Dave's Fiction Warehouse

In which I bloviate about books, TV, movies, politics and other stuff.

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Some dopamine of one’s own

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If you were to make a list of things that might really make a difference in your life, quitting Facebook would be way down there. Probably about the same level as quitting American Idol or vowing to clip your toenails more regularly. Which is to say, it can’t hurt. But neither can it make much difference in the fullness of time. But I quit anyway. Again. It […]

Maybe that “dislike” button is a good idea

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Regarding Facebook, I’m starting to feel like Kramer in that Seinfeld episode, “The Stock Tip.” I put FB on my Yahoo listings and smile each time I look at it. Something about watching stock you don’t own plummet in value — it just makes all the world a sunny day. I guess they call that Schadenfreude. As Jerry would say: “Why does it please you?” I don’t […]

We all scream for ice cream

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On first viewing, it’s hard to say why “The Scream” is worth so much. Frankly, I’m not sure I’d want it over the mantel. You look at it, and in the back of your mind you try to beat back that cliched response to certain other expressionist or abstract works: “Um, my kid could have painted that.” Unfortunately, my kid didn’t paint it. And somebody wanted it […]

I got rid of that gun too soon

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I've been thinking about buying a piece. You know what I mean: A rod. A heater. A gat. A roscoe. A nine. No? OK then: a gun, for the love of Mike. A handgun that shoots real bullets. Last gun I owned, I got rid of before leaving Wichita. It wasn’t because I had some Alan Alda moment of zen. It’s just that the safety was broken […]

It’s not about the money.

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It always amuses me when the lottery jackpot gets up into nine digits and even outwardly rational people start standing in line at convenience stores. The idea, I guess, is that a normal lotto win — say $40 million — is only for low-lifes. Chicken feed! Barely enough for new rubber on the Subaru and an above-ground pool. And the odds of winning? Forget about it! But […]

No rush to reunite

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When I think of my high school years, it’s always with a little embarrassment — or a lot, depending on the memory. I committed a number of heinous acts for which there can be no redemption. I wore my shaggy black hair in the style now associated with Rod Blagojevich. I wore pants pegged so tight they looked like leotards. I was paralyzed by shyness. If I […]