Biblophile Bites Back: Angel Food and Devil Dogs (pt I)

My father is a man of wisdom when it comes to many things about literature, and one piece of advice he gave me is that a good book is one you can read over and over and genuinely enjoy every time. If that is true, then Liz Bradbury's part mystery, part lesbian propaganda work titled Angel Food and Devil Dogs should join the English literary canon. I have gotten a months worth of glee from its book, not from its flimsy and contrived plot, flat and unlikable characters, or notable lack of intricate observation of themes either social, philosophical, or literary. It is modern art, a collection of mix-matched pieces so clumsily grafted together they make nothing sort of an illogical, aesthetic eyesore, yet you can't look away simply because you are stunned it manages to hold itself together.

If a book is either good or bad, then this one is surely bad. But this book's bad is so layered, so complex, and so aggressive that I have a difficult time believing it wasn't done on purpose. The people portrayed behave in a way so outside of social norms that is has to be some sort of complex deconstruction of the genre. There is no way possible that Liz Bradbury can be a woman, romantically inclined toward women, and be in a relationship with a woman, yet still display no working knowledge of how any of the above work without intentional design. The plot, characters, and flow of the story are so paradoxical and contradictory that they stand somewhere between social criticism and surrealism.

Either way, this massive satire cleverly disguised as a trashy lesbian mystery novel (that's a set of words I thought I'd never type) must be brought into the mainstream. To an intellectual crowd, Liz Bradbury would be hailed as the next Kafka or Burroughs. To the common reader, her book will be hailed as the next Twilight or Eragon. But either by limited press or limited intended audience, this book is dangerously close to falling into complete obscurity. And that is simply something I can't let happen.

And yes, eagle-eyed readers, that is Window's clipart at the bottom left-hand corner of the cover. But that is neither here nor there. Let us take a closer look at epoch that is Angel Food and Devil Dogs.

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Our tale begins with the introduction of our protagonist and narrator, Maggie Gale. Maggie is presented as the average anybody; she's an ex-cop, all but unemployed, and average-looking who kicks around in nothing but polo shirts and jeans. And don't worry sports fans, only two pages in, the bomb is dropped that SHE LIKES GIRLS. Understandable, since one interview with Liz Bradbury has her noting that she wanted to create a heroine to a mystery story that she could relate to on a personal level. Normally I'd make a rude comment about something like this, but honestly, I understand how she feels. I have yet to read fiction with a character who's as much of a five-foot-ten sex bomb working a slum job at Walmart who is struggling both with monumental aspirations to be the greatest knitter that ever lived as well as a crippling addiction to black t-shirts as I. Someone needs to get on that.

She's brought to investigate the case involving a young Mickey Murphey, a mentally-handicapped man who has been wrongly accused of murder. And then the plot decides there's no chance of a romantic B-plot in that mess, so it decides to move on elsewhere.

So while Mickey and his lawyers hack through red tape, Maggie winds up in prestigious Irwin College, where she's hired by it's president, Max Bouchet. Maggie harps on how awesome it is that a private college is owned by a black multimillionaire, because black people in charge is all progressive and stuff. I checked when this book was published, and it appeared to be mid-2008. Just as I suspected. More subtle propaganda to get Obama into the office.

Max hires Maggie Gale to investigate the death of Carl Ramsus, a blind, gay music professor, who apparently committed suicide by throwing himself out a six-story window. Carl Ramsus was a healthy and stable guy, and was very well respected and loved by his colleagues. He was also very comfortable both with is disability and his sexuality. So when he left a note that said:

It is impossible to live this sordid life. I know that homosexuals are often murdered by other homosexuals or otherwise die a slow, painful death from AIDS, which is God's punishment for immorality.

Max thinks that maaaaaaaybe this note is not a suicide note, and Carl Ramsus's death is a hate crime. An obviously and laughably one-dimensional homophobic note disguised as a suicide note to cover a murder? Could we possibly be heading to a homophobia is naughty and bad moral by the end of this book? Stay tuned folks!

Since this is a mystery, while Maggie is getting briefed on the case, we meet a handful of secondary flat characters who serve as suspects for the soon-to-brew murder plot. These include Connie Robinson, a bumbling twenty-year-old secretary who comes the closest to being a well-developed character (more on her later), Miranda Juarez, the Professor McGonagall-like second in command, Bart Edgar, the book's butt monkey, and the love interest, Dr. Kathryn Anthony. How do we know she's the love interest? When her introduction paragraph is like this.

She turned and looked at me directly, then smiled mostly with her eyes. My breath caught in my throat. Auburn haire framed her face with an inward curve. The brisk December afternoon stille showed in pink tinged cheekbones glowing softly against alabaster skin. Her blue-gray eyes held a fascinating spark. And I have the vague feeling I'd seen her before, quite awhile ago. She was pulling off her gloves and saying in a deep, incredibly sexy voice, "Miranda, I hope we're not late."

Yeah, you should get used to descriptions like that, because the ratio of commenting about Anthony's hotness compared to...well, pretty much everything else about Anthony is about 1:1. But that's all for the best, because Anthony is easily just as bland, shallow, and purposeless as any heterosexual tacked-on love interest. Hmm, a pale-skinned redhead who is in theory really talented and deep, but is constantly being belittled with no chance to show or develop any depth of character,and treated as a glorified sex object by a shrill fangirl. Where have I seen this before?

Oh snap.

So as Anthony's generic blandness exits, Max sets up a party to announce Carl's death to the rest of the tenure committee of which he was appealing to, and thus we meet the rest of our suspects. This includes Amanda Knightbridge, a generic matron who's main job is to seem wise and mysterious and set up Maggie and Anthony, Jimmy Harmon, a stressed composer struggling to compete with Carl's gay-and-blind talents, Georgia Smith, a good excuse to make fun of new-age spirituality, Daniel Cohen, who's a married straight man, so he's hardly important, Leo Getty, another generically straight nice guy, Skylar Carvelle, the resident spineless metrosexual, and Dr. Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann, easily the best stereotypical, miserable old German bat that there ever was. Her jobs are to smoke like Detroit, hate human relationships and sex, and antagonize her colleges, and I love her for it. I hope to be just like her when I grow old and crazy. And if this faceless mass is too much for you, don't worry, because one of the soda bottles at the party explodes, and knocks two of them out of the picture.

Okay, nobody dies (sadly), but the two joke characters, Bart the butt monkey and Georgia the young new-age chick both get the brunt of the blast. Connie proves that she's actually not a generic blonde secretary by leaping over a desk, grabbing an ice tray, and beginning to treat Georgia's burns. Despite being twice as competent and twice as helpful, Maggie Gale lugged a couple bodies out of the blast, so she's instantly hailed as a hero. Also, she conveniently sustained no real injuries, so she's free to go while Max thinks of the best way to cover his ass.

Maggie gets a ride home by her gay couple friends, Farrel and Jesse. They also have no real point to the plot than to advance the romance subplot in the form of insisting that Maggie should hook up with Anthony and then conveniently going on a trip and leaving their house in her care. Also, they're an idealized microcosm of how awesome and superior gay culture is. And despite androgynous names, they are both women. Which also starts the trend of poorly written or generally ignored men.

Speaking of poorly written men, the next day as Maggie begins her formal investigation, she runs into Daniel Cohen, who's only purpose is to state that the explosion was caused by some sort of tampered bottle bomb and then fade neatly into the background. Upon hearing this, I quickly discovered that the murderer was Anthony. Anthony had two alibis for both the murder and the bomb, but they're so perfectly tailored that it almost seems contrived. She was off in Seattle advancing the college when Carl was killed, and she made sure she went home to rest right before the fateful party with the bottle bomb. Not to mention it was emphasized that the killer would be pretty crazy to risk his or her life by being in the same room as the bomb. Hmmm...the book has a completely different culprit, of course, but I know the truth.

Next on our trip of offensively poorly portrayed men is Miranda Juarez's ex-husband, Cedrick Sheldon Druckenmacher, who's so determined to prove that he's a by-the-book scum bum that he breaks into Miranda's office while tanked so badly his BAC is between "fire hazard" and "preserved lab specimen". Once he arrives, he proceeds to grab her wrists while screaming and harassing her because he needs money. I have to admit, this is a surprisingly shocking moment of the book, because Miranda has been established as the tough, no-nonsense second in command. Not to mention I can't think of any woman in their right mind who'd marry a man with a name like that. It's the most intimidating name possible without being obvious. Don't worry though sports fans, because this opportunity to give an interesting perspective on the complex nature of a longstanding abusive relationship will be embarrassingly fumbled later on.

Maggie Gale's quest to find the identity of the bottle bomb and who was associated with it lands her at the hands of Rowlina, who is busy at smoking two packs a day and making life difficult for Maggie. Since Maggie isn't exactly a tactful woman and is only able to think with her girl-loving choch, she notices that Rowlina doesn't have any pictures of her husband, so she harps on both him and sexuality, which naturally ruffles Rowlina's feathers. Upon seeing her get into a huff and learning that her husband is on the opposite coast, she silently concludes that Rowlina is a closeted lesbian. This is really just a cultural difference more than anything else, because an older German woman who wants nothing to do with her husband and snarling at the mention of any form of human intimacy is one of the most sure signs of arrow-straight heterosexuality.

After that, Maggie Gale continues her exceptionally boring investigation. She visits Leo Getty, aka bland man number two, who acts like he's going to have a seizure and then drops the bomb that Carl got kicked out of his old high school. This inspires Maggie Gale to break into Carl's office and steal his stuff. Enter half of our title drop-Carl's favorite treat was apparently Devil Dog cakes, so one of the drawers that Maggie goes to riddle through is stuffed with a ton of them. Maggie decides there's nothing sweeter than the stale snack food of a dead man, so she gobbles them up and steals his laptop software. As evidence. This won't be the first incident of kleptomania she commits.

Remember that Maggie Gale LIKES GIRLS, so seeing Anthony walking down the road earlier that day is enough to give her a theoretical girly hard-on for the rest of the day. In fact, as she comes home, it seems to be pretty much the only thing she can possibly think about. Remember that she's known this chick for all of three minutes. We used to beat kids up in school for that. Anyway, she forgets to shovel Farrel and Jesse's driveway, so while she's doing that at one in the morning, guess who just happens to be taking a romantic, late night stroll. Go on, guess.

So Maggie ditches her caretaking duty and goes off to hit on Anthony. And by hitting on Anthony, I mean, have Anthony flirt with her in the most obvious, in-your-face way possible and have Maggie twiddle her thumbs and go DUR HUR wonder if she likes me. I'm not Don Juan, but even I can usually pick up on the cues when someone says something like this when discussing interrogation methods:

She raised her eyebrows a little, paused, and then answered in a deep tone, "I'd bet you'd be very good at it. I'm sure you'd know exactly the right things to do, to encourage someone to respond...in a satisfying way. Tell me how you...do it."

Ah, another thing I love about this book. It contains easily the most inept romantic dialog I have ever seen in any entertainment medium. If you thought that was bad, here's Maggie's reply:

"Some investigators have a deep and pressing need to work very quickly and sometimes that can be...exciting...but I feel the best way is to go very slowly and explore every avenue...seeing to every detail...meeting every need...for the entire experience to be...intensely gratifying for everyone involved."

Now that's an awfully peculiar way to conduct a police interrogation, miss!

And yes, despite all of this and more, Maggie still doesn't get that Anthony is also a lesbian and wants in on the goods. It takes her talking about another lesbian professor within the same college to finally get the subject up, and then to actually ask Anthony the question. Hilariously, before asking, Maggie has an inner monologue that she was involved with said lesbian teacher on a five-day romp, alluding to the use of her police handcuffs. You pull lines like that, you couldn't figure out this girl who's all but dry humping you on the park bench is into you, and yet you brag about playing bad cop with someone in the Art Wing's bathroom? Yeah right. Maggie's got thirty-five-year-old-virgin stamped all over her polo shirt. Also, more evidence that Anthony's the killer. Trying to get on the main and apparently easily-led detective's good side? Not at all suspicious.

So since they are both girls who like girls, they proceed to talk about how awesome it is to be gay. And here's another uncomfortable reoccurring theme in this book. There's heavily implications that it's much more admirable for someone to not only be gay and out, but be gay, out, and dropping your pants and rubbing it in everyone's face. Admirable gay people are never just out-they make being gay pretty much their life. If you're gay, you should be editing gay magazines, being a member of gay clubs, fighting for gay rights, endorsing gay-owned businesses, basically being as gay as you possibly can. It's not a question of being out, the book literally asks how out you are. And it heavily implies that if you're just gay and trying to live your life, then you have less moral character or are a victim of internalized homophobia. And you have to be out to everyone, and I mean everyone. Family, friends, teachers, coworkers, casual associates, people who you meet on the streets, telemarketers, your pets, the milkman, and other large hosts of people who probably don't care.

Now I'm not saying being an activist is wrong. Quite the contrary, I think it's very important to find something in life to fight for and be proud of. But when you require someone to be out and an activist about not-your-choice biological sexuality in order to be a respectable person, you perpetuate an attitude that's as segregated, damaging, and cruel as a homophobic mentality. Also note that this mentality hardly equates you to a humanitarian, but more on that later.

So being the massively gay people that they are, they decide to show how romantic and gay they are by reciting two poems back to back written by gay women: A Winter Ride by Amy Lowell and It Sifts From Leaden Sieves by Emily Dickinson. Well, props to you book, you managed to get one right. I know it's popular in some circles that Emily Dickinson was gay because of all those letters she wrote to women, but come on now, it was the Victorian Era, all chicks were doing that. Plus, she wrote similar letters like that to men too. Heaven forbid that maybe she was actually not sexually inclined at all and just had close relationships with male and female friends. Last time I checked, she tends to be more famous for her poetry and not her passionate sex life anyway.

So Maggie asks Anthony out for lunch, and Anthony agrees to a one-o-clock lunch meeting, assuring her that she has a seminar before hand so that there's absolutely no way she could be associated with the next murder to take place. Maggie's blatant ineptitude with women once again manifests, as after all of that nonsense and Anthony accepting her invitation for a date, she still isn't sure whether Anthony is into her. It takes another out-of-context Emily Dickenson poem and a kiss on the cheek for Maggie to realize that heeeeeeeeey! So the chapter ends with Maggie clicking her heels and winking at the audience, assuring them, "that wasn't the last moment I was to have with Dr. Kathryn Anthony." Oh joy. I can't wait.

And that's part one of S-Type's Angel Food and Devil Dogs review. We've gotten through about a third of the book, and let me tell you, things only get better (i.e. worse) from here. Coming up next, we see why Connie should be the hero of this book, the creepiest sister in the history of literature, Bart being abused to the point of human rights violation, and a portrayal of the straight community that's so biased, flat, and poorly written that it is nothing short of a riot. Will Anthony ever show signs of a consistent character? Will Miranda Juarez ever be able to face the demon of her psychotic ex-husband? Will Maggie prove to the audience that she isn't a bland, overly-idealized author-insert? Will we ever run into a notably written male character (gosh, I really hope you're not counting on it)? All will be revealed in part two, right after this commercial break!

_{Angel Food and Devil Dogs Copyright 2008 by Liz Bradbury. Cover design (what a surprise) by Liz Bradbury. All rights reserved. For more information, visit Liz Bradbury's website at http://www.lizbradbury.boudicapublishing.com}