Ron Dakron

NEA for Piracy

2009-06-29T09:13:00.000-07:00

Writers and pirates don't get to bitch about a lack of appreciation. Crank your parrot up and board that ship!

SFSite.com's John Enzinas reviews Mantids

2009-04-16T12:06:00.000-07:00

"The real star of the book is not the narrator but the writing. Dakron is a poet and his skill with words makes this book shine. He pulls all of your senses in while describing a world awash with giant, man-crazy, killer mutant bugs who think like the humans they once were. How can you not respect that level of skill?.... Read this book for the prose .... It's worth it."

Read the full review here.

Mantids is ForeWord Magazine 2008 Book of the Year Finalist

2009-03-20T22:49:00.000-07:00

ForeWord Magazine named Mantids a 2008 Book of the Year Finalist in the Fiction - Science Fiction category.

Mahalo!

2009-03-05T22:01:00.000-08:00

As they say in the land of Kona coffee--thanks to everyone who made "Mantids" happen, especially the fruitalicious Julia, Jerry and Jean Gold of Black Heron Press, major patron jimgermanbar, the Elliott Bay Book Co., Portland's Wordstock festival, and the online bloggers who kept my Google stats happening.

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Bookfetish Reviews Mantids Twice

2009-03-03T16:12:00.000-08:00

Bookfetish.org gives Mantids 2-1/2 stars--and reviews it twice:

"I am making a second attempt to review this title; I apparently had not imbibed enough coffee the first time around . . . . I still don’t know what to think of Mantids and it still is sort of funny and annoying . . . . I think it's because any kind of strange a guy can get is good strange, even if it’s literally strange."

MBR Goes Buggy Re "Mantids"

2009-02-10T12:08:00.000-08:00

The Midwest Book Review gave Mantids these kudos: "Making no acclaims to being highbrow, Dakron draws from many sources in order to provide his readers with a side-splitting adventure that'll give anyone the much needed laugh they deserve in life. "Mantids" is a must for humor readers seeking something with a twist." Library Bookwatch, MBR, Volume 4, No. 2, February 2009

BBQ

2009-02-09T00:12:00.000-08:00

I think of you like BBQ
with sky for sauce and clouds for buns
and as I snarfle through this feast
I pick your kisses from my teeth

January 22 Elliott Bay Books Reading

2009-01-12T14:24:00.000-08:00

I'll be reading from "Mantids," "Hammers" and the rest of the Dakron canon on Thursday, January 22 at 7:30 p.m., Elliott Bay Books, 101 South Main Street, Seattle.

A Terrible Boredom Is Born

2008-12-03T12:25:00.000-08:00

Last night I was musing on my lack of interest in reading. Is it laziness? Alzheimer’s? Poverty? None of the above—it’s boredom! You gotta wade through beaucoup stinky prose swamps to get to the few tropic islands of lush text. Which is why I abandoned my latest read, Slaves in the Family by Edward Ball. In fairness to Eddie, he took on a heavy task—racism, slavery and their horrid legacy. But his prose stunk up the joint. After trudging through 100 pages or so, I decided to apply the Dakron Test: blindly riffle the tome, point and quote a few sentences. Here’s what I poked at on page 128:

“Michael was twenty-one, handsome, polite, tall, and mild-mannered. His eyes, like those of his mother, were clear and white. But while Carolyn Goodson's eyes were vulnerable, Michael's eyes showed determination. When he directed his eyes, it was as though Michael held out two white lights, unblinking, focused, adamant.”

So how is this prose bad? Mwah ha ha—in so many ways. Not even delving into our interviewer’s strangely erotic undertone, the basic flaws are 1) substituting the subjective for the factual, 2) using the wrong terms and 3) sloppy metaphors.

Let’s start with no. 1, declarative substitution. The first sentence starts out factual—Michael is 21. But he only seems handsome, polite, etc. Fussy? Nuh uh—all flaws flow from this first error. Bringing us to no. 2, wrong terms. “Goodson’s eyes were vulnerable…” No doubt! Mine hurt too when you poke them. Eyes can dilate or go cloudy—the rest is expression conveyed by facial muscles. But let’s accept switching the trope eyes for facial subtleties, and move on to no. 3—whoa! These anthropomorphic eyeballs are Disney worthy. They strike bullfighter poses (“show determination”), are from zombie statues (“white…unblinking”) or cavefish (“clear”) and prance around under glaucomaic klieg lights while being “directed” by some Speilberg in a floppy beret. Mr. Ball is interviewing a family of zombie actor cavefish statue eyeballs. Let’s edit him:

“Michael was 21 and seemed one polite hunk. His gaze held mine in hot stasis. He talked smack with his shy mom, his eyes flashing like razors at a Delta blues fest.”

Just as creepy sexy—but it don’t bore you.

Wordstock

2008-11-10T13:07:00.000-08:00

We (me and poet Julia Hunt) did the Wordstock Literary Festival this weekend in Portland - a good venue to meet fans and friends. I spent most of my time at the Black Heron Press table hanging with Jerry and Jean Gold. I read from Mantids on a Sunday panel with Sci Fi author David Farland. There were fewer presses attending than last year; natch we all hope this is not an evil trend.

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The Fright Site review of "Mantids"

2008-11-05T12:35:00.000-08:00

Adam Groves, The Fright Site, 11/05/08, http://www.fright.com/edge/mantids.htm gives Mantids a thumbs-up review. Some excerpts:

"[Ron Dakron's work] is among the very small cadre of experimental fiction whose substance actually matches its style...[Mantids] is lively and funny, with a spot-on portrayal of the Pacific Northwest punk subculture amid all the insanity--and really: perverted sex, punk rock, Viagra, mutant insects, cannibalism, perpetual erections...what more could you possibly want?"

Wordstock Portland Reading

2008-09-22T12:06:00.001-07:00

I'll be reading from my new novel Mantids at Wordstock in Portland on Sunday, November 9, 2008, at noon. See you there!

Taking Me Apart

2008-07-23T14:16:00.000-07:00

Prose is like designing an animal—it works better when the muscles are hidden and you only touch fur. So I though it’d be fun to dissect some prose from my upcoming novel Mantids and explain what made me draw that particular hoof that way. The paragraph below happens in an Astoria, Oregon nudie bar where the narrator’s wife works. It’s basically scene-setting, a 360-degree scan to let the reader know where they’ve been plopped down. First, the excerpt in its entirety:

Yep—just your basic classic twat fest complete with sneaking zippers and weeping drunks, all being hustled in a disco-mirrorific room that reeks from bleach—that smell that warns you you’re def wading into the gene pool. Meaning that smoky pit lined with vending machines—get yourself some lube or an inflatable date. They never do get the mouths right. But why hump rubber when you could watch working puss, the grim taco, the leaking mango itself—especially since today was Jobless Tuesday! Yay! Meaning lap dances were half off and they’d cash your unemployment check right at the bar. Mook, being jobless in Astoria is a birthright—countless immigrant Finns beached here and clear-cut the sky for decades, dreaming on that ripe day when unemployment checks would be mailed straight to their favorite nudie bar, dropped right next to that frosty Bud dripping on a pile of no-contact orders. All while some thong-addled third cousin shoved muff right over their nostrils and coaxed their trouser shark out. But I didn’t come here to blow my load—for one thing, these chicks weren’t exactly supermodels—nope—these were discount rent‑a‑babes, the kind with ratted wigs and bench warrants and a puking brat somewhere at home. The place had the subtle charm of a food bank.

Let’s examine the “crunchy” dialect I use in Mantids to mirror working-class, Northwest American English. American English, with its varied cultural roots (Yiddish, Irish, Native, Asian, African, you name it) consistently boils itself down into words with either single syllables or interior rhyme, assonance and aggressive vowel/consonant blends. Credit cards become plastic that you max out, Crack heads maybe switch to tweak, bling gets tossed in grills to agitate gangbangers, etc. It ain’t a soft language. So in Mantids I strived to replicate this crunchy dialect from the mouth of a lower-class white male. “But why hump rubber when you could watch working puss?”

There’s assonance in the first sentence: “basic classic twat fest” or aa-ih ah-ee ah eh set into a rumba rhythm. Hey, my roots are in poetry—I do listen. Next, there’s overstatement—why is this fest basic and classic? Are we implying a modernist stylization to this nudie milieu? Couple this with the rude language—“the grim taco, the leaking mango itself” ain’t gonna make anyone’s PC list—and you have a prole slant on a common feature of the strip-mall landscape. Not how you’d describe the bar to your Mom, but maybe how you’d tell a pal about it.

Next, there’s overstatement, absurdity and historical over-reach. Consider this chunk:

. . . countless immigrant Finns beached here and clear-cut the sky for decades, dreaming on that ripe day when unemployment checks would be mailed straight to their favorite nudie bar, dropped right next to that frosty Bud dripping on a pile of no-contact orders. All while some thong-addled third cousin shoved muff right over their nostrils and coaxed their trouser shark out . . . . The place had the subtle charm of a food bank.

Finns actually are a major immigrant group in Astoria. Absurdly, they didn’t clear-cut the sky—no one gets paid for sawn air—but it’s a telegraphing of the effects of clear cutting. Why is the day “ripe”? Probably it smells worse that way. Add in the familial breakdown of “no-contact orders” coupled with the incest reference of “thong-addled third cousin” and the “subtle charm of a food bank” and you’d swear the author has a class bias. Nope—just a comic view of his own roots. I hope the above helps you take apart your own fave paragraphs in varied works. Just remember kids—Derrida to the contrary—most of us in the working-text trenches do hear the subtle echoes in our own prose.

Sleep Number

2008-06-23T16:16:00.000-07:00

A question I’m asked about my upcoming novel Mantids is “So what’s it about?” Here’s what: a young grunge rocker in Astoria, Oregon, wakes into a world being rapidly conquered by women mutating into male-devouring praying mantids. He’s oblivious to the bug blitzkrieg; instead, he tries to quiet a domestic squabble by overdosing on Viagra, spending the rest of the night seeking relief from his stiffened resolve. He finally solves his medical riddle right after all humanity is doomed. Mantids is an homage to—and spoof of—the zombie zeitgeist of every invading pod-people flick I saw as a kid on my Saturday-morning sugar-charged movie-tron. I would critique Mantids as a work about oblivious thinking—a morally sloppy narrator who ignores immediate world peril because of his own comic malaise. OK, so maybe everyone’s starving in Darfur and inane crypto-zealots are gonna nuke a few American cities with homegrown radium—but what about my sleep number? Doesn’t my comfort count?

New Mantids audio/video files

2008-06-17T17:01:00.000-07:00

New audio and video files of excerpts from Chapter 5 of Mantids are now at www.rondakron.com on the Mantids book page (http://blackheron.mav.net/dakron/Mantids.html)

Nihilism, censorship and moral intent in literature

2008-05-27T16:21:00.000-07:00

Ahhh, there’s a quick topic for you. Let’s start with nihilism and censorship. Say I write a book entitled Let’s Slay Everyone Who Ain’t Quaker or Tropic of Cancer. Let’s also say the narrators in one or both works advocate murder, psychopathic sexual behavior, narcissism carried to the plus-nth degree and the overuse of adjectives. Should they be read or censored? Well, discounting children (and they’re often on sale anyway), reading material for adults that doesn’t contain instructions on how to create anthrax or dub Barry Manilow should never be censored. Censorship basically says “You are too dumb to reason through this; therefore, we’ll prevent you from being poisoned by this icky lit.” Whether it comes from the right or the left, it’s a repressive and insulting practice. What about sexism? What about it? Do we consider women too stupid to reason through fiction? If so, then you’re sexist. What about men? Are they too dumb? If you think so, you might be mainstream academic, but you’re a misandronist. I think some slow readers get confused by the difference between the narrator’s voice and the author’s moral intent. The author might not have any moral intent beyond not having any; or the author might be using sarcasm, irony or boorish language to nudge a point. Think of Huckleberry Finn, one of the most anti-slavery novels ever written being accused of racism. Even better, the author’s moral intent might get away from them—like in Paradise Lost or as William Blake called it, Devil Without a Cause. Milton thought—ha ha—he was on the side of the angels, but he penned a sympathetic demon who went on to star in numerous teen flicks and bad French text.

Reading, boredom and reverie

2008-05-15T12:36:00.000-07:00

When I take time out from my busy TV schedule and actually read a book, I'm either bored or in a reverie. Often I'm bored because so much "modern" fiction is a 19th-century throwback to pre-cinematic realism. Plot and more plot! "And then the puppy died of heartbroken worms. And then the cat emigrated to Bosnia, leaving behind her suitcase and a substantial VISA debt." But if it's good 21st century writing (or sometimes even better late 20th century), I fall into reveries as I read. Read a few paragraphs, then catch on some detail, then compare the detail to my own memory, then realize I was reading. I think it's this ability to connect to memory that makes reading far different from TV, film, youtube and other hot media. I rarely compare my experiences in memory or otherwise to Ginger or Mrs. Howell.

Emily Dickinson High School

2008-05-12T13:41:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the "lit life" seems a retread of high school--there are various cliques (the stoners, geeks, jocks, criminals and prisses) and a spectrum of experiences varying from hormonal ecstasy to shuddering boredom. Sometimes your readings are like the prom, and sometimes like a bad night at the AV club. Everyone wants an "A" on their project and we're all avoiding that weird gym teacher with the crooked smile.

Dead Metaphor Prize

2008-05-10T16:18:00.000-07:00

An award with no schedule. Hah--today's DMP goes to an unnamed DNC party official quoted on wsj.com, speaking about Hillary Clinton's recent racy comments: "She has unleashed the gates of hell," which is a cool image, little gates yapping on leashes. Ruff!