Mr. Eric Strauss is a sociable
gentleman. He lives in a small house in Temple City, California, with
his daughter Delilah, his dog Lacey and his cat Moitertons. The other
significant people in his life live elsewhere. For example, he has
a girlfriend, her mother and father, and her two siblings. All five
of those people live two burgs to the east.
Strauss has his own parents as well. He has one parent of each type; a mated pair. The two have cohabited for as long as Eric can recall, at any rate. And they claim to have made Eric, many years ago, without the use of any cloning techniques. So its very likely they're at least "more than just pals."
Eric also has some cool neighbors right around him. Further away, over in the big city part, live his ex-wife and her boyfriend. Those two are committed to absurd ideology memes, but they're decent people, all in all. Lastly, Eric has several old friends, two of whom he sees frequently. These friends are fellow Temple Citizens, but Mr. Strauss visits them often not because they live nearby, but rather because they and he together make up 'several peas in a pod.'
If
you ask Eric what he does for a job, he'll say he's a writer. But
really? If you're talking about dollar bills? He teaches English to
grade school kids. And, financial motives notwithstanding, he actually
enjoys that job a lot. The Grand Purpose of Mr. Strauss, though, is
to make media - particularly text. So he will drop the teaching
gig the minute those 6 figure royalty checks start to roll in. Weilding
a style that's been described as "half Crichton, half Goethe, and
a whole lot Emily Bronte," Eric won't be waiting long. Payday
is as nigh as it can possibly be, and yet, even now, it grows ever
more nigh.
Perhaps literary critic Dr. Lade Rice, in the August 2006 Journal of Contemporary Narrative,
said it best:
"Strauss writes fiction that is usually sweet and endearing, and sometimes limpid and jolly, and often comical and flaccid. But his prose is important, too - his text plays hot-hands with Danger itself. So reading a Strauss novel is a lot like eating a stack of old-fashioned griddle cakes - golden and buttery, and swimming in warm, but genocide-flavored, syrup. It's tasty grub, sure, but it will make you sad and/or outraged. And, if you eat griddle cake after griddle cake, you'll get full in the belly. Eventually, even the taste buds in your mouth will become full - soggy with the flavor of crimes against humanity. Once that happens, you're too full. You'll need to have a bowel movement before you can read any more."
Steve Dupont
Steve Dupont excels
in a number of different arenas, the literary arts being just one
of them. Sport, for example. He is still exceedingly quick for his
age. He can juke. He is quite a juker. He can dive parallel to the
ground and deflect soccer balls. His quarterback arm is good for 40
yards into a stiff wind. His low post moves are virtually unstoppable
by anyone shorter and whiter. Steve can charge a weak grounder from
third and gun the throw just in time to nip a mediocre runner. A catcher,
for example.
Steve Dupont is also very proficient in the cutting
of fruits. His technique for slicing kiwis is studied at University.
His mango work is nothing short of tremendous. A whole cantaloupe,
reduced to bite-sized cubes in a minute's time! Grapefruit? Fug'eta'boutit.
You
want to play the game of quoting certain movies, say, Caddy Shack
or Fletch or The Holy Grail? Steve can hang with the best. His "Dalai
Lama ... which is nice." speech rules. His "John Cock-tos-en" is spot
on. His British pronunciation of "shrubberies" is exquisite, if not
comical. Steve is doubly entertaining when drunk, and can be the center
of attention at the right cocktail parties. Which is nice.
Give Steve the proper tools and he can dig a mean hole. As long as the rocks are smaller than bowling balls and the roots are thinner than garden hose, he's golden with only a shovel and a mattock. Throw in a 45-pound steel "heavy bar" and efficiency will increase by 50 percent. Leverage is everything! Steve tends to give, on average, 227 percent by the way, and ridicules anyone who gives 100 percent or even 110 percent.
Being from New Jersey, Steve is naturally a good, safe motorist. Anytime the tires cross a painted line it's accompanied by a turn signal. Snow and ice only give him a greater advantage over competing motorists. He is not afraid to parallel park on a steep hill with manual transmission. Highway 1 north of San Fran was eaten for lunch (in the bag it came in) by his rented SuperCamaro. He once drove nearly 5 miles in reverse, at night, wearing sunglasses. It's become his pastime to avoid grisly highway death with a smile and a promise never to let that happen again.
Uh ... that's about
it.
Art Freeman
Banker. Funnyman.
Tom Maples
Raised
by albino wolves, Tom Maples didn't learn to speak good until his
twenties, and he is still trying to master the mechanics of writing.
He writes in a genre he calls "microfiction," which is an entirely
unique form that he himself invented but is real hard for him to explain,
especially since he doesn’t talk or write too good anyway. He enjoys
performing in spoken word events and occasionally works as an advertising
writer in
John Box
John Box burst onto the literary scene in 1997 when he was published in his high school yearbook quoting Eazy-E and sending shouts out to MM, NP, GS, SL, WB, DS, DB, and HPV. He followed with his second achievement a year later, when he spray painted the word “vagina” on a middle school dumpster. He now lives in his mother’s basement where he spends the bulk of his days selling virtual back rubs on Second Life.