| Rutger Van Trout has worse problems than his mundane existence in the all-consuming, all-suppressing Vulgaria of Grand Rapids, Michigan. It's not that his son might be turning into a werewolf, or that his daughter might be a nymphomaniac. The problem does not lie in his obsession with transforming his middle-class estate into a three-ring barnyard, nor in the shrunken head collection under the bed. He doesn't even mind his wife's (possibly) haunted skeleton or the freak-of-the-week superheroes and window-jumpers populating his neighborhood. The complication has invaded his community in the form of a new breed of serial killer, one who stalks from house to house throughout the Vulgaria leaving a bloodbath that would make Jack the Ripper himself blush. The killer's name is Mr. Blankety Blank, and Rutger Van Trout's neighborhood is on the wrong end of a killing spree...
What Are They Saying About Blankety Blank:
"The book reads like Dali attampting an exercise in a Zen sort of living-in-the-moment with an ADHD Alex from A Clockwork Orange."
—Susurrus Magazine
"In Blankety Blank fact and fiction don’t so much blur as they collide like lovesick Sumo’s fired at each other from cartoon cannons, resulting in a pseudo-biographical romp interspersed with fictional histories, strange quotes, haikus, and plain ludicrously fun happenings."
—Fractal Matter
"At times it’s part Desperate Housewives–suburban drama, parties and wicked rumor mill– and other times it’s dark and brutal commentary, or complete bizzarro-fueled randomness."
— Michele Lee's Book Love
"'Destroy time so that chaos may be ordered' was the instruction more than half a century ago of Mailer's Man Who Studied Yoga and D. Harlan Wilson has taken that advice seriously; here is a novel which implodes and conflates autobiography, biography, history, quasi-history, alternate history and Occam's Safety Razor in a fashion which I find utterly original and utterly discommoding. The exquisite tilt of this novel runs us all off the board and on; its originality is a weapon. Firing at that bullseye on time."
—Barry N. Malzberg, John Campbell Award-winning author of 70+ science fiction novels
"'Be not embarrassed to laugh out loud at this nasty book. Wilson has
reinvented the genre of demonic sci-fi slapstick. Nothing close to it
since the unwritten Portnow's Restraint. Intelligent, wicked, erudite,
maniacal. What a talent. And this is the first ever cross species
collaboration. The pages penned by his companionable ape are achingly
close to humanoid.
Read this book and bask in the energy of a living imagination."
—Steve Katz
"'If you had a time machine and could secure the living brains of James Thurber and Andre Breton ripped untimely from their skulls, run them through a juicer, then mainline the blended liquid neurons, you might become a writer like D. Harlan Wilson. In fact, I know with certainty that this is how he actually got his start. As evidenced by his new "Memoir of Vulgaria," BLANKETY BLANK, we are facing a writer who can evoke howls of pity and tears of laughter on the same page, and generally within the same sentence. In this "multimedia" novel, suburban inanity and insanity are depicted in loving and intimate depth, resulting in a furiously animated canvas equal parts Bosch and Tex Avery. Imagine an episode of THE SIMPSONS scripted by Robert Coover and Donald Barthelme, then directed by Michel Gondry, and you won't be far off the mark. If this be "interstitial" fiction, then it's a case of the interstices expanding like a galaxy to overwhelm whatever bland shores once flanked them."
—Paul Di Filippo, author of Cosmocopia
"Blankety Blank is both vulgar and vulva—a masterful DJ mix of the sounds and sights of avant-pop, avant-porn, critifiction, and (yes) post-cyberpunk sensibilities. Mixing the academic with the asylum (i.e. academentia), Blankety Blank shoots forth ficto-history, the post-essay, and celebrity reality TV form the barrel of its Magnum Opus. Indeed D. Harlan Wilson holds the Avant-Prof Chair vacated by Lance Olsen, briefly held by Mark Amerika, and passed up by David Foster Wallace. A fine promotion, I say with the possibility of tenure for ten years. Consider, please, if you will, what Jean Baudrillard's ghost channeled to me via Channel 3: 'Tenure is better than manure!' Translation: there's a lot of shit being published these days, but this tasty novel ain't crap. It's cake. So, to quote Marie Antoinette, eat it!"
—
Michael Hemmingson
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