Dave's Fiction Warehouse

Two for the road I too would have traveled America in a ‘61 Corvette, solving the problems of pretty young women along the way. All I lacked were a driver’s license, frat-boy looks, and of course the car. I watched “Route 66” quite a bit as a kid, even after discovering that the show rarely involved interesting homicides or gunplay, or really much action of any kind. It was just these two guys tooling around to that cool Nelson Riddle theme, unencumbered by steady jobs or family sorrows, dispensing life-changing epiphanies like they were handing out leaflets at a trade fair. For cross-country motorists, they carried very little baggage – and I mean that literally, given the trunk size of those earlier Corvettes.  Their names were Tod (one “d”) and Buz (ditto the one “z”). I guess the spellings were meant to project a nonconformist vibe, but both wore pressed shirts and snug chinos like they’d just emerged from a J.C. Penny catalog. Despite appearances, they were always up for part-...

Way above American politics A t some point today you may be tempted to turn on the TV to see what’s happening with a certain elderly, deranged Florida man who is appearing in court to face a long list of felony charges. I’m here to say you shouldn’t. No matter what the elderly man says, or what the national news media says about what he says, you will learn nothing new.  All you’ll get is mad — mad at this malignant fool, mad at the bellicose fools who worship him, mad that his sneering foolish face has been renewed for yet another season. That’s no way to enjoy a spring day. If you want to watch something that might put your mind in a better place, check out these hardworking eagles in West Virginia. They’ve been together for around 20 years, and they’re still showing up every day and doing exactly what they were born to do: surviving in a tough world and teaching their offspring to do the same.  They don’t whine or complain. As a bonus, I have yet to see them break any state...

David emerging from the shower N ot cool, Michelangelo. Sculpting that schlong onto your statue of David? Not cool at all. Yeah, you got away with it for more than 520 years, probably chortling all the while. But now, boy, you’re in the Free State of Florida.   In this bastion of liberty, parents adhere to a strict no-johnson policy when it comes to Renaissance masterpieces. When the principal of the Tallahassee Classical School let your creepy statue be included in an art lesson – bam! She was out on her liberal ass. See what happens? You might be a hell of a sculptor, Mike, but that don’t mean diddly in DeSantisland. Don’t take it personally though. All sorts of degenerates are under the gun here: shady folks like Judy Blume, Toni Morrison, James Patterson. Basically anyone with the cojones to write about the various permutations of human sexuality. Sculpting an actual wang is way too woke. What were you thinking? I mean, even The Simpsons saw this coming 30 years ago. Why c...

At least the alligators are sincere A fter 13 years, we’ve decided to quit Florida. I don’t expect to miss it much.   I’ve realized I’m not a beach guy. I’m not a Jimmy Buffett guy. I hate theme parks and I hate I-95 and I’m not fond of the year-round bugs and humidity. I’ve never gotten used to the sodden air and sulfurous water. I will miss the alligators, but I won’t miss Florida Man – especially as personified by the overstuffed figures of Ron DeSantis and Donald Trump.  I know what you’re thinking: It took you 13 years to figure all that out?  Well, it hasn’t been all bad. The weather’s nice in February and March.  You can get fresh produce year-round. There’s no state income tax. We live in a neighborhood that’s pretty walkable and, in many important respects, nothing like The Fucking Villages.  We’re convenient to a somewhat moribund downtown. For local color, we boast a fair number of thieves, idlers, beggars and loons.  We’ve stayed this long ...

I ’ve talked about George Saunders here before. Love his work.  Having just finished his latest collection of short stories, “Liberation Day,” I don’t love it any less.  Like most story collections, many of these have appeared earlier in various places. My favorite of the bunch, “A Mom of Bold Action,” first ran in the New Yorker in August 2021. It’s about a suburban mom (duh) who aspires to be a writer of inspirational children’s books. While she’s daydreaming one corny idea after another, she discovers that her son has wandered off. The son soon returns with a scratch on his face – some transient has pushed him into a bush, for no particular reason. The mom’s thoughts turn quickly from fuzzy optimism to deadly retribution.  It doesn’t sound very funny, but it is. And, like all the stories in this collection, seems drawn from this never-ending age of Trumpism. You know: the corrupted capitalism, the deepening enmity between red and blue, the shameless cruelty toward the ...