THE FUTURIST by James P. Othmer

I won't lie: I'm still not quite sure what this book is about. Would it sound condescending if I said that was a compliment? James doesn't so much construct the plot as "chew on it and spit it out," as Stewie Griffin once said. When I was done, it felt sort of like waking up in Vegas: Something about the Greelandic mafia, and a South African prostitute, and government-like agents in black suits, and surfing in Fiji. Or something. The only thing for sure after a night like this is that IT WAS A AWWWESSSOMMMMMMMEEEEEEE!



Ostensibly, the "plot," hereby properly referred to in scare quotes, centered around a futurist (someone who speculates about the future empirically, mostly for corporations interested in staying on the cutting edge) named Yates who realizes everything he says is bullshit. He then makes a speech to that effect, becomes even more famous, gets hired by two shady corporate versions of International Men of Mystery to go around the world and ask everyone why they hate America, all the while watching a space station slowly crash, then gets blackmailed by said International Men of Mystery and then saves his scheming, morally-presumptuous assistant in a fake Arab country called Ba'sar, and then...well, like Yates, I'm starting to feel like I'm bullshitting, because that's sort of all I got in the "plot" department. The main points are that Yates is a jerk who's trying to reform and, in the process of doing that, he's flying around the world gauging anti-Americanism by force of blackmail.

The rapidfire pace and surreality of the "plot" is really no accident, because Yates spends about 70% of the novel drunk on his favorite "Maker's Mark" bourbon. There's a lot of passing out in hotels from Pinot in the minibars, begging Italian antiterrorism agents (who have just accused him of being part of a mini suicide attack involving a Vespa) for aspirins, and one drunk vomit into a hooker's hooters on a business retreat for a company he doesn't work for. Oh, yeah, his girlfriend Lauren breaks up with him right at the beginning, and then he meets up with her with his new love, the unlikely philosopher in the form of a South African prostitute named Marjorie. Some of it is starting to come back to me now. I'm still not quite sure how that figures in with the quatrains of Nostradamus that end up in his email (I won't give away who sent them) or the "tulip man" who's actually a spy, but I'm sure it does somehow. Othmer's writing is like watching a child try to untangle the Christmas lights on Black Friday, but, amazingly, he does it, and the effort was worth it.

At the beginning of each chapter, we get a few snippets of bizarrity courtesy of Yates' past experiences as a futurist: "He once fired a man on Take Your Daughter to Work Day"; "A recent lecture circuit saw him speak on successive days to a leading pesticide manufacturer and the Organic Farmers of America and receive standing ovations from both"; "He once was an adviser for HeresWhatIDoMom.com, a company that made videos that explained people's nebulous jobs to their confused parents." By the third one, you get the message: Yates has sold out, is telling everyone what they want to to hear; still, the blurbs are funny and a good break from the rollercoaster "plot."



There are deeper levels, if you want to dig for them, which you probably won't have the tools to do on the Carribbean beach where you'll probably be reading this (plastic shovels and lotion will be no help). In case gas prices are keeping you on your living room couch this summer, you can notice the blatant mockery of "the media." Here's a hint for all you aspiring writers out there: Hit on the media. You can't go wrong. Give your main character two email addresses, a 3G International phone (if I have to say cell, you literally won't understand a word of this book), and a feather notebook laptop that gets satellite feeds. When Yates isn't drunk or hungover, he's firing off emails or watching his satellite feed, showing a constant video of a space hotel he endorsed in disaster, with the A-list passengers slowly dying their carbon-dioxide deaths. The media's fascination with death, etc., etc.

Obvious currents of semi-anti-Americanism run through, too. The daughter of a Greenlandic mafia member gives this little tidbit of wisdom to Yates: "They [presumably, THE US GOVERNMENT] don't want to know why. They want to know what and when and where. They want to find out who feels this way and what they are going to do--not why--and then kill them. People like that want to know everything but the why." Message (for all you gas-price hostages out there): We should be asking WHY 19 Muslims flew planes into our buildings, not when it's going to happen next.

Yeah, whatever, James.

It's not a liberal dove tome, though: Othmer actually does acknowledge that the issues are more complex than the brain-devouring meme AMERICA IS EVIL. He describes Yates' fictional encounter with a fictional character from Holland: "He loves American television, particularly The Simpsons, CSI Duluth, and the reality show It's Your Funeral! But he has a big problem with McDonald's (except the fries), the city of Cleveland, and the pop star Celine Dion."

Sure, it's funny, but that pretty much sums up much of the world's attitute toward America: In other words, conflicted. It's complicated. Most things are. Including this book's storyline. That's the fun kind of complicated, though. I started a book by Don DeLillo after this one, and, trust me, I started to appreciate the glib, smooth, and slightly snarky writing of Othmer in contrast to DeLillo's (and pretty much every "fiction" writer's) mystical high-falutin vaguaries. Just in case any DeLillo readers are skimming this, wondering if they could stomach Othmer, there is one mind-bendingly complex metaphor involving The Last Supper and Yates sticking his finger in the wound of an anti-American protestor and, like doubting Thomas, starting to understand for the first time some of the reasons (the media, outrageous wealth, etc., etc.--have I said this before?) that this kid hates him.

Some parts will have you asking, "Does this REALLY happen?" Like Yates' "gig" in the newly-created country of Ba'sar (guess who created it?). The unnamed Iraq still has massive Sunni-Shia-Jihadist civil war raging in the streets, but "the media" in collusion with unnamed Halliburtons are holding a fake "expo" at the air base to try to get the world to invest money in the quickly sinking ship. Yates is driven around under heavy convoy through the city, where they prepare "sets," setting up fake Internet cafes and hydroelectric dams and getting experts to quickly endorse them before the next bomb falls. I was tempted to be skeptical, but pulled back lest my inner critic (some version of a neo-hippie, latte-sipping, tofu-wearing California Code-Pinker) call me hopelessly American and naive. Of COURSE that happens. It's hilarious when Yates describes going onto the "expo's" website and seeing "...five pages validating the credentials of the professional security force charged with keeping the expo safe. Where one page dedicated to security measures would have given Yates faint reassurance, each successive page scares that much more the living shit out of him."

I'll bet the rights to this book are already in the screenwriting process--this "plot" is PERFECT for Hollyood. There's plenty of action, lots of government coverup conspiracies, ridiculously high-tech chrome wireless devices connected everywhere, and one big old jerk (although not, of course, a jerk that can't be redeemed by internationalist reeducation) as the main character. Watch the theaters. As for the novel, it was quick and (thank GOD) the writing was excellent. It's summer--give it a shot.

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