A NOTE FROM THE MANAGEMENT: Absent from this newsletter for over a year, Mr. Bitterman returns to his column with a vengeance, having spent nine of the last twelve months in the Kansas State Penal System. Without going into details, let it here be said that, by his own admission, A. Bitterman gained little or nothing from his incarceration besides "a good tan and a refined sense of bitterness." We (the management) apologize in advance for any offensive remarks that may arise in the reviews that follow. Enjoy.

Prison Story, by A. Bitterman

I don't need to tell you that prison strips the life from a man, takes away everything he ever knew or loved or owned besides his dignity and a few odd possessions. Those few possessions become sacred, your last connection to the Outside. The pin-up poster is the most valuable, and Jennifer Lopez was the House favorite. Needless to say, my pin-up of Margaret Wise Brown baffled my fellow Cons, until I started reading Goodnight Moon aloud in the evenings from my cell at Lock-Down. By my third week, it was a Cell Block ritual and the guys slept like babies after that.

The guards loved me for it, but I pretended not to care. You don't schmooze with the Man unless you want a fork in your kidney. What I needed was more bedtime stories. The guys were jonesin' for some fresh read-alouds. As much as they loved it, Goodnight Moon was waning steadily. And then, like a miracle, it came -- the Box. Return address: Reading Reptile. I tore it open and there, like an answer to a prayer, was a stack of review copies, new Fall books for kids. And right on top was a new, never-before-published book by Margaret Wise Brown. What were the odds?

That night, from my cell, I introduced it to the guys -- Another Important Book: "Each day you grow a little more. Each day you're older than before. At One your life has just begun. At Two there's so much you can do...But the important thing...is that you are you." When I finished reading, the entire Cell-Block shuddered with a collective sob. Even the guard was wiping his eyes. The next morning, out in the Yard, after bench presses, I showed the guys Chris Raschka's illustrations for the book and we all agreed this was Caldecott material.

That evening, after Lock-Down, I consulted the Box for a new story and pulled out The Flying Latke by Arthur Yorinks. Little did I know, I was about to make one of the biggest mistakes of my prison life. I never cared much for Yorinks, or his books for that matter, but I figured it was better than nothing. Boy was I wrong. If you ever have to serve Hard Time, remember this: convicts, particularly Repeat Offenders, are not impressed by self-indulgent, deprecatory jewish humor. On the contrary. I was halfway through this pointless, star-studded, horrifically designed Chanukah story when the whole Cell Block erupted in near riot. Forget about the latke -- trash, old laundry and bellowing literary diatribes filled the air outside my cell. In seconds the alarm sounded, my cell door burst open and, at gunpoint, the guard confiscated The Flying Latke. Good riddance!

For the next few days I laid low and at night I read from Goodnight Moon again, and things started to return to normal. I decided to consult the Box again for new material and carefully chose a reissue of a long-missed classic -- Eloise at Christmastime by Kay Thompson. It was an instant hit with the guys. They laughed and howled like hyenas, but it was deeper than that. Most of the Cons in my Block were orphans and they identified with Eloise. To them, she was an orphan of wealth and a prisoner in the Plaza Hotel. They admired her manic energy and her utter disregard for authority. They liked the drawings too, and Hilary Knight's detailed maps of the Plaza Hotel inspired many doomed plans for escape. I read Eloise aloud for several weeks, and even though it was the middle of July, it became common, after Lights Out, to hear the quiet rasp of a Con singing Eloise's favorite Christmas carol: "Blow music of trinkles and drinkles of glass there's Christmas everywhere." Come August, my Parole Hearing was just around the corner.

I had two more new books left in the Box. I closed my eyes and pulled out Henrietta by David Mamet. "Ah, Mamet," I thought, "a Pulitzer Prize-winner...." I commenced reading it to the Cons, and I was only four pages into it when I knew I had made another mistake. This time, though, there was no riot. Just the sound of bed springs shifting and pained groaning. A literary miscarriage, this cryptically rendered parable of a disenfranchised pig (Henrietta) flounders in its own cleverness and mocks the very subject it is attempting to convey -- the struggle for social justice. When I finished the story, I apologized to the other prisoners and called for the guard. I gave the book to the guard and told him to file it with The Flying Latke. The Cons cheered.

The last book I read to the guys before I left was called A Boy Named Giotto, by Paola Guarnieri. I had peeked at this achingly beautiful book earlier and I knew it would be a suitable parting gift. I read it to them with all the passion my bitter heart could muster, and when it ended there was a silence like the silence in a stadium when a football approaches the uprights, and then, they broke into applause. The next morning I made Parole, and as I walked out of my cell for the last time I handed out pages of the Giotto book to all the guys in my Cell Block and wished them luck. All they had were their dreams. Me, I had work to do, bitterness to seed, books to review and miles to go in the land of Good and Plenty. I was Free.

"The Tourist" by A. Bitterman

A year in the slammer makes a man restless and fidgety. The guys doing Real Time always laughed at me, called me a "tourist." And they were right. All I thought about on the inside was what I was missing on the outside. The funny thing is, when I got out, I felt the same way. There was more to a year than 12 months. I had lost something more than time. A year had gone by and the world with it. I was a stranger in my own land. A tourist. On my way out of the prison, I stopped in at the gift shop and picked up some extra-strength Tylenol, a nicotine patch and a plastic statue of the Virgin Mary. I gave the rest of my cigs to a trustee and headed out of the main gate.

I was 20 paces into the free world when one of the guards came up fast behind me, huffing and puffing, with a box in his hand. My first instinct was to run. "Bitterman, hold up!" he wheezed. "This box came in for you this morning. It's from the Reading Reptile. Thought you'd want to take it along." The box was heavy. I walked around to the back of the prison and found my Buick parked right where I left it a year ago. It started on the first try. I didn't look back. It was Vegas or bust.

I made it to a rest area near Hays, Kansas, before dark. Lost in the reverie of my new-found freedom, I had ignored my bodily functions. My bladder was enormous. I fell out of the car and crawled on all fours to the restroom. No one seemed to notice. I felt like a dog. I made a bed in the backseat of the Buick and turned on the dome light. I opened the box from the Reading Reptile and rummaged around. I pulled out a copy of Bark, George, by Jules Feiffer. I had just started in on it when somebody tapped on my door. I rolled down my window and a trucker poked his head inside. "You gotta smoke?" "No," I said, "I'm on the patch." "Oh." There was an uncomfortable silence and then he said, "Well, whataya doin'?" "Reading a story," I replied. "Do you want to listen?" "Sure!" he said and he jumped into the front seat. He loved it so much I read it to him 23 times, holding up the book so he could see all the pictures. We mooed and meowed and quacked and laughed for a solid hour, as George's vet extracted animal after animal from deep inside his tiny belly. The trucker confided he had had several prostate exams, so he felt a particular sympathy for George. We both agreed Feiffer was a genius, and that George's story was Jungian in nature, not Freudian. The trucker took his leave and I offered him the book on one condition. "What's that," he said. "Don't smoke it." (I dozed off I thinking what a great idea it would be to package Bark, George with real pair of latex gloves...)

I blew out of Hays early the next morning, refreshed and gunning for Frank's town. I like to read when I drive, so I pulled out another book from the Reptile box. I became so involved in buddha's past lives I guess I lost track of the speedometer. I was just outside of Wakeeny when a state trooper pulled me over. I watched him approach the Buick in my rearview mirror. He was a magnificent specimen -- 225 lbs., wide shoulders, square jaw, $80 shades, impeccable gait -- like he had just walked off the cover of "State Trooper Today". I was pouring sweat when he leaned into my window. "I got you clocked at 92 miles per hour, cowboy." "Yes sir," I babbled, "I was, uh, distracted, sir." I felt like I had the word "CONVICT" burned into my forehead. The trooper offered a thin smile while he surveyed the inside of my car. "What's that you're reading there, pardner?" "Um," I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, "It's called I Once Was a Monkey ... it's, um, stories about ... the buddha's ... lives ...." The trooper reengaged the safety on his firearm and said, "Let me see it." He took off his shades and began flipping through the book. "Huh," he said, "Jeanne Lee. You know, son, she's one of the best-kept secrets in the kids' book business. The Silent Lotus still makes me cry to this day." He leaned in closer so I could feel his breath. "But you won't tell no one about that, will you pardner?" I shook my head, speechless.

"These woodcuts sure are purty," he went on. "You know, I consider myself something of an armchair buddhist." "Is that right," I squeaked, "Why don't you hold on to that book then ..." The trooper put his shades back on and stood up. "Why that's mighty kind of you. Now you slow it down, cowboy, you hear?" He turned and started walking back to his car. "Hey!" I yelled, craning my neck out the window, "Don't you want to see my license?" Without hesitating, the trooper whirled around, uncased his pistol, fired it into the air and screamed "Kill the buddha!" Then he sped off.

Needless to say, I was rattled. A zen moment in Kansas. I didn't see that coming. Maybe I had Kansas all wrong. I pulled back on to the highway and considered the lives of buddha -- a crab, a monkey, a dove ... what about me? What lives had I lived? A. Bittermouse ...? A. Bitteryak ...? I couldn't remember. I meditated, searching for a clue, some sign, when a huge billboard appeared out of nowhere: "EXIT NOW! SEE THE 2-HEADED COW AND THE WORLD'S LARGEST PRAIRIE DOG!" I felt sick and drove on.

I threw two books out the window before I got to Limon, Colorado. One was Judge Judy Sheindlin's Win or Lose By How You Choose!. I won. The other book was Rolie Polie Olie, by William Joyce. Here's a guy with a perfectly good backlist who chucks his dignity, steals David Kirk's tired soul, creates a TV show, and then publishes a book as a market tie-in. Shivers. Who knows what would have happened if I'd handed that book to a crazed buddhist highway patrolman. So long, Mr. Joyce.

I picked up a hitch hiker outside of Limon. She was on her way to a Rainbow gathering somewhere near the Green River. I knew I was in trouble when she gave me an indian name ("Gentle Buzzard") and started railing incessantly on corporate America. I'm not a big fan of corporate America myself, but Starfire (her indian name) wasn't a day over eighteen and I couldn't stomach the idea of sharing my ideology with someone whose greatest pain in life to date was getting a nose ring. So I made her read Elizabeth Kimmel's Ice Story: Shackleton's Lost Expedition out loud to me for as long as it would last. An excellent choice, I must say. It kept her busy through Denver and into the black, mountain night. Starfire was visibly shaken by Sir Ernest Shackleton's ordeal, and her narration became steadily choked with emotion as she recounted one of history's most extraordinary tales of survival. Even I, in all my vitriolic conceit, was humbled. My life suddenly seemed small and precious. We pulled over and watched the sun rise in silence.

We drove on to Grand Junction, where I dropped Starfire off. She seemed vaguely older to me standing in the morning's light. She leaned into the car and said, "I think I learned something last night, Gentle Buzzard. I think I -." I cut her off with a wave of my hand. "Shhh," I said, "Keep it inside for a while. Let it get big. And here, take this with you." I handed her the Shackleton book. "Share it with your little forest friends." "Thank you," she replied, "I hope I meet you again sometime. My name's Debra, Debra Murphy." We shook hands. "Not a problem, sweetie. If you're ever in Vegas, look me up. Name's Albert, Albert Bitterman." I roared off into Utah, the wind in my face, every breath like a blessing, every tumbleweed, a vision. Viva, Las Vegas! Viva!

I was standing at the front desk of the Stardust Hotel when a bus full of Shriners unloaded into the lobby behind me. It was an image of Vegas you might find in "The Reader's Digest". A clamouring horde of overweight, middle-aged, back-slapping predators with funny hats and plans for a big weekend. Capillaries exploded across their cheeks. They were a walking bell curve of heart disease research.

"And now, Mr. Bitterman, if you'll just sign here..." I turned to face the desk clerk. Her name was Sheila. There was a strange look in her eyes. "Are you, like, the A. Bitterman?" she said. I stared back at her. It was seven in the morning. I had driven all night, through Utah and southern Nevada. I'd been sleeping in my Buick for the last three months. Add my time in the pokey, and it had been over a year since I'd seen a real bed. My bones ached. My sanity hung trembling like a severed limb in the burned out vault of my skull. I wanted my key.

I leaned into the desk with bad intentions. Sheila waited eagerly for my reply. I was inches from her face. The foul stench of my breath drifted up like a dead mouse between us. "I'm the man of a thousand faces," I whispered. "I carry monsters in my suitcase. There's nothing I enjoy more than popping a child's balloon. If I had wings, I'd sell them to the devil. I live like a pig and I have a very persistent gap in my patience. I haven't had a decent night's sleep since 1998. So, if it's all the same to you, Sheila, I'd like the key to my room now." I had wasted my breath.

Sheila clapped her hands together. "I knew it!" she squealed. "I'm, like, your biggest fan! I've, been to your web page, like, a million times. It's awesome! Was that interview with Jeff Bezos, like, for real? I mean, are you really him?" I couldn't talk. "Wait here," she said, "I'll be, like, right back." She came back with my key and hefted a box onto the front desk. "This just came for you, like, last night. It's from the Reading Reptile." I looked at the box and burst into tears. Something had broken inside of me. Behind me, the heart-attack squad was belting out a version of "That Old Black Magic." A wave of profound exhaustion suddenly inhabited my entire being. I don't remember how I got to my room, or going to sleep.

I woke up four days later. The TV was on. My clothes were scattered all over the room. The books from the Reading Reptile were strewn across tables and chairs, and there were torn-out pages from my notebook stacked neatly on the dresser. The little red light on the phone was blinking. I called down to the front desk. "Hello, Mr. Bitterman." It was Sheila. She paused. "Are you...like...okay?" I yawned. "Uh-huh. Like, what day is it?" She giggled. "It's, like, Tooo-oooosday, Mr. Bitterman..." I hung up.

Four days. Gone. I went to the bathroom, unraveled my bladder, and took six Tylenol. My feet were killing me. I stared at myself in the mirror, searching for a memory. Nothing. I was four days older. And none the wiser. I sat down on the bed and stared at the TV. Something bad had happened. Then it hit me. In prison, I had a cellmate who always went to bed with his shoes on, and nothing else. He insisted that he had been abducted by aliens many times in his youth and that they would return for him someday, and he would be ready. "Those spaceships, man," he used to rave, "they'll rip your feet up." My feet looked swollen. I was reaching for the lamp when I finally remembered what the little red light on the phone meant.

"You have three new messages. Press 5 to listen to the first new message..." I pressed 5. "...I know what you're thinking," came the message. "Something bad did happen. Something better than aliens...don't you remember? It's that old black magic...eh?" The Shriners! "There's a book on the chair by the window. Read it..." The line went dead. How did they get into my room?

I found the book on the chair by the window and sat down. Gershon's Monster, by Eric Kimmel and John Muth. It seemed unremarkable to me at first. The tale of a thoughtless, self-absorbed lout who'd rather chuck his dirty load than seek atonement for his misdeeds...so what? I could have written that. It was the story of my life. The illustrations, though, were extraordinary. I looked again at the picture of Gershon's monster, the coalescence of all his sins, rising out of the sea to eat his children. Very nice. Better than most. Better than aliens...

I jumped out of the chair and leapt to the phone. The implications were staggering. I couldn't get my mind around it. How does one fathom the living expression of one's darkest thoughts. Was it really possible that somewhere out there, my monster was roaming the Vegas Strip? I called the front desk. "Hello again, Mr. Bitterman! Like, how are you?" "Great. Listen, Sheila...um...have you seen me around...you know, like, the last couple days?" "Yes, sir, Mr. Bitterman. Like, every night. Is there something wrong?" It was true. I hung up and stared at the blinking red light. I had to know. I checked my second message.

There was static, then a weird humming. "...start spreading the news...hummm...hummmm... A. Bittermonster's back in town!...Thank you, ladies and germs." I cringed. "Relax Bitterboy. Remember how much you used to like monster movies when you were a kid? You lived for the late night Creature Feature. Now you're the star! Check out that Selznick book on top of the TV. It'll calm you down, and don't worry, I haven't eaten anybody yet. But I'm getting hungry..." Click.

The Boy of a Thousand Faces, by Brian Selznick, was a good story. Bittermonster was right. It made me feel better. I missed the innocent days of late night horror films, before Chucky and company spoiled it all. Selznick's illustrations looked like the inflamed renderings of a hormonal high school art student, but in the spirit of bad special effects, their creepy awkwardness seemed fitting.

My nostalgia was short-lived. My monster was real, and I needed to do something about it. I read a couple more books, to clear my head. It was a mistake. The Remarkable Farkle McBride, by John Lithgow is an ugly book with an ugly message. Farkle McBride is a repulsive little brat who deserves nothing less than a good caning. But instead, he thrives by sheer perseverance, a brat to the bitter end, and gets rewarded for it. A humorless book of forced rhyme.

I turned my attention to another celebrity book, Where Do Balloons Go?, by Jamie Lee Curtis and Laura Cornell. Curtis might be the only celebrity author with an ounce of credibility. I tried to engage myself in the balloon mystery, but it was a false complicity. I already knew where balloons went. When I was 8, before my dad disappeared, I had the best birthday party ever. Cake, ice cream, party favors and, yes, even balloons. I had wanted a bunny rabbit for years. More than a bike. More than a train set. I had all but given up on the idea when my dad came out of the house on that great birthday with a bunny in his arms. I played with it all afternoon. That evening, I went out to feed my bunny and I found it lying in the yard, stiff. I was bawling when my dad came out and stood by my side. He was drunk. "Huh," he grunted, "well let's - hic -see here." He picked up a stick and pried the bunny's mouth open. That's where balloons go.

Now I was thoroughly depressed. And I was stalling. The red light was blinking furiously in the corner of my eye. The last message. I dreaded it. I knew what he wanted, but I wasn't ready to face him. I needed more time. Five floors down and for miles around me, an itinerant culture of true believers jockeyed for position at the altars of their own demise. They employed a faith in their dubious wagers normally reserved for God. Some would give a kidney for just one more chance to win. But it was just money. I was gambling for my soul. I ignored the last message. I called Sheila instead.

We drove out to Red Rock Canyon in the Buick. We picked up some microwave burritos and a cheap bottle of wine, and hiked up into a box canyon for a picnic dinner. I told Sheila everything. We sat on a ledge and stared back in silence at the yellow haze of Sodom.

I'd brought some books with me and we read them to each other in the twilight. Sheila was most fond of Olivia, by Ian Falconer. It was a handsome pig book with definite Caldecott potential, but the story had been written a dozen times under a different cover by the likes of Kevin Henkes, Rosemary Wells and Russell Hoban.

The Very Persistant Gappers of Frip, by George Saunders and Lane Smith, was a colossal disappointment. A literary talent of Saunders' magnitude is bound to stumble at some point, but this was a full sidewalk-to-face sort of thing. I felt bad for Lane. Fortunately, the book was mismarketed as a cross-over adult title and it costs 24 bucks. So who's going to buy it besides a few well-read alcoholic housewives in La Jolla?

It was Wings, by Christopher Myers, that sealed it for me. In spite of the unrealized narrative, Myers' illustrations invoked a melancholic vision of Iccarus so painfully lucid I had no choice but to take it as a sign, an oracle of my own fate. I felt bad about leaving Bittermonster in Vegas. The old Bitterman wouldn't have cared. And that was the thing. Without the monster, I now had feelings I'd never experienced before. Like regret. Sheila seemed to read my mind. She scootched closer. "Don't worry about it. Like, everybody's monster comes out in Vegas. They just don't usually, like, separate from their bodies. It's a good thing really. You have a chance to fly. So, like, fly." I liked Sheila.

I dropped her off in front of the hotel and kept the motor running. Sheila leaned back into the car and fiddled with her gum. "Aren't you, like, going to get your stuff?" "No," I sighed. "I'm going to leave now. Don't say anything. If I hear you say 'like' one more time I'm going to throw up all over the seat. But don't take that the wrong way. You're probably the best thing that's ever happened to me. I might have wings, but you are a true angel. I was mean to you and you showed me kindness. I'll never remember the four days I spent here, but you'll always be my...Stardust Memory." I dropped the Buick into gear and Sheila burst into a fit of laughter, spraying a pattern of frothy gum spit across my face. "That's, like, the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" she howled, as I pulled away. "You better not put that in your review!" I really liked her.

Help wanted: Food and Drug Administration (FDA) seeking unskilled, cynical white male for premarket pharmaceutical research. $1,000 per day. Applicant must possess excellent dental history, a general nihilistic whimsy, and good penmanship. Resume should be submitted in writing with criminal history to the Wrigley-Squibb Corporation, Bakersfield, CA.

When I got to Bakersfield, I realized there was no way around it. I was broke. I needed a job. I checked in with a local Temp Agency and within an hour I was sitting in the offices of the Wrigley-Squibb Corporation. The building was long and narrow and windowless. And as far as I could tell, there were no people in it, besides myself, and Dr. Selznikov.

Dr. Selznikov sat silently behind his desk and regarded me with a spooky china doll smile on his face. His eyes were magnified behind thick, round glasses. A miniature pony stood obediently at his side. He stroked its head.

“I think thees ees the one, Hortense. Hees credentials are eempeccable.” He was speaking to the horse. “But we must be sure, my lovely.” Selznikov stood up and walked around the desk with Hortense in tow. “We must eenspect your teeth, Mr. Beetterman.”

I had assumed I was applying for a “lab tech” position, but at a $1,000 a day, the distinction between “lab tech” and “lab rat” seemed frivolous. I opened my mouth.

It was a two-week gig. I signed a couple dozen waivers and then Selznikov and Hortense showed me to my quarters. Selznikov was a five-star weirdo, but I was fond of the pony. We walked the length of the building, past row upon row of empty animal cages. When we got to my room I realized I had forgotten to call the Reading Reptile, to tell them where I was. I needed the new Spring front list. But before I could even mention it, Selznikov unlocked my cell and gestured toward the bed. “You needn’t worry, Mr. Beetterman, everything has been taken care of.” There, on the bed, was a box of new books from the Reading Reptile. I glared at Selznikov. “Who are you really?” I asked.

“Please, Mr. Beetterman, make yourself at home. I am not eemportant. Eet ees all about you, my friend. You are about to become a hero, a pioneer of Progress. You alone, Mr. Beetterman, are going to usher een a new era of biotechnology, een wheech the human organeesm weell be able to overcome psychoses, regenerate an organ, deeseentegrate a tumor, stem unwanted hairloss, or even faceeleetate the acqueeseetion of new languages, seemply by chewing a piece of gum.”

“Does the TV have cable?”

“Yes, Mr. Beetterman. And your meals weell be deleevered here.” Selznikov indicated a tray slot in the wall. Next to it was a vending machine, the sort you might find on the wall of a gas station bathroom. Selznikov approached it reverently. “And thees, thees ees the gum deespenser. When the bell rings, a steeck of gum weell appear and you weell chew eet. You weell record your experiences there.” Next to the bed was a small desk with a notebook and pen. “Do you have any questions, Mr. Beetterman?”

“Yeah. What if something happens, like an earthquake, and I need to get out of here?”

Selznikov sighed. “I assure you, nothing has been left to chance. However, as a precaution, I weell be leaving Hortense here weeth you, should anything go awry.”

“The pony?”

“Indeed. You may not have noteeced, Mr. Beetterman, but Hortense ees a remarkable aneemal. Een the event of a problem, she weell know what to do.”

“Can she play gin?”

“Good day to you, Mr. Beetterman. And good luck.”

Before I could say “Willy Wonka”, Selznikov was gone. I never saw him again. I knew he was watching me though. There was a casino-style camera in the ceiling. I looked down at the pony. She was asleep. I really liked her. But we could play cards later. I rummaged through the box of books on my bed. Write some reviews, I thought, chew some gum, and $10,000 later I’d be back on the road. Life was good.

I had just finished writing down the titles for my new review when the bell rang on the gum dispenser. I retrieved the gum and was chewing madly as I sat back down to unleash the rabid dogs that occupy the darkest corners of my literary imagination.

Two weeks later I woke up in my Buick behind the Wrigley-Squibb building in a puddle of drool. I was completely hairless and had lost close to 25 pounds. There were sutures across my right shoulder. My mouth felt like the inside of a Georgia O’Keefe painting. Hortense was dozing in the back seat. Next to me on the front seat was $10,000 in cash, wrapped up in the torn out pages of my “gum” journal. What follows is the text of a cryptic and thoroughly unsatisfying set of book reviews, the only evidence of my semi-conscious contribution to the new era of biotechnology, or so I thought...

BALONEY (HENRY P.), by Jon Scieszka and Lane Smith, $16.99
I’ve swallowed my gum and something is wrong…my God, I’ve grown a second head. Maybe it’s friendly. Hello there, Mr. Head. “Hola. Como esta?” You speak Spanish and I understand you perfectly. Can you speak English Senor Head? “Yes.” What do you think of this Henry P. Baloney? “I don’t like it.” Why not? “It is not their best work.” Come now, Senor Head, Jon and Lane deserve a little slack. “No. This story has been written before, and Lane Smith has been fatally seduced by graphic irony.” What do you mean? “Computer collage.” It does look flat. And that dust jacket... “It belongs on a Dean Koontz novel.” The bell is ringing, Senor Head. Would you like a stick of gum? “Gracias.”

HAIKU! GESUNDHEIT, by Ross Venokur and Kenny Scharf, $10.00
Mmmm, minty gum. What do you think of this book, Senor Head? Senor Head? “My...throat...gurgle, gurgle.” Whoa, where did that enormous tumor come from? Don’t speak, Senor Head. I will soothe you with the poems from this book while you slowly perish at my side: Marty picked his nose-/shoved his finger so far up/it came out his ear. “Gurgle...gack” Let me try another: Flying over town/Beth saw a boy she hated/and spit on his head. Wow. I guess there are no good poems in this book. And the pictures are even worse. In its own perverse way, this is a brilliant editorial accomplishment. A perfect synergy of mediocre talents. If only a book’s success was judged by the number of copies it didn’t sell ... Senor Head?

MILO’S HAT TRICK, by Jon Agee, $15.95
I have lost Senor Head. He hangs here limply by my side. Many days have passed. I miss him. With every new stick of gum, I think perhaps he will revive. But he doesn’t. He is beginning to decay. Different things are happening to me. Several of my internal organs have shriveled and regenerated repeatedly. An eye appeared in my forehead briefly. None of it matters. I half-heartedly page through Jon Agee’s new book. I like it. It is quiet and charming. A hapless magician, a magic bear. I want to love it, but nothing is the same without Senor Head. I can feel my Spanish slipping. I turn to the last page and the banality of it all lights me up like a Roman candle. The magician never needed the bear. The magic was there all the time. I spit out my gum and prop up Senor Head with one hand and reach into his mouth with the other. It was not a tumor in his throat. It was the gum. With a violent and malodorous cough, Senor Head awakens! “Dios mio, what took you so long?”

BALLERINA!, by Peter Sis, $14.95
The bell is ringing. A few more days and it will all be over. My jaws ache. I force myself to chew. No more gum for you, Senor Head. I don’t want to lose you again. “No more gum, amigo.” What do you think of Peter Sis, Senor? “This book belies a great talent. It is like the squeezing of a garden hose. One can feel the force of virtuosity behind the trickle of the spout.” Rave on. One might say it lends the perfect pitch for budding ballerinas. I’m feeling a little restless myself. Shall we? “After you.” We are leaping and twirling around the room, the two-headed Firebird, the bipolar Swan. I am immediately exhausted. We stop suddenly. Senor Head notices Hortense for the first time. “There is a pony in your bed.” I know. Isn’t she lovely? “She is muy bonita, but why is she here?” I don’t know, but she better get out of my bed. I’m about to pass out.

ARTHUR’S NOSE: 25TH ANNIVERSARY LIMITED EDITION, by Marc Brown, $15.95
I wake up two days later. The bell is ringing wildly. I drag myself up and get the gum. I’m shivering cold. Senor Head is humming a Spanish ballad and clicking his tongue. What day is it? Senor Head won’t answer me, or even look at me. He starts whistling. I look in the mirror. I’m completely bald. Not just my head. I take off my clothes. Every hair on my body has dropped off. I look like a naked mole rat. This has gone too far. But before I can even get a decent head of steam on, I glance down at my desk and the truth of it all washes over me. There on the desk is the 25th anniversary edition of Marc Brown’s first Arthur book, Arthur’s Nose. I flip to the photo of Marc Brown, his little china doll smile. Selznikov! Why didn’t I see it right away. Years ago, I had written an inflammatory piece about Arthur the so-called aardvark, who, at the end of Arthur’s Nose declares: “I’m just not me without my nose!” In a stunning betrayal of his original purpose, Marc Brown gradually groomed Arthur over a period of two decades into an antiseptic television-friendly creature that bears not even the slightest resemblance to an aardvark. And in an effort to sell more of the old Arthur books, Brown shamelessly began rendering new covers for the old books, featuring the TV-image of Arthur, without even bothering to re-illustrate the interiors. My article was never published. Somehow, he must have gotten a hold of it. And this was his revenge. This...thees...can’t...he’s...can’t be...happen...ing.

August 28, 2001. I-80, Reno, Nevada
Estelle's KOA

Sometimes I think I am not real. Like a character in somebody else's overblown fantasy, a reflection of an unformed desire, a desperate cry in the hollow desert of another man's distended belly. A little like Bobby, perhaps in Jules Feiffer's new book, I'm Not Bobby! But Bobby's just a kid, pretending to be a dinosaur, a spaceman, a hungry lion. He is an actor in his own divinations, and the screams that penetrate his reality are the empty threats of his parents. Feiffer is always masterful in depicting the disconnect between the rules of society and the mechanics of childhood. I admire the fact that Feiffer refused to surrender Bobby into his mother's embrace for the Walmart ending -- "Ooh, I love you Bobby, whomever you are!" He would have sold more books. Instead, Bobby's just sort of a jerk, to the bitter end.

I'm a jerk, I guess, but that's the least of my worries. I'm also homeless, broke, poorly groomed, unmedicated and unable to touch my tongue to my nose. I do have good teeth. But none of this matters either. I would rather be wretched than no one at all. If I am nothing more than the vainglorious projection of a coward's pen, I challenge my maker! Show yourself, almighty one ... um, nobody here but us Reptiles...uhg. The voices in my head.

August 29, 2001. Black Rock City, Nevada
Burning Man Festival

I arrived at the Burning Man Festival gate early this morning. I felt much better about everything. It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep will do for an existential crisis. I checked in at “Media Mecca” and picked up my press pass. They asked me if I had enough water for the week and I told them I prefer my scotch straight. Blank stares all around. These people are humorless. “Very serious they are, yes…” (Insert the voice of Yoda there.) They begrudgingly granted my Buick passage onto the Playa, since it’s vintage and it’s the only thing I have to sleep in.

I’ve been thumbing through the Festival Press Kit. It’s garbage, but I take refuge in knowing that there are people more condescending and self-righteous than me. I walked around the grounds and checked out the inhabitants of “Black Rock City”. To call them a bunch of perverts and armchair anarchists would be too easy, but I’m a firm believer in convenience. The finer points of “radical self-expression” are lost on me, le artiste manqué. This whole thing is nothing more than a busman’s holiday for the borderline personality. I fit right in.

No one uses money here. It’s a barter economy. All I’ve got is a box of books from the Reading Reptile, and several cartons of cigarettes. And the scotch. I’ll figure it out tomorrow.

August 30, 2001. Black Rock City, Nevada
Burning Man Festival

This afternoon, while lounging in the Buick, away from the sun, I read The Dinosaurs of Waterhouse Hawkins, a new picture book by Barbara Kerley and Brian Selznick. A contemporary of Darwin, Waterhouse Hawkins was the first to put flesh on the fossil record, on a scale never before imagined. Together with Sir Richard Owen, he invented the dinosaur. His monumental creations of 150 years ago set in motion a series of events that would eventually make Michael Crighton rich and famous. And yet, who has ever heard of Waterhouse Hawkins?

I was meditating on this when I felt the front of the Buick sag under someone’s weight. I got out of the car and found a naked man sitting on my hood. He was completely coated with glitter. He had a press tag on a chain around his neck, and he was smoking a cigarette. Our conversation went something like this:

“You’re Bitterman?”

“And you are...?”

“Art Spiegelman.”

“Oh, yeah. Well then I’m Roman Polanski.”

“You’re shorter than I thought.”

“You’re sparkly.”

“You got any smokes?”

“A trunkful. Where are your clothes?”

“The airline lost my luggage. I had to trade my clothes for some smokes.”

“Then what happened?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“You should have come to me first.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You really are Art Spiegelman.”

“Yep.”

He showed me his press pass. I couldn’t believe it. I gave him my extra set of trousers and a carton of cigarettes, and in return he offered me a guided tour of his new anthology of comics, Little Lit: Strange Stories for Strange Kids. I half-expected an arcane treatise on the value of the comic form, infused with preposterous postmodern jargon and iconoclastic élan. Man, was I wrong. The guy hardly said anything. We sat on the car and I examined the book carefully from cover to cover, while Art smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, nodding and grunting to himself over my shoulder. This, I thought, is the sort of book for parents who worry about their kids never reading. They need to buy it and put on the coffee table, or on the back of the toilet. It’s really good. I closed the book finally and leaned back against the windshield. Spiegelman glistened in the dying sun.

“Did you like it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “but it’s missing something obvious.”

“What?”

“The Hernandez brothers.”

Spiegelman winced and slid off the Buick, shaking his head. He grabbed his smokes and started walking away.

“Bitterman,” he muttered. “What are we going to do about Bitterman….”

Sept. 1, 2001. Black Rock City, Nevada
Burning Man Festival

It’s rained for two days. Most of the remaining “theme camps” here have degenerated into erotic mud wrestling pits. The Zen Camp is now offering “muditation” workshops. (Those guys are wacky.) The Alien Love Nest has been abandoned. The Wall of Suffering blew over in high winds. The drum circle sponsored by the Manatee Love Society has been cancelled. And the Burning Man himself looms sodden above Gomorrah, an ironic monument to the burning desire of Black Rock City.

This is good Bitterman weather. The Buick is cozy, and I’ve had plenty to read. Maira Kalman’s new book, What Pete Ate From A-Z, is surprisingly good. It was only a matter of time before Kalman wrote an alphabet book, which in most cases yields an unremarkable result. But in Kalman’s case, the format limits her propensity for aimless chic, while preserving the real charm of her innate eccentricities. (Put that on your book jacket.) Better yet, I was able to trade the book for a plate of gizzards at the Republic of White Trashistan.

I breezed through The Hostile Hospital, Lemony Snicket’s 8th installment in A Series of Unfortunate Events. Sadly, I can’t remember any of it. I still support it in theory though. Every series book suffers from a certain amount of inertia. The danger is when obligation replaces anticipation in the reader. Snicket is gunning for 13 books. A half-Grafton. Hopefully, for Mr. Snicket, a certain measure of literary inertia will actually heighten the grim pleasures of these books by cultivating a sympathetically foul mood in the reader. We may actually be driven to finish the series out of spite. I, for one, look forward to it.

The rains have trailed off in sheets to the east. The Man may yet burn. Campfires are flaring up on the Playa like beacons on a black sea. The air is preternatural, a conspiracy of earth and rain, a rarified feast for my battered lungs. Tomorrow, I run the gauntlet – “The Seven Ages of Man”. It’s this year’s centerpiece of the Festival. A sort of Oral Robertsesque Passion Play for the radical self-expressionist. According to the press materials, I will be “transformed”.

Sept. 2, 2001. I-80, Reno, Nevada
Estelle's KOA

“The Seven Ages of Man” was conceived by Festival founder Larry Harvey and his ministry of deep thinkers as an “enormous board game”, the object of which is “the attainment of wisdom”. I lost. But I made it farther than I thought. I got my passport and began my life’s journey at a brisk clip. I passed through The Cradle and The Playground without a hitch. The Chapel was a little trickier. It required a partner. I had to exchange “vows” with a 17-year-old lesbian from Elkhart, Indiana, in order to receive “the mark of the Lover”, and advance to the next Age. I had no issue with my young bride’s gender preference. It was her dog. I couldn’t get him off my leg. The Coliseum was ridiculous. I received “the mark of the Soldier” for turning my eyelids inside-out and belching the first two verses of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”.

It was at The Temple of Wisdom where I met my end. The Temple of Wisdom was housed in the platform directly beneath the 70-foot Burning Man. We were allowed to go up on to the platform itself and enjoy its commanding view of Black Rock City. I couldn’t help myself. It was right there. And all it took was my lighter and some scrap paper. I had ignited the entire right leg of the Man before the Black Rock City Rangers were able to arrive and put down the flames. No one really saw me do it, but it was pretty clear. I was immediately banished, in mid-transformation, from the Festival grounds. I am thankful for the escort the Rangers gave me to the gate. Many of the self-expressionists were in a fury over the premature torching of the Man, and they wanted justice. News of my departure spread quickly, and by the time I shot through the main gate, it was like a scene from the Saigon airlift, fists pounding on my windshield, naked people swarming and shouting out epithets. All of that, before noon.

I spent the rest of today reading Time Stops For No Mouse, a chapter book by Michael Hoeye. Self-published in 2000, this book has “DreamWorks” written all over it. It was recently purchased by Penguin Putnam for an undisclosed amount, and will now ascend to the best-seller list. It is in fact an engaging rodent adventure. Is it in a league with Abel’s Island, Stuart Little, A Mouse and His Child or A Rat’s Tale? Not really. Mr. Hoeye’s rodents inhabit narrow moral and intellectual territory. Hermux Tantamoq, the hero, is as flat as a nickel on a church floor. Yet, in all fairness, we now live in the “Age of Harry Potter”, where, fictionally speaking, people don’t kill people – guns do. Real life is too scary anymore. The fragility of our everyday lives is painfully apparent. Leave the madness and the maladjusted to the morning papers. We crave the fiction that gives us sanctuary – winners. Like Harry Potter and Hermux Tantamoq. We’ll see them at the movies.

And what about Bitterman. I don’t know if I’m real or not. This morning, when I was driving into Reno, I cut a guy off at an intersection and he went ballistic. I tried to outrun him at the next light, but I caught the red. The guy pulled up next to me screaming bloody murder. I decided not to look at him, but I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. “You ...something, something…don’t you know…something, something...” He paused and I eyed the light anxiously. Then, suddenly he shrieked at the top of his lungs: “RESPECT ME! RESPECT ME, DAMMIT!”

I looked over at him. He was talking on the phone. So, I don’t know. Who really knows?

Science Verse

(Ages 7-up)

MODERATOR: The next book is brought to us by Jon Scieszka and Lane Smith. Another meat-and-potatoes effort from the classroom pranksters who gave us Math Curse , this LSD-inspired textbook puts classic poetry in the service of scientific discovery. Mr. Kerry?

KERRY: I supported the No Child Left Behind Act when I was in the Senate, and I have a plan to make it even better as president, by actually funding it. It's called The Scieszka Plan, and it's hard to say. But it carries a provision to reward nonsense in the classroom by 30% over a four-year period.

BUSH: Uh…I read this book. I really did. And I have to say…uh…I didn't really understand a word of it! Heh, heh. I don't buy into evolution. I just don't…it's just wrong! There's a mainstream in this country, and all this digging-up-fossils is taking place on the far left bank. And Santa Claus…in this book it says Santa Claus created the universe. God isn't Santa Claus! He just isn't.