Dave's Fiction Warehouse

T he wife and I were talking about sexual harassment a couple of weeks ago. I forget which famous person who was accused and fired that day; you lose track after awhile.  But I do remember saying, "Jeez, who's next, Garrison Keillor ?" It was a joke. I was trying to come up with a famous person, other than Pope Francis, who would seem least likely to play the horndog with his coworkers.  And now here we are. Look: Any rich, famous man who hasn't  sexually harassed an underling? If so, please step forward; it'll save time.  The rest of you: what the hell's wrong with you? Something's happening here, a wise man once said. What it is ain't exactly clear.  I think we can conclude that a great many wealthy, powerful men are swine. Probably they're swine because they're wealthy and powerful. They do it because they can. So much for the notion of being elite. We can also conclude that the women who were groped, assaulted or got an unsolicited view of ...

Dylan's dick drawing reveals a key clue W hat kind of monster would spray-paint crude penises on 27 late-model cars? “American Vandal,” my new favorite show, attacks that question with all the seriousness of its artistic forerunner, “Making a Murderer.” A crime has been committed, and two high-school filmmakers become obsessed with unearthing evidence and following it wherever it leads. It doesn’t seem to matter that one crime is sophomoric vandalism, and the other is a brutal sex murder. That’s what makes “Vandal” such a sharp satire.  Like “Making a Murderer,” there are plot twists and apparent coverups, multiple suspects and motives and seemingly endless fan theories.  Like “Murderer,” you come to realize that the proliferating genre of true-crime documentary is not about the thirst for truth, but the thirst for entertainment in the misfortune of others. The show’s protagonist, Dylan Maxwell, is a mouth-breathing lug who is exactly the sort of person who’d amuse himself by ...