(urth) Short Story 195*: Dumpster World

[Marc Aramini]

DUMPSTER WORLD

“Dumpster World” first appeared in the mock section of Steven Silver’s
*Argentus* 5 in 2005.

Silver introduces the mock section by stating, “This issue features, for
the most part, reviews of books written by authors in a style which is not
their normal style. For instance, I pitched the idea with the concept of a
Gene Wolfe written space opera movie novelization. As it happens, I was
lucky enough to have several authors review their ‘own’ works.”

SUMMARY:

Wolfe uses the name Frances Angelique Keebler-Egge to review “Dumpster
World / by Gene Wolf / Unfinanced Press, New York IA, 2004, $28.95 (signed
and limited, $22.50)”

The review relies on puns, poking fun at an increasingly inept writing
style (and reviewers, one would imagine). It begins, “Never a master of
plot, Wolff here escapes the Vise Squad [or whomever deals with
plots—editor, please fix] by producing an unauthorized novelization of the
recent film-noir film. Unfortunately for his readers, he confuses plot with
turbidity. What has been produced is a turbine without bearings. That is to
say, an unbearable book (e.g. Earth of the New Son).”

Wolfe’s name is spelled differently every time, and the novelization is
based on a Martin Sheen movie in which Sheen’s character attempts “to
prevent the human race and some nice animals from being compacted. This led
to a cataclysmic struggled between special effects … In this book, the
thunderous booms and bangs, the snarls and terrifying growls of monsters
flapping through outer space, are replaced by talk. And so is everything
else.”

Brad Pitt “lubricously” portrayed a robot named B6 in the movie, but the
reviewer takes umbrage at his conversion from a vitamin to a long-winded
conversationalist dropping ridiculous figures of speech. “At the fifth
reiteration of the broken metaphor likening clover-leaf intersections to
discarded cotton briefs, your trepid reviewer came to grasp as never before
the quite horrific damage accorded belles lettres by publisher’s one cent
per word rates. [Editor—Please do not take this personally. I certainly
didn’t mean you.]”

Deborah Voigt and Mariah Carey play rabbits in the movie, which “simply
take the place of the camels or whatever they were in the author’s earlier
Soldier of the Missed. For their duet the introduction promises a musical
score. When the moment arrives (page 197) it is revealed as seven to six in
the tenth. Your tepid reviewer admits to an être dans la panda weakness for
musical jests, and even she (I) felt a tendacious wave of mal de mozärt at
that one.”

The movies theme, described as “arduous social commentary”, is that “we
would all be crushed by the weight of our Kismet (the Buddhist name for
Fate) if it were not for the merely fortuitous interference of well-meaning
aliens.” The novel’s theme “is the same as that of all Wolff’s others: viz,
that the author needs money. [Editor—So do I. Are you absolutely certain my
check for Dave Gorman’s The Walls in the Wolves has been mailed?]”

The reviewer concludes that at least the elderly space captain played by
Mickey Rooney doesn’t ask the characters to perform a show in the book.

Keebler-Egge ends her review with the following note to her Editor:

[…-Is this enough? I can easily fill more column inches with juicy (but not
actionable) details of Wolef’s personal life. Half-cent-per-word as always.
He is an algolagniaphobe, for example.]

[After reading his book, I would enjoy doing this.]

DISCUSSION:

This is perhaps Wolfe’s least serious work since “From the Desk of Gilmer
C. Merton.” There is very little commentary that can be made save in
exploring the nature of the criticisms of the publishing world, the
entertainment industry, and in the obvious use of double entendres and
puns. Perhaps the text speaks for itself, though I had to think about the
“musical score” joke for a second – the score that is given is that of a
baseball score finishing in overtime in the tenth inning, seven to six (I’m
not much of a team sports fan). Brad Pitt’s “lubricous” portrayal of a
robot is of course one combining overly sexualized lubriciousness and the
lubricant of a mechanical man; the tepid/trepid/intrepid or
tenacious/tendentious confusion of the reviewer and the criticism of 1 cent
rates when she is writing at a half a cent rate shows the incompetent
hypocrisy of reviewers and the underlying monetary impulse of all writing
endeavors, for which there must be some truth. A “film-noir film”
highlights the redundant tendencies of many descriptions employed by poor
writers. An algolangiaphobe is someone who receives sexual gratification
from inflicting or enduring pain, and it is quite clear that, though Wolfe
fears it, our Keebler-Egge want to inflict it on him after having to read
his material. My favorite small detail is that of the signed limited
edition costing less than the normal one.

Dave Gorman is an English author and stand-up comedian, but Wolfe has
chosen him for the similar syllabic sound to Neil Gaiman, who published *The
Wolves in the Walls *in 2003. Though it may have no bearing on the review,
Frances means “free one” and, of course, Angelique means “angelic”. The
idea of Wolfe writing a novelization of a movie would only be robbed of its
bizarre nature with the right kind of director and motion picture; one
fears *Dumpster World* contains too much detritus to represent a felicitous
style match. The criticism that all of the explosions have been replaced
with talk might very well ring true in Wolfe’s attempt at a novelization.

CONNECTION TO OTHER WORKS

Puns lurk in the background of even Wolfe’s serious work, but of course he
gives them full freedom here. The closest works are the previously
mentioned “From the Desk of Gilmer C. Merton” and the slightly more
elaborate “Planetarium in Orbit”. Wolfe’s absurdity usually tends to follow
a different vein; here it is of course meant to produce the subdued
slapstick effect.
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