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Trump Sky Alpha

af Mark Doten

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454558,523 (3.08)2
"One year after the president has plunged the world into nuclear war, a journalist takes refuge in the Twin Cities Metro Containment Zone. On assignment, she documents internet humor at the end of the world, hoping along the way to find the final resting place of her wife and daughter. What she uncovers, hidden amid spiraling memes and twitter jokes in an archive of the internet's remnants, are references to an enigmatic figure known only as Birdcrash, who may hold the key to an uncertain future."--Amazon.com.… (mere)
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» Se også 2 omtaler

Viser 4 af 4
This curate's egg of an experimental novel reminded me more than a little of the storied sandwich of many a joke which consists of two luscious slices of bread with an odious meat inserted between; it begins with an intriguing (if presented with the unpleasant literary parlor trick of twentysome pages of runon sentences) narration of World War III being initiated by the President of the United States as he pilots the flagship of his worldwide zeppelin passenger fleet, and ends with a hilarious sendup of his rhetorical style as he narrates the last day of the world as we know it. In between, unfortunately, one must wade through two hundred pages of a leaden (but nonetheless thin), uninteresting, fragmentary, at times incomprehensible, plot presented mostly with huge dollops of computer jargon and internet in-references. Contrary to the reviews, this book is rarely funny; I've not read a blacker book, and I'm hardpressed to think of a single likable character herein, certainly not the narrator, who manages to be at one and the same time self-hating and ego-tripping. If you come to this with a solid background in computer lingo and chatroom bafflegab and low expectations, you might not be let down. ( )
  Big_Bang_Gorilla | Sep 17, 2020 |
I mean, I don't know. I read this at the wrong time, and I knew it. It was just a race between the "for-sell-by" date on the internet and twitter references passing and my interest in it. Can I even critique this in any meaningful way? I've emerged feeling like I'm trying to evaluate sober the movie you saw drunk last night. Yes, I mean, I know what happened, but I can't say anything about it. And, it's not just, I think, a case of the usual aggrievement for me (although it is, also, that, to be honest): namely, the mainstream/non-genre writer doing genre shit and not caring enough/being willing enough/having balls enough to actually treat their genre shit like genre shit, the Leftovers [both novel and series] being the case par exemplar, although it operates a bit differently here. There, they're dismissing the genre in the service of a general Flattening Out of everything. Here, we have an MFA-ish novelist writing something genre that doesn't understand those beats [ending the final twenty pages with her editor and his troubles and the two of them deciding whether or not to run for it while in the snow at prospect park and ending with a line of them doing it like this is the fucking Giver or something or that we're supposed to feel anything about either of them as characters or even together (??) ~ the thirty page internet meme deathhole disquisition leading itself to ... where?], something satirical that doesn't actually know what it's satirizing [the gd hot air balloon, and the final livestreamrambling speech are heightened, exaggerated representations of a core trumpiness, but so heightened as to mask the fact that his general "point" about trump and the situation is -- in addition to just being jumbled -- wholly based on fear of his nuclear rashness, something that needn't be heightened along the lines of the blimp], something experimental that spends much of its time in straightforward narrativization/prose/plot land [as if he just got tired of it all after that twenty-page, unbroken-paragraph opening section, which (most damningly) was not even that engaging] something surreal that spends most of its time in Normy land [the general's unexpected BJ], and something political that doesn't care about politics [think about Birdcrash -- who is the villain here?] Regardless, the story: post-nuclear apocalypse, near 300 million dead in US [ha, come on man], caused by Trump but after a worldwide internet outage by some hacktivist collective days before that spurred global upheaval, in the aftermath a reporter works on an article abt internet humor and we thus see chapters devoted to reimagining actual meme culture as it would look applied to the apocalypse, and from here she is kidnapped and tortured by the dude who took down the internet [drilling holes in her head] cause he's crazy and wants to make an internet of birds [ok that's the best part]. ( )
  Ebenmaessiger | Oct 6, 2019 |
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Both with a bang and a Trumpian whinge. ( )
  bookboy804 | Aug 4, 2019 |
Almost intolerable because it's so plausible. ( )
  Lemeritus | Jul 27, 2019 |
Viser 4 af 4
...a funny book and a sad one, a bright one and a dark one, a distant sci-fi dystopia and a ripped-from-the-headlines tragedy. It imagines a world in which the president — the actual current president, albeit in fictional form — has ordered a nuclear strike and wiped out much of the world’s population, after which he travels over what remains of the blasted planet in an obnoxiously lavish airship, dispatching a stream of dunderheaded, self-justifying tweets as he goes.
tilføjet af Lemeritus | RedigerThe New York Times, Ben Greenman (pay site) (Mar 8, 2019)
 
The beginning is outrageous fantasy but reads like transcription. Doten channels Trump’s verbal tics and rhetorical poverty so perfectly it’s chilling. (“Happy to be flying back to NYC! Beautiful night! Fake News Media WRONG as usual!!!” he tweets, as horrific destruction unfolds below.) ...Dizzy with metaphor, “Trump Sky Alpha” is a cautionary tale for a time when we have become inured to flashing yellow all around. May this fiction, for one, not leave the page.
tilføjet af Lemeritus | RedigerThe Washington Post, Melissa Holbrook Pierson (pay site) (Feb 19, 2019)
 
A blistering and heartbreaking satire in which president Trump brings about a nuclear apocalypse.... Featuring a disturbing not-so-distant future, Doten’s novel is haunting, incisive, and surprisingly touching.
tilføjet af Lemeritus | RedigerPublishers Weekly (Dec 24, 2018)
 
An acid satire that might have been funnier in sunnier times.
tilføjet af Lemeritus | RedigerKirkus Review (Oct 28, 2018)
 
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Because it’s Trump that we chose. And maybe in some weird sense we had to choose him, we’re so stupid as a country that this was in some fucked-up way inevitable. But that’s just my brain making excuses, saying that it was preordained, saying we couldn’t have done anything, when it was so close to going another direction. If a butterfly had flapped its wings in the Upper Midwest, Hillary would be president. So imagine: What would have happened if it was one of these more normie types when the attack came? Hillary, Rubio. Maybe all this would have been at least postponed. I mean, Trump, I think a lot of us had the sense from very early on in the Republican primaries that if Trump got the chance to blow up the world he’d do it, that was clear from his whole career, he got off on rolling the dice on big bets and seeing everyone around him get blown up, all his partners totally screwed and ruined and just leaving these smoking wastelands wherever he went. The fact that he got elected, I mean, it was a real death-wish situation for America, but then you have to ask, What would Hillary or Rubio or whoever have done in a situation where the lights go dark, the internet gets knocked out for four days, and when the lights are back up, there’s some nuclear events happening, there’s a global system that’s suddenly got these huge ruptures. Elizabeth Warren. Bernie. I don’t know what would have happened with them but these things have their own logic and maybe it doesn’t even matter so much who’s president, maybe even Bernie would have pushed the button. What I think about is all those old cartoons, Bugs Bunny or whatever, there’s a trope where someone goes to sleep, all the lights are out, it’s peaceful, and I don’t know where this bedroom is—maybe it’s in a haunted house, I don’t remember, it’s a trope, there are lots of bedrooms where this happened—and Bugs Bunny or whoever is sleeping, and then for some reason they reach for a light, they strike a match and it’s all these eyes around them, staring, or it’s knives and axes and guns, it’s monsters surrounding their bed. I don’t know, I think I’m overlapping a bunch of different cartoons here. Maybe the eyes appear in the dark, and then the match gets struck. It’s a trope, the trope is, the lights go out, and then they come back up, and it’s a nightmare around your bed. And how do you react? You know what I’m saying? There’s monsters around your bed, how would any of these presidents have responded? Of course, we had the president we had, and the results are we’re here.
Negative partisanship, zero-sum games, the nonstop trolling, the hate and the love, the postures that were knowing and cool and monstrously self-deprecating and panicked and thirsty and violent and performatively woke, none of it stopped at the end of the world. The lies and misinformation, the endlessness of that. The fundamental inability to determine: stupid or evil. The sense that it was this, it was the structure of the internet, that had amplified the stupid and the evil, and at the same time flattened them, made them impossible to distinguish. Or made distinguishing them somehow beside the point.
Trump, someone tweeted, the most hated man in the history of the world, hated twenty-four hours a day by more living humans than anyone has ever been hated by, is ending the world that hates him.
Trump, what is a Trump. A vast ungainly hog who has scalped a lion somehow. And staggers around in it. The rotting mane and pelt. Day after day, and year after year, eyes clenched, chin jutting, squealing and snorting and wheezing, daring you to say it, to tell him what he is. You’re not a lion. You’re a dumb bad pig. A mentally ill pig, and no one likes you, you’re the worst, the worst one ever. He was such a bad dumb little shit pig wasn’t he.
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"One year after the president has plunged the world into nuclear war, a journalist takes refuge in the Twin Cities Metro Containment Zone. On assignment, she documents internet humor at the end of the world, hoping along the way to find the final resting place of her wife and daughter. What she uncovers, hidden amid spiraling memes and twitter jokes in an archive of the internet's remnants, are references to an enigmatic figure known only as Birdcrash, who may hold the key to an uncertain future."--Amazon.com.

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