COLDEN, NY-
The New York City Marathon’s coming up November 1st. I ran NY in 2002 and 2003 and so I thought I’d post my 2002 marathon piece today, and my 2003 one in a few days. I’m a 5+ hour marathoner now, but vanity (or pride?) compels me to say that I used to be a decent runner. I ran 20 marathons, some ultras and a lot of short stuff.
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HOLLYWOOD, CA-
It started in childhood, of course. Everything does.
The year: 1987.
The film: THE PRINCESS BRIDE.
Starring: Cary Elwes…and his steamy British accent.
Oh that melodious accent. It was scintillating. It was fatal. It was official: I was obsessed. From that moment on, I’ve considered myself an accent connoisseur (pronounced with the proper French intonation which evokes thoughts of sweet nothings whispered in a darkened chateau whilst clutching Bordeaux in vintage stemware). I love accents both thick and light, both guttural and pleasant-sounding. European, Australian, even Southern. Accents are music to my ears.
NEW PALTZ, N.Y. —
“You win some, you lose some, and some get rained out—but you have to dress for all of ‘em.” —Satchell Paige
I remember the moment when I decided, quite deliberately, to care about baseball.
I was maybe twelve years old, I was at my grandparents’ house, and I was seized by a sudden need to avail myself of the bathroom. Then as now, I hate it when I have to do Number Two and there’s nothing to read. So I grabbed the only printed matter in the house that looked remotely appealing—the sports section of the Morristown (N.J.) Daily Record—and barricaded myself in the can.
AUSTIN, TX-
What does it mean to be literate? That one’s pretty easy; it means you know how to read. What does it mean to be cultural? That one’s a little tougher; it means you know that in most situations, it’s unacceptable to put your cigarette out on a dachshund. And so what does it mean to be “culturally literate?” Many have posed this question (Harold Bloom, the Yale professor currently encased in acrylic and preserved for posterity does it a lot.), yet no one has truly come to terms with an accurate answer. My uncle Seamus once remarked that “cultural literacy is for homosexuals,” but he was urinating in a koi pond at the time, so who knows? I suggest we journey together to see if we can’t get to the core of this labyrinthine dilemma. Perhaps the most logical first step is learning how to read (I’ll wait for a few minutes)… Sweet. Our next step is to determine what exactly is “cultural.” Below are a few undeniably cultural items in the realm of architecture, literature and music. Let’s familiarize ourselves with these things, and then we can begin to get a handhold on what it means to be culturally literate. (more…)
BROOKVILLE, OH
Summer ‘08
“Sleep yourself tight.” –Alice Tobin
“Hey Jim, this headstone says W. A. Goner. That’s funny.” –AT, to Jim Tobin while walking through a cemetery. The headstone actually read “WAGONER”.
“I deserve a paper plate that’s as strong as I am.” Paper plate commercial
“I’m a connoisseur of my own taste”.— AT
“Next thing we’re gonna get is a miniature one of these that has the attitude of a rabid lion.” –Overweight, overly-friendly 50-year-old man talking to a young woman in reference to the chihuahua she’s petting on her lap, which was clearly already pretty miniature, at O’Hare airport, Terminal G, gateG1A. The woman smiled flatly in response, and then, after a second the man added, “Ah-heh-heh”, somewhat nervously.
WILMINGTON, DE -
By happenstance or predilection, I am generally surrounded by people who embrace change with the enthusiasm of a koala hugging a porcupine. For example, my parents stayed on the same floor of the same hotel every winter in Boca Raton for more than a decade before moving there from Great Neck. And for the past ten years, they’ve stayed in the same hotel in Great Neck every summer when they’re not in Boca. (more…)
PHILADELPHIA, PA -
There’s a serious problem in this country and, for the life of me, I don’t know why we aren’t doing something about it. Where is the news coverage? Where is the media outcry? Where is Al Sharpton? Well I, for one, have had enough! No longer will I sit in silence and watch as this miscarriage of justice continues! It’s time to take a stand! It’s time to fight!
IT’S TIME TO BAN TAPAS!
SEATTLE, WA-
Historians assuredly will view this epoch and, among other things, conclude we fussed and churned way too much over pubic hair.
We elected a president, not Santa Claus. We’re not going to get everything we want in the first three fourths of the first year of the first term.
While I know otherwise, I prefer to think ships float by magic: the water displacement theory strikes me as kind of sketchy.
Ladies, we’re nearly 52% of the population. Perhaps more of us could act accordingly?
Also, might a tiny but attention-grabbing portion of us stop writing to and marrying serial killers?
And fellas, might a tiny but attention-grabbing portion of you stop serial killing?
Is anything more resplendent than a lilac tree in spring?
Nutella, while medicinal, is extremely potent and should be handled as such: the combination of spoon and jar seems to hurl one into a time lapse and next thing you know, your evening is shot to hell and your shirt looks like an eight year-old’s.
NASHVILLE, TN -
I was waiting for him to come home. I didn’t know his name, but he lived next door to me in 3B. I hated him.
It wasn’t an uncommon thing to have a bad neighbor in a city like New York. If you were a poor student like me living in the pre-yuppified East Village in the early 90s, you considered yourself lucky if you weren’t stabbed or pissed on from the apartment to the corner deli. So, if you were living next to a serial killer, you just learned to look the other way. I didn’t care whose severed head was in the refrigerator as long as it wasn’t mine.
AUSTIN, TX-
They tell me you should write about what you know. I’ve always had a problem with that. I may know some things other people don’t, but in writing that down, what good does that do me? Not much. I already know it. I want to write about things I don’t know about. I want to learn things about what I don’t think, how people I don’t know don’t act and why. Perhaps I say this because I don’t know much. I know a lot of facts about arcane things, but I already know them and I already know that nobody, unless they are short of Trivial Pursuit cards, wants to hear that kind of bilge. However, I don’t know one thing that I think will serve me well in my writing career: I don’t know how to write.
SEATTLE, WA-
The Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, I covered Hot for Teacher Night at a craptastic sports bar in Seattle’s historic Pioneer Square district for sexual anthropologist, Susie Bright (Esquire, Rolling Stone, Salon), of whom I’ve long been an admirer.
Said night featured the infamous Mary Kay Letourneau and Vili Fualaau and its announcement received nationwide attention. Bright and I are Facebook friends and she asked if any of her Seattle compadres would be willing to attend and report for her blog; I tossed my hat in the ring and was one of two she chose.
CHICAGO-
Recently I visited a friend staying at the Four Seasons Chicago. This was a new experience for me. I usually stay at hotels where “room service” is code for “vending machine.” Among the things you can have sent to your room, free of charge, at the Four Seasons are: a humidifier, a thermometer, the bellhop (shaven and bound), and a loaner swimming suit. This last item intrigued me. I imagined the concierge forcing a lifeguard to strip so I could go swimming.
When the swimsuit arrived, I was disappointed to discover it was just a pair of men’s trunks in my size. Apparently, someone expected me to actually go swimming.
OTTAWA, ONTARIO -
Dear Jameson,
I know this going to be as hard for you to read as it is for me to write. You really are amazing. You were there for me right after I went through my break up without questioning anything. You said you loved me no matter what I had been through. Even though I didn’t want to jump right into another relationship, I thought it might be cool to hang out with you every once in a while. I mean, let’s admit it, I’ve liked you for a long time.
HOUSTON, TX-
Pierre Bayard’s ode to philistinism, Comment Parler des Livres que l’on n’a pas Lus, or How to Talk About Books That You Haven’t Read is a unique experience. Upon completion of Bayard’s work (one wonders if Bayard himself ever read his own book), I found myself first outraged, then confused, and finally, a little constipated. I thought to myself, “How does this boorish Frenchman claim that a perfunctory flip-through of Anna Karenina should suffice for an understanding of St. Petersburg’s high society during that time—or Jasper, Missouri’s, home to the Double Deuce for that matter?” Can this Bayard be serious? Can we really talk—intelligently—about books we’ve never read?
NEW PALTZ, N.Y.-
Today is the official release date of Totally Killer, my first novel.
That’s what my oh-so-brief bio leads you to believe, anyway. “This is his first novel,” it says, as if I’d suddenly decided, after floundering about for the first thirty-five years of my life, to bang out a book, and a few months later, voilà.
As Hemingway concluded in his first novel, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?” (more…)
BEND, OR-
I have learned many things over the past few months of book touring. Number one, grabbing a book-buying audience’s attention in the summer months is like convincing me that Dan Brown, or Stephen King, is a good writer. Number two, if you read in a venue where they make maple-bacon doughnuts, they will come. Number three, there is no other bookstore like Powell’s City of Books in Portland, Oregon. (more…)
MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA-
I stopped into Los Angeles recently; I wanted to get a new guitar strap and there was also this minor literary thing that I figured I could go to while I was there. It was a good trip, and one that I will cheerfully blog about at some length. There are some stories that must be told, and moments that I fear will haunt me forever unless I sobbingly confess them to the internet at large. Like the point over dinner when I suddenly realised that the twinkle in Brad Listi’s eye wasn’t pleasantly welcoming bonhomie at all, but rather a deep and unforgiving madness (the two look remarkably similar). Or the time I first heard Greg Olear’s voice, and I knew in my bones that terror had a new favourite uncle. Even now, I can’t close my eyes without seeing Rachel Pollon laugh and laugh and tie Ben Loory to a railroad track (the story of how he survived is one of incredible heroism, skull-shattering evil, and one man’s surprisingly aerodynamic straw hat).
But these are things that will have to wait until my next post, as I have other things to say first. (more…)
WESTMINSTER, CO-
I have three back yards, as it were. My mailing address is Westminster, although my ZIP always comes up Broomfield when I sign up for stuff on the web. A few stoplights to the south and you’re in Arvada. I never imagined, during my years as a young degenerate in Denver’s Capitol Hill neighborhood, that I’d be spending time in these parts. Yet, here we are. I strike out on a beautiful, leisurely Labor Day weekend for some overdue investigation of the tavern life in two of my backyards.
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LOS ANGELES, CA-
I didn’t mean for it to end up this way. I really didn’t want to be standing at a rather nice wedding reception, glass of semi-expensive white wine in one hand, and napkin full of half-chewed, hastily spit out stuffed mushroom in the other. Sure, I knew my friends, the now-hitched earthy couple, erred on the side of unconventional and wanted their wedding to reflect that as well. It was taking place in what used to be the old Ojai Jail, a cluster of tiny, ramshackle cabins in the mountains above Santa Barbara. And yet, in the middle of this somewhat rugged mountain setting, my friends had imported stunning orchid arrangements, enough wine to baptize the whole city of Santa Barbara, and (my personal favorite) a wicked cheese platter.
There were even waiters gliding around, passing out tiny, delicious treatsies on trays. And after hurriedly hauling myself to Santa Barbara, surviving the van ride up the mountain with a driver who may have very well had one eye closed, and quickly pounding two (okay, three) glasses of the aforementioned very nice wine, I was starving. Add to the mix that fact that my ex-boyfriend and his new ladyfriend were not only in attendance but also in very close physical proximity, and you could maybe see how the wine would be priority Number One, followed by food.
SAN FRANCISCO-
I’ve been thinking a lot about book titles lately. My first published book (not the first book I’d written, but the first I’d sold), Calling Crow, had originally been titled by me as Cacique. Envisioned as a historical thriller, ala Clavell’s Shogun, I put a lot of thought into the title.
