Wednesday, 5 June 2013

Book Spotlight: Foxavier and Plinka by Scott Evans

Foxavier and Plinka
by Scott Evans
Available in ebook and paperback


Foxavier and Plinka is the funny satirical story of a man trying to recover from OCD and find love as a forty year old virgin.

Foxavier Jostleplume is being driven crazy by diets and junk food commercials.

At art therapy, he meets Plinka Goose, and together they ride a rollercoaster of love..

They use public art to fight a corporation distributing psychosis causing cookies.   Excerpt:   My life is not so much a life, as a series of awkwardnesses.

“I'm The Pretty Pie Girl. I'm The Pretty Pie Girl,” the TV blares her chipmunk voice as she waltzes with a chocolate cookie. Her adorable face sirens, “You're my Ookie Ookie Cookie.” Computer generated smile happier than human. She's a pie with tiny gloved arms, and booted legs. She twirls. “You're my Ookie Ookie Cookie.”

Her dark partner croons in lowest bass, “I'm your Ookie Ookie Cookie.”

I select a box from the cupboard, The Hexachocolator, a six sided cake with six kinds of chocolate. In bright yellow letters it proclaims, “Zero Grams Trans Fat.”

The giggling pie slides down the side of the bowl, and shouts to the world, “Kooky Cookies are part of a nutritious breakfast,” and splashes into the milk.

Crack two eggs. Use olive oil not grease. The box says one cup, but use half. One cup, that's crazy. Beat the mix with wooden spoon.

The “real” children, one fifth as cartoonish, bang their silver to the musical and chant, “Ookie Ookie Cookie!”

How many impressionable minds watch this whorescrappening? “Ookie ookie cookie!”

A woman's voice says, “Capsulsgrave Confections are made by mothers, for mothers.”

The Pie Girl squeaks the last word, “For the love of food.” The commercial is over. The volume drops to inaudible. We now continue with our regular programming.

Pour batter into stainless steel bowl. Bake at 375.

Go upstairs. Barry is on his bed, so fat he struggles not to roll off. I feel skinny by comparison, lithe and fierce, like a tiger.

Lie on my bed. Open the logic puzzle magazine. Draw chart in bent spiral pad, low on blue ink, which makes solving puzzle too easy. Bored. Get up.

What can I say to Barry? Good luck with your operation? He's so fat, they have to cut his legs off at the knees. He's going to be in a wheelchair. I will not end up like him. I will eat normal portions. It's not that hard. Work out an hour a day. No seconds.

Get off bed. “Good luck with your operation.”

He says “Thank you,” between breaths, oxygen hose in nostril.

Look down at my coat at the bottom of the winding banister. Burt is in my pocket stealing a cigarette.

Go to office and tell Diane, perfect face and body, no chance she would ever want me. Staff can't date residents, but even if they could, she wouldn't. Her baby doll eyes, button nose, and puckering lips tell me, “Official West House policy is not to leave things out.”

Sit on couch in TV-room to fill out an application for the Office of Disabled Services, so I can go to school.

Pat sits on the other couch with blond French poodle hair, and smokes, every so often turning her head to the side and back, like a chicken.

Oh boy, here we go: ETHNIC GROUP. They don't even ask name first. Two boxes--one for white, one for black. Draw my own box, up and to the left, and check it.

Pat snores. Cigarette in mouth burning.




“Huh? What?

“Your cigarette.”

“Thank you.” She taps off the ash, turns her head, and puffs.

Second question-Age. Write fast and legible, 40.