Review: Adrift on the Sea of Rains

I don’t do a lot of reviews. But, well, Ian Sales’ first book of his promised quartet, Adrift on the Sea of Rains, is a dream. Not a dream, like teenyboppers called, with futility, Rock Hudson. Not a dream as in completely inconsequential. The book feels real even when you know it’s not. Reaching the end is like waking, with the sensation that you’ve somehow lived through something you haven’t. Adrift on the Sea of Rains is the exceedingly rare form of science fiction that tries to hewn very, very close to our current understanding of plausibility. Even the book’s farthest stretch – the torsion generator – is anchored in actual Nazi lore. The story follows a group of astronauts marooned on our moon. The technology at their disposal is, for the most part, stuff we could have been making for the last 30 years, had we not been more interested in credit default swaps and death. Ian’s technical acumen is compelling. ‘Adrift’ gives one a glimpse of world that perpetuated its space program, in a completely plausible manner. What sets this work apart is the not ‘what’ of space ventures, but the ‘why’. I don’t want to give too much away, but the plot wrestles as much with the reactive propellants and it does with political and personal ones. In the end, it portrays not just a space program that could’ve been, it grapples with why things couldn’t be. Lovely. And I’m now screaming for the next one. Like a teenybopper with a crush on Rock Hudson. If we can’t live the dream of manned space exploration, I’d like to read more about it.

Synch, Kiss Me, Drop

I became a fan of Susan Church in a writer’s least favorite way. I met her first (most writers want you to love them for their work). She’s such a delightful person I had to see if any of her charm came through her fiction. This is not a given. I’ve met some wonderful people who couldn’t write a check and some troglodytes with word skills beyond their social abilities. I am a total jackass, but my fiction is pretty engaging. Susan is one of the lucky bunch whose personality comes through the page (screen, more and more). Her newest story is here, and free, and great way to get started. She has a trippy way of getting across her trippy plot, puts you on the side of questionable characters and basically takes you to a world that doesn’t yet exist but you’re pretty sure probably could at any moment. And she makes you smile. An often overlooked, but damn good reason, to read.

Four wrongs and a right

My car refused to start this morning. It’s a new car, fewer miles than my driving shoes, but whatever. These things happen. I have other things to do today. Like cut my lawn. The tractor died halfway up my lawn. Not died like I can fix it, either. We’re talking soundless dead. I’m now waiting for my second flatbed of the day.

Not that I’m complaining, exactly. I’m fortunate to have a car and a tractor and lawn that needs cutting. But . . .
I decided to put the pool cover away. It goes in a rack that hangs inside my garage. The wife helped me load the 200 lb beast up on the rack. I folded it different this year. Flat, like an old Esso map, rather than rolled like it’s going off to fight in the trenches. While I was out, it drooped off the side and blocked the side door effectively baring my entrance into my home. My garage door opener is in the car that got towed away. My keys are inside the house.

Luckily for me, I’m doubly stupid and left the back door unlocked, proving several wrongs do make a right.

I decided to bag it after that. I’m supposed to write anyway. I get my laptop and a nice cigar and go back outside. And – I’m not making this up – my lighter doesn’t freakin work. I am going to light this thing from the pilot under the hot water tank. If this gets posted you’ll know I’m fine.

Regression analysis

My six-year-old Max loves Skylanders. If you don’t know, it’s a video game that uses little statures and a wireless portal to change the characters in the game. The concept didn’t impress me at first. Sounds like a money suck. The execution is so artful I am now a convert. The zealous kind, like new born-again Christians or long-distance runners. Because you can make your characters better – and their betterness is stored in the statue – the game is really, really addictive. And if you have an addictive personality . . .

I have the collector’s gene. CLT 13. It compels you to gather multiples of Hot Wheels cars, baseball cards, real cars, post modern paintings, first editions, movie posters – you know the type. When I started reading comic books, the urge to go back and find everything that came before me was tremendous. Luckily my paper-route-based income blunted my habit.

Skylanders are extraordinarily popular. Stores run out almost immediately. Max and I check whenever we visit Target or Best Buy, 99 percent of the time we gaze at empty shelves. Until last Friday. Toys R Us received a big shipment and there they were: All kinds of these 32 different characters that we didn’t have only now I’m not 11. I’ve got a Visa card. My wife is 2,300 miles away. I start grabbing every figure we don’t own. Nina, the 11-year-old, tells me I have a problem. I hand her two dragons, a ghost and what looks like a very angry tree-stump. She asks for my phone and I’m very glad, in that moment, that she doesn’t have her own. I realize this is bad for Max – much too much for no reason. So I start trying to conceal what I’ve grabbed. Holding things tucked up and folded over, using one bubble pack to hide another.

The employee behind the electronics counter looks at me. And I’m glad. A middle-aged guy, receding hairline, sweater vest and rimless glasses doesn’t fit his image of a shoplifter. Good. Maybe he won’t profile anymore. I’ll confuse him AND champion civil rights.

I tell Nina to distract her brother while I scoot up to the register, cash out and get these in two bags: Ones he’s seen and ones he hasn’t. I’ll save some for an Easter Basket or injury or, God forbid, an combination of both. I check out, make sure I didn’t actually steal anything, run to the car, hide some in the trunk and go back to escort the kids through the parking lot. I have spent more money than I’m willing to cover in this story.

In the car, I give Max is bag with four, count them, four new Skylanders. He’s very excited, then asks where Flameslinger is. He saw him in my armpit when I went to the checkout line. And Terrafin, too. Nina asks for the phone. She’s calling mom.

Exterminator, Pool Guy or Dentist

Stop me if you’ve heard this one. A dentist, a pool guy and an exterminator are all on your schedule for the day. The pool spent its winter emptying out, squirrels have moved into your eaves – paying no rent – and it’s time for your yearly checkup and cleaning. I wished they’d walked into a bar. I wish I’d met them all at a bar. I understand why bookies and loansharks work out of pubs. All the unsavory and all.

Anyway, ridding myself of the squatting rodents will cost me almost exactly what I made writing my last novel. To cover the pool, I’ll need to write nine more. Or one that’s nine times better, I guess. Don’t know that I’ve got that in me.

The dentist was by far the best part of my day. After reading my x-rays he said I have mouth of a 20-year-old, proving to me, finally, that exercise really can pay off.

Worst joke ever.

Underwear of the Habit Hung

The phrase “creatures of habit” never made much sense to me because all creatures have habits. There’s no one and nothing organic in a state of permanent chaos. Still, I understand the need for the phrase. Some people are “overly habituated”, “habit dependent” or “habit hung”. I’m one of those and I’m quite sure it’s not good for me.

I swim every weekday at noon. It’s a routine so engrained that I rarely even check the time. This week, however, I altered my schedule: Drop daughter at school and go swim. No need for the normal morning shower. I’d take care of all that at the gym. Cool. Get up, swap pajamas for clothes, drive to school, drive to the pool and enjoy the rest of the day clean and healthy. This worked so wonderfully on Monday, I continued the practice Tuesday, then Wednesday.

Dress, drive, swim, shower and dress again. Wednesday was different though. The boxer shorts felt so rose petal soft. And they looked so . . . the same. My new routine didn’t include new underwear.

Holy crap do I need to shake things up a bit. Seriously. I’m in a rut so deep I can’t change my shorts. An assassin with my contract could take me out on day two. Good thing I’m not a Colombian drug lord. The DEA could wait by the coffee machine and nab me at 10. There are Roombas with a more diverse life-style than mine.

But no more. From now on it’s going to be like “where’s Michael?” “I don’t know. He might hang-glide in any moment now.” Yeah. I’m going to change. Starting tomorrow. Maybe the day after. I don’t know. I’m going to be unpredictable. For this new creature, even the way I change is going to change.

Roll apple roll

As I worked on a short story Monday, so did My 11-year-old Nina. She’s writing for a local literary contest. Part of me thinks it’s great. The outer part; the part I use to encourage my children in all of their varied endeavors. Good throw. That looks exactly like a giant carrot. Sound it out. The inner part, though, that one grumbled. Who, in their right mind, would want their child to pursue writing?

Fitting words together can be rewarding, to both your inner and outer parts. Your exterior gets to absorb the occasional accolade. Your interior can reflect, grow and learn about you. But the learning doesn’t stop there. You can’t help but learn about others, too. Writing is, most of the time, like standing at the wrong end of a shooting gallery. It’s tough to watch your loved ones giving that a try.

Rejection is part of life and it’s a good idea to teach kids about it early on. It’s not fair to let them sail through their early years thinking everything they do is smart or adorable. Writing teaches you first about rejection and it’s quieter, more despicable sibling, apathy. Apathy is a tougher concept to inject and of dubious long-term merit. I’m not sure I need my kids toying with the idea that, for the most part, no one cares what you do. Most of your successes in life are going to be measured by you and cherished by no one else. Following that come the critiques. Writing never leads to perfect consensus. If you dead-on write the absolute truth someone out there will dislike your work if for no other reason than he or she is contrary by nature. They snipe for snipe’s sake. You really can’t please everyone any of the time.

There are easier paths for one to wish their loved ones along. Or so it would seem. I have a doctor friend who hopes his kids steer clear of the medical profession. My father-in-law told each of his children to never go into banking. I’m betting every parent wants their apples to roll.