Edmond Manning's Blog, page 11

While vacuuming tonight, I found a pile of dead ants. Like…60. While I'm mostly just glad they were dead and not crawling over me while I sleep, they were crumpled up, holding their little tummies with their middle arms. (Don't you now feel bad for thinking  'ew, gross' during the first sentence?)

This leads me to one inevitable conclusion:  mass suicide.

I've spent the evening wondering what they discussed in their last minutes together.

***

Ant 1: Hey guys, where's the queen? Anyone seen her?

Ant 2: I touched her with my antenae this afternoon. She seemed fine.

Ant 3:  What's that sound? Sounds like a mountain crashing? It's coming from another room.

Ant 4:  I'll go check it out.

Ant 5: I think I'm going to start going by Jack. I think Jack seems like a good name for an ant.

Ant 3:  Not cool, man.

Jack: Not cool, Jack.

Ant 1:  Anyone seen the queen recently?

Ant 3:  Don't go individualizing, Ant 5. That is bad. Pretty soon we'll get free will, then anarchy, then end of times. Ancient Mayan ants predicted that this was the year.

Jack:  Those Mayan ants were stoned on liquids obtained from tiny grains. I like the name Jack.

Ant 3:  No, no, it's true. End of days and shit. Everybody panics, zombie ants come back and cut us in half with their scissor-like mandibles.

Ant 2:  Who says mandibles? WTF? We only have 250,000 brain cells. Where did you learn a word like that?

Ant 3: Wikipedia. We go there sometimes while the fat guy sleeps. Me and some of the other drones punch out keys. Did you know you can watch 30Rock online? But I am totally serious; there are signs of the end: first attack of the zombie ants, then the fat guy cleans house. Then –

Jack: Well, there you go. That will never happen.

Ant 3:  It could.

Jack: Look around. He eats in every room, drops crumbs everywhere, never cleans up. It's heaven.

Ant 1:  Seriously, anyone seen the queen since, say, mid-afternoon? We had an appointment for her to devour my skull.

Ant 3:  That's not a thing.

Ant 1: In some South American ant colonies –

Ant 4:  Hey everybody, I'm back. The fat guy is vacuuming.

Ants:  AUUUUUUUGH!

Zombie queen ant:  Brrraaaaiiiiiiiiiiiinsssssss…..

Ants:  AUUUUUUUUGH!

Ant 3: Shit, shit shit! I knew it! I knew it! Do we pray? Do we have faith in a god with six legs and mandibles?

Ant 2: I'll get the Kool-aid.

Jack: Shit. I've got to get off this island!

Ant 6:  I'll go with you. I have decided my name is Kate.

Jack:  You're a girl?

Kate: Yes, my egg was fertilized in my pupal stage.

Jack: I've got a plan.

Kate:  I will do whatever you say. I trust you implicitly, Jack.

Ant 2: Hey everybody, Kool-aid! C"mon over and let me vomit into your mouth, which is how we adult ants share food.

Ant 3:  We are disgusting. Ant God, please have mercy on our disgusting shared vomit because we only have 250,000 brain cells and also, how do you feel about gays and abortion?

Zombie Queen Ant:  CHOMP. CHOMP. CHOMP.

Ants: AUUUUUUUGH!

Ant 1:  I'm not sure why I am freaking out. She was going to do that to me this evening anyway. I had an appointment.

Jack:  Kate, better get some of that vomitted Kool-aid. We're going to the dark side of the island and who knows when we'll get our next meal.

Kate:  You got it. I believe in you, Jack.

x_X

Last week on a work-related trip I journeyed to San Francisco. After checking into my room and unpacking my suitcase, I strolled to Dolores Park to sit in my tree.

When I lived in Duboce Triangle during 2008, I found a tree at the top of the park, one that commanded an impressive view of the mighty San Francisco, and like a conquistador, I claimed it as mine. I knew it wasn't really mine because I would sometimes have to wait for some squatter to crawl out of its branches, undoubtedly claiming my tree as their own. GRRRrrrrrr.

Nevertheless, the tree and I had reached an understanding that we belonged to each other. Though I had decided I would not remain a full-time San Francisco resident, this one tree would be my sole claim on the fabled fog city. For a few months in 2008, I would sit in my tree and wonder about The Other Life, the life where I stayed.

I'm sure all of us have another life, a dozen other lives, where we wonder about our world if we had accepted a different marriage proposal, pursued that inspired and ridiculous dream of forest ranger in Hawaii, if we had said, "Yes," to some life invitation instead of "No." I'm not sure that these are always regrets, because even today I could reverse my decision and live in San Francisco, but that's not what I want. I just want to wonder about The Other Life and how SF Edmond lives.

I think SF Edmond has a lover named Tyler and they argue about laundry and money. Tyler never shuts off the basement light after getting clothes out of the dryer and it bugs the shit out of me, but I have to accept that it's just one of "his things." But c'mon, man, turn off the fucking light. I also believe that resentment dissolves when Tyler strokes the back of my head while we're watching TV and when he makes me lasagna because he knows it's one of my favorites.

I wonder about this Other Life and if I am happy there, satisfied.

There's a guilty pleasure in wondering about those roads not taken. Maybe the pleasure is actually dangerous, to live wondering if there's a "grass is greener" life that was not selected. To spend too much time with these wonderings is to shit on this current life, to not witness its miracles and opportunities to grow something real.

In The Other Life I probably have a house payment, crappy job situations, fights with friends, and I'm guessing cancer, aging, and grief. But I bet The Other Life also has best friends and surprise birthday parties, too. Probably black licorice. Most definitely cheese fries.

I walked to Dolores Park last week to sit in my tree and visit SF Edmond. Gotta catch up on the news about Tyler and gigs I've played in clubs. (In The Other Life, I play the piano like a madman.) But when I arrived at my spot, my tree – my tree – was gone. The bastards cut it down. Even in The Other Life, shit happens.

So, I choose mine.

One of the wonderful side effects of having written and published this novel is meeting delightful new people. I've read fascinating emails and had heartfelt exchanges with people far away who I could have been lifelong friends with if we had only known met each other in fourth grade.

I met a guy named Tom Webb who hosts a review site called "A Bear on Books." He's one of these delightful new friends. I started liking him during our initial exchanges, but kept my distance because I didn't want a burgeoning friendship to influence his book review. Well, he liked the book well enough, I guess. You can read his review here:

http://tom-webb.blogspot.com/2012/03/king-perry.html

…or keep reading below for the full scoop.

***

Don't read any further if you don't like personal information, potential spoilers or rambling musings.

On a quiet evening in 1999, investment banker Perry Mangin attends an art show in San Francisco.  He's a  nice looking man, not super hot but not a slouch.

Vin Vanbly is also at the event.  He's a mechanic from Minnesota, in town on vacation.  Vin's a bear – a stocky, hairy guy – and soon he and Perry notice each other.  Vin waits, and soon Perry comes over where he's studying the paintings.

The two men flirt and converse about little things.  Then Vin begins to talk about the artwork, specifically a few pieces by a local artist.  His knowledge of the pieces is profound, his insights piercing to Perry.  As a crowd forms and Vin draws everyone around him in to the story behind these works, Perry reacts.  And leaves.

When he checks in with the gallery the next day, Perry is surprised to find a note left for him.  The note invites him to meet Vin Friday evening on Pier 33 and spend the weekend with him, submitting.  The note promises it is not a S&M thing, but will forever change his life.  It invites him to remember who he was always meant to be.  But most importantly, it invites him to "Remember the King".

Will Perry show?  What does Vin have planned for him?  And, what do the promises in the note mean for Perry?

A few words before I dive into this review.  As I've posted in another place, this has been a rough few weeks for me and I've been tired and flirting with burn out.  I review a lot, and have been stalled on that front, as well as in other areas.  And, as usual, when I have a problem or issue, the Universe has a way of throwing the answer in my face in the most improbable ways.

Because this book – I'm rarely at a loss for words, but this book is an answered prayer.

Edmond Manning, bless him, has written a book of rare depth, beauty and importance.  This work is all about the pains of the heart, finding ones true self and connecting with the mysteries of life.  It is funny yet serious, deep yet easy, and heart breaking yet heart warming.

If read with an open heart, this gem of a book has the power of healing, the serenity of grace, and the security of a father's hug.  It's about being powerful and connected and alive.

I really don't want to give away too much of the plot and substance of this novel, but some points are important.

Perry has been unable to really develop a lasting connection with another human being, and is stuck.  In some ways, he's sliding under the waves.  When the invitation to join Vin for the weekend comes, some part of him – the part longing for connection and openness – recognizes what might happen.

Vin is an enigma.  He's a mechanic, a visitor to the city on vacation.  But he knows things about Perry he shouldn't, thinks around corners, and acts like a madman.  He has a plan and an agenda, and he fascinates the whole way through this story.

I don't know if this tale resonates so loudly with me because I'm a man, and the author is male also.  At the risk of sounding sexist, this story is written by a man, about a man.  But the truths and issues are so universal, they transcend gender.

When I finished this book, I felt…alive again.  Sad, powerful, energized, loved, open.  And with the need to call my Dad.

I felt 'kinged'.  I am Tom, the Bear King.

Buy this book, carve out a quiet few hours, and open your heart to it.  Let me know what King or Queen you are.

King Tom

Charming innocence

brave young teens in brave new world.

Let's dance in the woods!

Tracing mad mens' lives,

Logic's origins revealed

It's all a biiiiiiiiiiiiig guess.