06 Feb 2008, Written by G.M. Levinson in literary, tech, 1 Comments

Origins of Our Communication: Mister Quickly, Amazon Epicurean

Since March of 2002, Mister Quickly has been posting concise, authoritative, and singular reviews of products sold on Amazon.com. His satirical and oftentimes hilarious work has earned him an unwieldy Internet cult status (Mister Quickly is cited in countless blogs, most recently Metafilter has opened discussion on this technocratic epicurean). At the time of this publication, he has posted only 79 reviews that range from the Ableware Anus Stimulator (“a true rarity in this vulgar functionalist age of uninspiring anus stimulators”) to Bonnie Gross’ Caring for Your Miniature Donkey: Second Edition (“I’m only thankful that this wonderful edition has helped me prolong the life expectancy of my current miniature donkey, Gerhardt.”).

What makes this cosmopolitan so discerning within the global marketplace?

“I select what to review the same way I choose whether or not I will wear my Etruscan cape: margaritomancy,” he explains. “I take a pearl and place it in a bowl of macadamia oil. I spend a few moments listening to Bruce Hornsby or Wilhelm Friedemann Bach, and thus relaxed the pearl begins to broadcast essential truths from Shakti, or as I call her, My Lady Soul. When it’s over I will retrieve the pearl by sucking it out with a straw. If anyone is uncomfortable with this method – and you will swallow the first 5 or 6 until you perfect it, or choose thinner straws – I recommend drinking the oil, then picking up the pearl. Do not pinch it too energetically, or it will greasily project across the room and chip your porcelains.”

Though he has declined several honorary degrees, Mister Quickly holds a BA in Egyptology from the Asia Theological Association and an MA in Rhetoric from the Distance Learning Council of Europe. He now divides his time between hotels across North America while periodically returning to the family home in Victoria, BC Canada “to cook and relax.” In this special installment of The Origins of Our Communication, Mister Quickly took time from his quest for “the perfect flavour to firmly establish the luscious hydrozoa’s clumsy hold in the culinary world” to talk to us about the Internet and the remarkable relationship that brought him here:
I was first introduced to the internet as a penpal of actor James Coburn. We were acquainted through a service that coordinated penpals by interest. I signed up based upon my love of porcelain as an unexplored artistic medium, eager to find soulmates who were as inspired by its potential. I was assigned James Coburn, and a heartfelt correspondence quickly luxuriated. Each letter James wrote would be signed in elegant calligraphic curls “Cobu”, accompanied by five mustard seeds, a sliver of licorice root, and a dried butterfly wing. Often he would send me carvings he had made in soapstone of his spirit animal, the otter. He had immaculate style.

After some time our correspondence had moved from porcelain onto film. Cobu, as close friends would call him, told me he was interested in adapting one of the classic board games for film. Adept at recognizing talent, Cobu knew I had the lyricism and intelligence to guide such a transformation, from board game to cinematic marvel. We began with Snakes and Ladders, for which I developed a treatment involving a richly imagined fantasy world not unlike Willow, but with ladders. Stirred by its artistry, Cobu asked me what I could come up with for other board games. He added the cryptic line “Do you have ICQ? We should continue over ICQ.” I was in the process of envisioning a treatment for Connect Four, with a sort of Logan’s Run meets Gene Roddenberry’s Earth: Final Conflict feel, but in a world where everything is stacked vertically, including sidewalks and strip malls, yet I was distracted by this statement. I assumed ICQ referred to International Comet Quarterly, a periodical I had read only 6 times. I sent two letters, one to International Comet Quarterly and the second to James Coburn. Because each letter was written with homemade cochineal ink, my forearms ached. I had manned the beetle-press all morning to extract enough writing fluid.

The next letter I received, sent in March of 2002, was written in very clumsy blank verse that regularly broke metre. Ordinarily bad metre causes me to sweat and dwell upon whether or not the subsequent itching is caused by scalp mites, but in this case I was too fascinated with the letter’s paradigm shifting content. James Coburn was describing the internet[1]. Within the next two weeks I rapidly acquainted myself with this technology, becoming as fluent in it as I am in Sanskrit. The most immediate change in life was the ability to transpose my reviews from recreation centre bulletin boards onto internet ones, though I do miss being able to scent my reviews with bergamot. But with the internet I was also able to order vast quantities of delicious lavender seeds. It felt only a matter of time before I became editor of Vanity Fair or Atlantic Monthly, positions I have since declined in spirit in order to focus on my paradoxical novel, Transparent Opacity: The Daytime of Afternoon Night[2].

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[1] The internet and its ability to send scanned photographs strengthened my relation with James, but the million dollar question is whether or not the internet itself had a positive or negative influence on the actor. Most believe the internet weakened James, as he died in November 2002. I still believe it could have strengthened him had he ordered from Ebay an orgone pyramid sooner than he did. I’m glad he found peace though, a final security against the shadow men he feared. I made sure when buried he was shrouded beneath his moon cape, clenching a shadow knife.

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[2] Transparent Opacity explores a concept so difficult to explain without using hand gestures I may be unable to write the book. And by the conventional, inaccurate means of recording time, I have been composing TO for three weeks. Yet, this could really be as many as 24 months, or as few as 3 hours. The disorienting reality revealed to us by the Phantom Time Hypothesis is chilling. Will I ever finish the book? An unfinished book is a companion. Giving him a form feels exactly the same as giving an affable but misshapen friend too many muscle relaxants. He becomes unnaturally flexible and I fold him away inside a trunk and padlock it. I have 32 other books I’m currently writing to suspend completion of Transparent Opacity. A few selections include; “Letters to Sree Albatap”; a biography of Bonar Law written in Grenadian Creole; a book of sonnets based upon Pink Floyd’s Division Bell; and a scathing polemic warning the EU against banning Brazilian beef, written from the point of view of a lake. They will all be completed in May 2008.
To read Mister Quickly’s reviews, click here.

Previously in The Origins of Our Communication series.

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G.M. Levinson is the reviews editor for Make: A Chicago Literary Magazine and the guy behind the Book Bike, which you can read all about at Something To Read. As a producer, Gabe created The John & Bill Show (2007) and organized the test screening of Idiots & Angels. He is currently working on An Evening with Don Hertzfeldt.

View all articles by G.M. Levinson.

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