held the edge of a door. I’ll block wind-sun from your watered squallor. Drive it to the edge and slip, curve the night-trucks due west.
Gasoline. A strip of fuel for the flat.
Be a speck once more. An angle to hover. Pure light. Glass spectacle turns grey concrete to the air of this love.
Nevada in the perpetual spring glitz. These are the ghosts of who you could be the future I dream. Rose is a flower that reminds me of you. Beauty is how we drive, circle, drive. And Rose is a necklace. She is pierced, but you and her are planets apart and I am terrified of being with you.
Seventy-seven. I’ve grown tired in the way. Your street is a sunset silhouette framed empty. This is where a family used to live. This is where Daisy used to live, lives here no more, not now. I’ll pin hair in a bun, watch sun drip, leave a note for you on the door.
Here is a room of white. Sleep is a way to cry. The way grey smokes crack. Sit on the bed. Daisy is made of light. Sit on my lap for a hug. Nothing is spoken from a pipe. This is not Bay Street. There were other boys there. Kiss me and throw up. Nothing you say is true.
We lock lips to be still. Ours is a shattered lust. I am sick in love. Out of love. The fragment of my face, your face. Tighten hand, the hip, the bare back. A strap. Feet smear to fingers. And a lost child. Yes, there was once a child. On a bed, your blue heels. Death is a choke, Daisy.
Leave Los Angeles. Leave earth-desert lost. A face made of light.
I am open, freezing hope.