The Drink Tank 211 (2009).pdf

The Drink Tank

Issue 211

The funny thing is that this issue came together very easily, and that always worries

me. My cousin, Claire, sent me a cover, I got articles from Taral and Howeird and a couple

of LoCs, all without thinking about it, really. It’s not often that it goes this easily.

This weekend I went to a party with Linda where I got into a nice long conversation

with a fellow named Paul who is all about the Christopher Marlowe is the real Shakespear

thing. I’m totally into that, I love Marlowe, and though I’ve missed out on reading up on

these things, I held up a bit of the conversation. I really doubt that Shakespear was the

author of more than a handful of his plays, and more likely that he was simply a clear-

inghouse fellow who bought plays from playwrights and beat them into shape. Names like

Fletcher, de Vere, Marlowe (who I really do believe wrote at least the irst draft of King Lear

as it so closely its his style) and several others.

Christopher Marlowe was likely all sorts of things, and one of them is really smart. He

most certainly was a part of the Government, and since there are very few records of what

he was doing with the Gov, it’s likely he was a spook of some sort. If you look at his life, he

its the CIA proile very nicely. Was he killed in 1593 in a ight over a bartab by three dudes

who were known underworld types? Who knows? But then again, the fact is there are refer-

ences to Marlowe having written hundreds of works that are lost or were never published.

Could some of these have ended up in the hands of some dude from Stratford? Well, if Billy

Shakes was a clearinghouse fellow, taking in plays and getting them to the stage (as seems

possible), then it’s really likely. Yes, there’s a certain consistency with his work, but there

are some plays that certainly show very different brushes at work.

Now, what does all that mean to someone like me? Well, I have to say that the ques-

tion of Shakespeare’s works are far less interesting to me than the question of their gen-

esis. I’m on record saying that Shakspear was not the great writer nor dramatist in history,

merely the one with the best publicist (called Academia!). For ghod’s sake, he didn’t even

have a standardized spelling of his name! Frankly,

everyone from Ibsen to August Wilson and especially

Tennesse Williams all have it all over Stratford when

it comes to understanding and presenting the Human

Condition. Of the Shakespeer plays, Lear and Mac-

Beth are the ones that I think are really amazing. Lear

is easily the greatest part in English Literature until

you get to Willy Loman and the MC in Caberet.

Marlowe was blood and guts. That was my

friend Marin’s argument against Marlowe as Shakes.

My answer to that is everyone needs an editor, and if

there were dozens of Marlowe works (including some

that clearly are about topics that would have been

very hot to handle in, say, 1589) that coul dbe iddled

with, why wouldn’t someone iddle with them?

I gotta get John Hertz to write something about

that. We’ve talked Shakespeir a few times over the

years. He’s a big fan, holds a very high opinion of his

work, and I hold Hertz in high opinion, so it would

make sense. But alas, he may never read this issue

and so, we may never know. I should give him a call.

There is doubt among many, but we’re doubtful

to ever be able to set them aside because unless we

ind every Shakes-pear play in the hand of the Bard

himself, there’s not that’ll end the debate!

by howeird

Late in February, following the bread crumbs up the stairs, around corners, across

a balcony, around more corners in the Domain Hotel to the Potlatch con suite, I found the

back room, the one which opened onto the bathroom/drinks nook, and settled into a chair

as a fairly average looking 40-ish woman with short light brown hair, wearing a light blue

hoodie, held court from an ofice chair in the middle of the room.

At least I remember it as being an ofice chair, it may have been a standard hotel

room chair, an easy chair or a bar stool. Whatever it was, the person sitting there made

it seem like a throne. Looking around the room, everyone was riveted. Some were people

I know, some were Famous Authors™ here for the conference, some were total strangers

to me. I had no idea who the speaker was, but she was pouring out streams of articulate,

intelligent, fascinating monologue at a high rate of speed, and if someone got a word in

edgewise she would math that person’s tone and subject and continue to be fascinating. I

was enthralled.

Then one of the Famous Authors™ came into the room, walked up to her with a

paperback book open to its title page, and asked for her autograph. The book was Portable

Childhoods and the author’s name is Ellen Klages. As soon as I got home I went online and

ordered the book, and when it arrived I was hoping it would be at least half as good as the

court session at Potlatch.

It is, and then some.

The book is a collection of 16

short stories, with an introduction by

Neil Gaiman. More telling than the

introduction is the afterword. Klages

sums up the tone of the book in a couple

of short lines:

“…I write myself stories about

being a kid.

They are not children’s stories”

“And so I write about fear and

wonder, and discovering who you are

and where you belong.

Many of my stories have happy

endings.”

And my guess is some of the

endings which seem happy to the author

will strike her readers as

slightly twisted. Klages has an absolutely

brilliant talent for grabbing onto the

tail end of a story and twisting it into

another dimension. Sometimes it’s a

twist of lemon, sometimes a twist of

sweetness, and sometimes something

downright evil.

No spoilers, but here are some

teasers for my favorite stories in this

volume.

In Basement Magic, Mary Louise

is tormented by her father’s new trophy

wife, and inds an escape in housekeeper

Ruby’s tales of voodoo. The Green Glass

Portable Childhoods: a review

Sea , which I’m guessing was the seed for Klages novel of the same name, tells a story of

Alamogordo from a child’s eye view. Flying Over Water is a sort of reverse Silkie story. A

Taste of Summer turns a lost girl into a research chemist in training. In The House of the

Seven Librarians is the most children’s story of the lot, the tale of a baby found on the steps

of an old library which had been abandoned by the town – but not by the elderly librarians.

The old library feels much like the classic gingerbread house in the deep dark woods. And

the Clever Title Award goes to Möbius, Stripped of a Muse. It is also the ultimate recursive

composition, with, of course, a twist.

Each of the stories has something to recommend it, there isn’t a clinker in the lot.

Though they are all stories of childhoods, the subjects, characters, formats and directions

they take are diverse. Worth full price, as they say at BASFA, and don’t be surprised it,

at the twisted end of a story, you hold the book at arm’s length and say to yourself “Ellen

Klages, sometimes you are just plain wicked.”

Portable Childhoods

Ellen Klages

Tachyon Publications

www.tachyonpublications.com

ISBN 978-I-892391-45-2

A Day of Our Own

Taral Wayne

So why shouldn’t we follow in the footsteps of such venerable tradition? For the

sake of the advancement of all artists, and particularly furry artists, comic artists, and fan

artists of all kinds, I propose Artists’ Day!

Could anything be simpler? Of course not. In addition to a long list, if you feel more

appreciative than a mere ive bucks can express, you can make it a tenner instead. Or

even twenty!

The only issue of any consequence that remains to resolve is the choice of a day.

There are so *many* holidays on the calendar already. And quite a lot of them as spurious

as Kwanzaa, so picking one might be a little tricky. It won’t do to celebrate Artists’ Day so

soon after some other major holiday that everyone is broke.

I have a solution to that question as well. First, make a list of days you think

suitable. Put it in an envelope addressed to *me*. And make certain you include $5 so

that your suggestions can be considered… (Ofice expenses, you understand.)

With any luck, it should be possible to ind a popular celebrity to front our cause on

TV. Someone like Robin Williams, Patrick Stewart, or J.K. Rowling. If possible, the star

should be associated with art, in however distant or non-obvious a way. Frank Miller,

say. Or Gary Trudeau. If all else fails, even Matt Groening would do, though it might be

necessary to remind the public what possible connection there could be.

In time, there might even be parades in major

cities throughout the country. Floats, clowns,

marching bands, majorettes. Especially majorettes

in tight skimpy costumes and thigh boots. Yum.

And then, bringing up the rear, a phalanx of honored

artists, bearing the gilded tools of their trade at Port

Arms, while the adoring crowds throw showers of

silver dollars at their feet. (Or credit cards, if dollars

are hard to ind in suficient numbers.) It would

be undigniied, of course, for the marching artists

to scramble to pick up the tribute. It should be

possible to negotiate with Sally Struthers for the loan

of third-world orphans to scuttle about and pick up

the money for us.

The purpose of Artists’ Day is not simply venal.

Though I will concede a material beneit. The higher

calling that Artists’ Day answers is to free artists of

all walks of life from having to please customers.

Customers (known also as Clients in some

parts of the country, or even “Employers”) are the

bane of all artists existence. Customers put Kelly

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