Young? Adult? Literature?

My favorite comedian, the late Mitch Hedberg, once cracked: “Every book is a children’s book as long as the kid can read!”

Clearly, this statement is little more than an uninformed generalization with the singular goal of eliciting a chuckle. But, I must admit, as a card-carrying member of the “Make ‘em laugh any way you can” brigade, the silly one-liner actually gave me pause. Because, more and more, Young Adult Literature that I see as a middle school teacher is taking on content and themes that, often, is more “adult” than “young.” The ensuing internal debate has become a sort of “Chicken or The Egg” conundrum that I’ve yet to resolve.

Then, upon being invited to write for Fringe, I was referred to another column in a popular blog on YAL. And, I totally dug the snarky, “I love the 80’s”-style reviews of books from our collective childhood, having consequently been inspired to unearth lots of dusty paperbacks in my basement. And, while it’s most certainly been quite a trip to revisit these characters and stories through grown up eyes, as I read, something strikes me. Though I feel very close to these books out of nostalgia, I can’t remember ever being to relate to them as a moody, lower-middle class kid, coming of age in the neon nineties.

And so, it is in the same spirit with which I immediately removed the archaic Where The Red Fern Grows, and A Wrinkle In Time from my sixth-graders’ required reading curriculum, that I have decided--for the purposes of this column--to stick to YAL. and authors from the last two decades. But I promise—no annoying little wizards. Ever.

Be back in two weeks, with Laurie Halse Anderson’s Fever, 1793.

Danny Treacy's 'Them'

The Photographer’s Gallery

until 20 September (make haste!)

Danny Treacy’s fantastic life-sized portraits display the artist in an array of bizarre outfits cleverly assembled from clothing and materials found abandoned on the streets, ranging from a soiled sleeping bag to an indefinable animal costume – occasionally embellished with something sparkly; a sequined glove, a tattered veil. The glorious detail in these shots brings out the contrasting textures of these various pieces, mixing faded glitz with pure grime.

Treacy’s stance is bold, poised, aggressive. His face remains hidden, which adds to the underlying threat. Yet at the same time, these masks also make the figure appear vulnerable and sightless, constrained and bound.

Mythical creatures; grubby superheroes; urban warriors – however you decide to label them, the overall effect is unsettling, eerie and deeply intriguing.

If you don’t happen to live in or be stopping by London this week I insist you stop by to gaze at Treacy’s array striking creations (they’re taking them away after Saturday so be swift and speedy). And if you happen not to be in suitable proximity, worry not, for the artist has arranged a rather nice online space to display all sorts of fascinating photo joy, just for you. Oh yes.

And in case you’re itching to read more about Treacy’s intentions and my delightful musings, the full review can be found on my humble blog (shameful, I know, but had to be said...)

Consider the Writer

It's another rainy weekend in Boston, but the gray sky and pervasive damp are only part of the reason for the grim pall--late last night, news broke of David Foster Wallace's untimely death at the age of 46. DFW is best-known as a writer of satire, absurdism, and the eccentricities of contemporary American life. He made a splash in the literary scene from his very first post-modernist novel, "The Broom of the System" (1987) and continued to build up steam, and a cult following, with story collections, journalistic articles, and books of essays, before publishing what is largely considered his masterpiece, the novel "Infinite Jest" in 1996.

As I can't speak to the influence or genius of these novels, I will defer to those who know. What I can say is that Wallace was the kind of writer who challenged the restraints of popular literature and consistently produced the kind of writing that made people question what they thought they knew; the kind of writer who took a Gourmet magazine assignment to cover the 2003 Maine Lobster Festival and turned it into a sprawling rumination on not only the lobster's place in the "pop food industry" and American tourism, but also how the way we eat is emblematic of the way we think about mortality, killing, and the difference between humans and all other living creatures. He told things like they were, in a voice that was gentle in its harsh honesty, as though he understood the reluctance of mainstream culture to accept truth.

Wallace's death shook me, not because I am a devoted fan (admittedly, I've only read a couple of his essays), but because his death is only the latest in a long and storied line of visionary writers who've seen life as--well, as unlivable. Woolf, Hemingway, Plath, Sexton, Thompson, Spalding Gray, Hart Crane--the list goes on. What is it about writing, and about art as a whole, that causes such desperate melancholy, abject loneliness, and absolute faithlessness? Of course, it's not a problem associated solely with writers, but it's no coincidence that some of the greatest writers of modern times have ended their lives while in the prime of their writing careers. What does this say about writing as an art form, and writers as artists? Is writing truly an exercise in solitude--a solitude so vast for some that it cannot be bridged by success, critical acclaim, or fame?

I don't know. I'm no creative genius, and sometimes I can barely cobble together a sentence that makes any sense. But I do know that the world seems a little more sad, a little less full, with every literary (or musical or visionary or theatrical) talent that we lose, just for knowing that we won't learn anything else from them.

Fringe 16 Rocks It.

We tried something new in Fringe 16. Now that we’re only publishing four times a year, we’re giving you more of that Fringey stuff you love. This issue features doubles – two poets, two short nonfiction writers and two short shorts, along with our first-ever audio pieces and some brilliant paintings.

This issue is all about small moments, from the moment a fish hits the sizzling oil to a fever dream to the decision whether to use that last vein (in the penis) to shoot a little heroin.

Watch for the theme of food, which appears in several of the pieces. We’ve got telling footnotes, bright colors and the strange taste of fake cheese in our mouths, so come experience the joys of Fringe 16!

• In An Ocean View, Brent van Staalduinen gives a lyrical account of the way Sri Lankan tourist culture changed after the tsunami in a piece of short nonfiction.
• Michael K Meyers uses audio collage to tell two strange tales in the (de)Classified section.
• Joe Clifford, a former heroin addict writes about the moment that the TV show Cops became about him in the short nonfiction piece Fear and Reality.
• In her four poems, Francine Rubin shows the reader sparkling moments – fish in oil, a pirouette and her life as a celebutante.
• Christopher A. Williams uses curvilinear bursts of color to create Rube-Goldberg machines.
• Siel Ju describes four people and one slice of veggie cheese in five poems.
• The short short Out by Munson Creek by Chuck Taylor explores man’s timeless desire to shoot things.

Joel Wright’s short short Fever chronicles the illusions and realities of a fever that came on the heels of a snowstorm.

Art: Dog Eat Dog City by Christopher A. Williams

CERN Rap

It's just too good.

Join the Fringe Army

So Fringe is in the thralls of restructuring the way we do things, and we need some help:

Fringe magazine is looking for enthusiastic volunteers to help us keep our one-of-a-kind journal running. We are a quarterly online literary magazine dedicated to political and experimental literature. Each month, we receive 20,000+ unique users.

All the positions are unpaid, but are great resume-builders for folks who want to learn the ropes of web publishing or build a reputation for blogging.

We ask that all those interested familiarize themselves with the magazine before applying. Please send resume to fringeeditors@gmail.com, with cover letter in body of the email.

Fiction Editorial Intern
Duties would include reading, responding to submissions, managing readers, and other administrative tasks assigned by the Editor. The internship is unpaid, with an approximate five-hour commitment/week.

Chief Copy Editor
Duties would include managing copy editors for each genre and reporting to the Editor-In-Chief. The position is unpaid and would require 5 hours every quarter.

Genre Copy Editors
We need copy editors for the fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and criticism. The position is unpaid and would require 5 hours every quarter.

Non-Profit Accountant
We need an accountant to handle annual tax returns and manage the magazine's minimal expenses.

Bloggers
Fringe is looking for bloggers to post weekly or bi-weekly on a varied list of topics. Possibilities include, but are not limited to: literature, gender and race in the media, the writing life, the reading life, new media (graphic novels, flash animations, Second Life, etc.), reviews (books, anthologies, readings, music, art, film), and the future of publishing. Email fringetheblog@gmail.com if you're interested. Please include what you'd like to write about, and how often you'd be able to contribute. Thanks!

Botox and Apologies

It's been a while since we posted in this space, and I simply wanted to assure you that we don't intend to neglect it for much longer.

Fringe has been undergoing some internal changes, and we're hoping to be back soon with a more frequent and Fringier blog that has at least a few posts a week.

In the meantime, I just had to post this video by Sarah Haskins, who has a unique take on corporations that market to women.



See you soon...