I shut down the engine and stepped gingerly into the street, which was awash in braided ripples of dun-colored water. I’m all about the braided ripples in T.’s Frank Lloyd Wright tome.
At that time Bogota was a remote, lugubrious city where an insomniac rain had been falling since the beginning of the sixteenth century. Frank sings, “My kind of town, Bogota is.”
I looked into six eyes which sat at a desk. In ‘The Enormous Room’, an account of his weird Kafkaesque Orwellian three months spent in a wretched French prison at the end of World War One, e practices playing about with words.
They always commenced bellowing in the first hour of dawn, just as the hem of the sky began to whiten. Whitening hem. Good one. Writers of fiction throughout the ages have had to deal with dawn. Somebody, not me, should compile a whole sheaf of breaking dawn prose and nail it to the door of […]
The loon trudges up The Hill to visit the ghostly remains of his past. Yellow buses, innards churning, once challenged The Hill, and so, too, sometimes, did a 1954 blue and white Chevrolet BelAir containing the young loon. Having gained the summit, the loon looks across to where those houses weren’t and once upon a […]
When he brought her back to me, she was still screaming, so I wrung her neck. Well, this is rather alarming behavior for a fine 13-year old lad at the turn of the 13th century until I inform you that the ‘he’ is a dog and the ‘she’ is a rabbit.
Supermarket trolleys come ashore under the full moon to lay their eggs in the sand. Thus opens the fine Aussie loon’s ‘The Life Cycle of the Supermarket Trolley’.
Then he slid down it like wax on a candle and melted into a quiet heap on the floor. Now here you’ve got a very nice noir sentence, which is only right since it appears in a little number entitled ‘Say It With Bullets’.
One of Bunny’s earliest memories was of Aunt Emma, perched on a chair, looking like an enlarged parokeet in a harness. I’m all about the ‘parokeet’. Kudos, Up, for the whole dang novel, OIL. It’s jist a pip.
In recognition of today’s game, the loon hereby pays tribute to the 1957 All Star, Wally Moon, possessor of one of the great, perhaps the greatest, unibrows in baseball history. Oh, and thanks, Mr. Moon, for lofting those little fly balls over the ridiculous screen in left field at the LA Coliseum in 1959.
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Doc's Lunacy
5 of 5 stars to The Great Train Robbery by Michael Crichton goodreads.com/review/show/55…
