In his otherwise astute dissection of the recent poop-storm concerning Cathy Murillo’s candidacy, the Angry Poodle let loose a bit of its own flop, basically discrediting the dog’s literary judgment forever. Simply put, Trixie goes far too far. Describing the sex scenes from novelist (real estate agent, thespian, and candidate) Frank Hotchkiss’s Playing with Fire, the dog claims that Frank provides a rival to “the steamy poetics of James Joyce’s Ulysses.”
I mean, come on. Call it the ineluctable modality of the indefensible. I suspect Trixie refers to such passages as “Her tan calf muscles rippled over patent red leather heels as she stood with her legs close together. He couldn’t look at her, and walked away when she tried to introduce herself. Her delicate perfume made him to struggle to breathe” — a passage from Hotchkiss quoted in a recent post by Newsmakers.
Let’s forget the troubling image of calf muscles rippling over red shoes, possibly a medical procedure. But Joyce, in all of his priest- and guilt-ridden sexy (mostly masturbation) scenes, never came close to those last two lines of Hotchkiss haiku. The hero, clearly asthmatic, walks away from that “delicate” perfume in painful retreat. Nothing in Joyce rivals the pathos and irony of sweet smells invoking a choking sadness. James would bow to Frank.
Maybe the Poodle is right about Hotchkiss as candidate, but I’m afraid this time Trixie needs to be put back in school. Hotchkiss is no rival; he’s the steaming poetic its ownself.