Dave's Fiction Warehouse

How'd that pansy get there?   I ’ve surrendered to the dandelions this year. Same with the sundry other unidentified weeds that make up most of my front yard. They’re all God’s flora, right? I’ve wasted too much time and money trying to stand in their way. Grow free, my pretties! It’s your lawn now and I can’t wait to see what you do with it. Actually that’s pretty evident already. The thing about dandelions; you mow them down and those coppery stalks immediately rise again like charmed cobras, pushing their fluffy globes aloft. It's like they're sentient and have figured out how to duck the blade.  I’m not sure of the botanical processes at work here. My strategy now is to feign stoicism and convince myself that this is nature’s way.  I doubt the neighbors agree. Everyone else in the ’hood pays a lawn service to come once a week. I cut my grass less often than they do, so the property lines become sharply delineated as the week wears on. It’s right there, where my forest...

T hree episodes in, I’m loving “ Widow’s Bay ,” the comedy/horror series on Apple TV. While it’s hard to tell whether “comedy” or “horror” should come first in any given episode, the writing, direction and cast have proven deft on both counts. It’s not a show where I spend any time looking at my phone. Matthew Rhys (best known for “The Americans”) is the mayor of a seaside village in New England, determined to make it a tourist destination despite continuing evidence that the place is cursed. Think “Jaws” with a supernatural element and a dark sense of humor. Or, say, "Northern Exposure" set in Castle Rock, Maine. His main antagonist is a crusty old tar played by Stephen Root (lately of “Barry”). Kate O’Flynn (whom I first took note of in “ Landscapers ”) is perfect as the mayor’s perpetually aggrieved and hyper sensitive assistant. Then there’s the great Dale Dickey , who extends her run of playing hard-bitten women who dispense questionable wisdom and don’t put up with a lo...

I hate AI, but I asked it to crap out this image anyway. I f there were an app that tracked my personal use of the F-word (and there may be; I haven’t checked) it would doubtless show a dramatic increase over the past 10 years. Every day I look at the news and “fuck” is the first word that comes to mind. Often the second and third words too. Feels like I’m approaching singularity: One day, every word that comes out of my mouth will  be some permutation of what used to be the mother of all profanities. When that day comes, I will convey meaning only by subtle variations of volume and tone.  Fuck. I’ve always been proud of my vocabulary, and now it too is going, along with strength, agility, and the ability to instantly identify film stars appearing in other roles.   I blame Trump, of course. And popular culture, which has embraced profanity even more enthusiastically than I. Dialog on streaming services is now about 38 percent “fuck” and “fuck”-related. I know it mak...

J anuary is named for the two-faced Roman god Janus, who looks into the future with one face and into the past with the other. That's kind of where I'm at, too. On these dark days following the winter solstice, I look at the year ahead and resolve to be better in some small way, even as I look at the year past and realize how unlikely that is. Was it just 12 months ago I was standing in front of this same mirror, vowing to hit the gym, cut down on the fatty foods and take it easy on the wine? I think it was.  Those vows are too easy to make after the excesses of the holiday season. Suddenly the waistband is a little too snug and you've got some acid reflux going on, and a little headache just behind the eyes, and you realize that in a whole year all you've achieved is another trip around the sun with everybody else. It really is time to make a change, you think, and this time the change will extend beyond the first week of February.  Which no doubt why the Romans invent...

W e got around to streaming “ Spinal Tap II: The End Continues ” the other night. Probably not the best timing, so soon after the murder of Rob Reiner. It tended to mute the laughter every time he was on screen as his character Marty diBergi. Still, it was funny. Not as funny as the original; sequels never are. But there was at least one laugh in every scene. And the appearance of various real-life stars — including Paul McCartney and Elton John — seemed like a fitting if unintentional tribute to Reiner’s career now that he’s gone. You had to chuckle at Sir Paul praising the lyrics of “Big Bottom,” and Sir Elton being asked to tone down his piano playing. Reiner seemed like one of the good guys in an industry where good people are rare. You could infer that from his sense of humor and the nuance he brought to every script and genre. You could also infer it from the malevolent glee his death elicited from dotard-in-chief Donald Trump. Being hated by a hateful dolt is its own kind of tri...