What do you believe, What do you know?

So I'm sitting here, pleasantly buzzed after a night of staring at hottie hussies dancing their simplistic reptilian asses off to bad music at the Wonderbar, and I'm listening to the latest single from the decemberists, namely, "Sixteen Military Wives" off Picaresque, and oh what a lovely thing it is. The entire album is most satisfying, filled with the content and style The Decemberists are known, and known well, for. With distinct melodies, powerful story lines, and heartbreak to exceed the greatest love stories we know, Colin Meloy has exceeded all expectations. On "The Engine Driver" Meloy cries "I am a writer, a writer of fictions" and so he is. If anyone wants to know where all the brilliance in songwriting has gone, look here.

Anyway.

Tamburlaine Is Dead is a great read, though ultimately unsatisfying. Marlowe fans will be disappointed that Barrabas doesn't make the editorial cut, and Paris Massacre does, Marlowe conspiracy theorists will find it wanting, as it doesn't really come close to Marlowes encounter that cut short his life. Those interested in knowing how Shakspere and Marlowe interacted in life, hold your breath for a later date.

What Tamburlaine is Dead does give you is a riveting depiction of the intrigue, moral relativity, and power rivalries that animated and electrified Elizabethan England.


Oi.

Gilligans Wake is interesting. Tom Carson is witty and writes in a vivacious, liberal manner that makes every sentence drip like port down your verbal gullet, and swish around like a fine breathe of fine tabacco in your fine lungs. Similes abound, and the puns multiply, until the linguistic equivalent of eight major highways intersect in a roundabout of linguistic verve and fuck. For people who like this sort of thing, Gilligan's Wake is an orgy of brilliance. For those who find Dan Brown taxing on their intellectual synapses and matrices, this will be a massive waste of time.

Someone sleep with me. Like right now.