Word on the street is that the new issue of UR Chicago is out. And same as I've done every month for more than a year, UR gives me a page and I give them three piping-hot and fresh book reviews.
One of my reviews in this month's issue is for Boneyard by Michelle Gagnon and goes a little something like this:
Romance and mystery novels are the death and taxes of books. Memoirs, DIY and historical fiction may come and go, but romance and mystery novels will always be there. That being said, it's the over saturation of those two genres that makes the true quality examples in their respective classes hard to find. When I received Boneyard in the mail, staring up at me with its cover depicting a murky mass grave, I couldn't help but roll my eyes. A serial killer mystery. Wonderful. But Boneyard more than pleasantly surprised me, its cut-to-the-chase style winning me in ways I hadn't expected. By page 26 I had already guessed who the killer was (the charming, helpful bystander, but of course), but I quickly realized that author Michelle Gagnon had a few more tricks up her sleeve to keep things interesting, and that the novel wasn't meant to be a reader-trying-to-figure-it-out mystery. Boneyard follows the style of Columbo, allowing the reader to sit back and watch how things unfurl, enjoying when and how the cops will figure out what we already know. As with most mystery novels, a few of the characters were two dimensional (The sassy, middle-aged gay art dealer? Really?), but the fast paced and engaging narrative more than makes up for the novel's shortcomings, and ultimately will keep the reader from straying.
Last night I received a message on Goodreads from Michelle wanting to add me as a friend, and I happily sent her a copy of the review I had written. She wrote back:
Love it, thanks! And lol re: art dealer. I know, I know...had more development on him in an earlier draft, but my editor actually axed it. This is great, though, will definitely be excerpting it.
See, why can't more authors be like Gagnon? But nooooo, I get flack like the 'buy me a drink' episode. Sheesh!
Because I live in an area of Chicago populated by cabs and trains and buses (oh my!) I don't own a car. I haven't owned one in about seven years. Subsequently, there are certain things I'll never have to worry about.
I've been sitting in front of a blank screen for 15 minutes, unable to come up with anything to blog about today.
Hemmingway called the blank page "The White Bull". I'm unsure whether this is in reference to an animal (should I imagine my MacBook with horns?) or bullshit. As in, "This writer's block is bullshit!"
Really, the only thing that keeps popping into my head is that part in The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing when Jane has to write something funny on her just-married friends' car windows with shaving cream, but can't seem to come up with anything.
"I don't spray a word. I hold my shaving cream poised but nothing comes out. I say that I'm blocked.
Robert, tying cans to the bumper, says, 'Just pretend you're spraying in your journal.' "
When I was sixteen I got a job at Barnes & Noble (see photo below).
When I started they were just beginning to phase out the shopping bags with stipple illustrations of famous authors. Why?! I wondered to myself many days when I was stuck up at the cash registers. So they can stick people with these bland white and green bags advertising our new website?! (Yes, barnesandnoble.com was new then.)
Many moons have passed and I've gotten over it. But then last night, walking home, something in the window of the Barnes & Noble on Diversey caught my eye. "TheressomethinginthewindowthatIhavetotakeapictureofwithmyphoneI'llcallyourightback," I spat out at the Metallurgist, whom I was talking with on the phone, and quickly hung up. Why? Because I had to take a camera phone picture of this:
Oh stipple illustration bag, it's good to see you again. Even if it is an illustration of someone who isn't really an author.
The scene: My niece and nephew are in town, and the other night I babysat for them.
Act I: Story Time
Before bed I'm supposed to read them a story. They're staying with my brother, and I scan over his enormous bookshelves for several minutes, looking for something suitable for kids. The Big Gay Book of Fiction? No. Between Men: Best New Gay Fiction No. Men on Men 2001? No. Finally I find Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shell Silverstein. We read about Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout who would not take the garbage out; We read about a dentist pulling crocodile teeth; We read about a king who loves peanut butter sandwiches. The kids, sitting on either side of me in bed, lap it up.
Act II: Music
The kids usually listen to music while they're falling asleep. "Did you bring any music with you?" I ask. Emma, who is four, jumps out of bed and starts rummaging through her suitcase. After a minute it's clear that they did not. "I have an idea," I say and go to grab my MacBook. "What kind of music do you usually listen to?" I ask. Bedtime music, they say. Lullaby-y. I scroll through my iTunes, seeing what I can do. I put on some mellow and soulful Jeff Buckley. "What about this?" I ask. Christopher isn't having it. Next I find some Ray LaMontagne. Christopher is fine with it but Emma doesn't like it. This goes on for a while until somehow we all agree on The Sundays. I lay in the darkness with two little people, listening to "When I'm Thinking About You".
Act III: Later
Christopher passes out right away but Emma isn't taking the bait. "You're not going to fall asleep, are you?" I ask. She shakes her head, no. We start whispering the alphabet game to each other. "A for alligator," I say. "B for..." she's stuck. "Bear?" I offer. She nods. This goes on for a while but she still isn't tired. The Sundays end on my iTunes and Sunshine Anderson comes on - not exactly bedtime music. "Well if we're going to be up let's get out of here so we don't wake up your brother," I say.
Out in the living room I read some more Shell Silverstein to her, hoping she'll get tired. No luck. I just kind of stare at her, waiting for her eyelids to start drooping, but I get no sign that that's going to happen. After a few more minutes I text the Metallurgist. "How do you get kids to fall asleep?" I ask. "How should I know?" she responds. "Put on the news?"
I put on MSNBC and Conversations with Michael Eisner is on; this is a sleep aid if I've ever seen one. Eisner is interviewing Carly Simon and Emma and I sit and watch for a few minutes while Simon talks about her and James Taylor. "So that guy used to run Disney," I say to Emma, giving her something to understand. "What happened?" she asks. "Well he was doing a bad job, so they kicked him out." She nods in understanding. "And that woman used to be a famous singer in the 70's and 80's which, well, is probably way beyond your comprehension."
Presumably thinking about Carly Simon, Emma asks "Who is the worst music maker?" I'm unsure that I understand the question, and she repeats, "Who is the worst music maker?" I think for a second. "A lot of people don't like Michael Bolton," I say. "What about you? Who do you think is the worst music maker?" "Michael Bolton," she says.
Good thing I stayed clear of his music when I was trying to put her to bed earlier.
The other day Byron sold a chair on Craigslist. The woman had arranged to pick it up Monday evening but Byron had other plans at that time so I was given the duty of overseeing the chair transaction.
"The woman's name is Debbie and she'll be here at six," Byron tells me before the fact, the same way a parent tells a babysitter, Emergency numbers are on the fridge! His bedtime is eight! as they're heading out the door.
Just after six I get a phone call from Debbie saying she's around the corner, and I offer to bring the chair out to the street. The chair has a bold, dark turquoise body with shiny metal legs; it's very modern and it easily fits Byron's ethos.
As I reach to the sidewalk an oversize black SUV pulls up and honks at me, two figures waving at me through the tinted windows. The woman who gets out is easily over six feet tall and slender, an update on the 50's housewife with her short blond bob and her long flowing dress and heels. Her husband, stepping out of the drivers side, is wearing a baseball cap and golf clothing, right down to the golf shoes most take off when they step off the green. They're both in their forties.
I stare at these people, stepping out of their poster of domestic upper-middle class luxury, and suddenly I feel scared for Byron's chair. Its entire life it has been with Byron, a hip young graphic designer. During small parties at his apartment people have probably sat in the chair, drinking wine and sharing a story. It has most likely been sat in on Saturday mornings while Byron is nursing a hangover and surfing the internet. I think I even used the chair to stand on when I helped Byron paint his bedroom and couldn't reach the ceiling trim. And now, this evening, I'm handing it off to this couple who will no doubt take good care of the chair, but will give it an entirely different existence.
"This looks brand new," Debbie coos as I stand on the curb, holding it by the back and legs. I imagine the chair's new life, in a giant house, among other modern pieces the couple has acquired (people like that don't buy furniture, they acquire it). It will never be sat in during a party because there aren't any other chairs, and it will surely never be stood on while painting. It will probably sit in front of a desk somewhere, in a home office at the end of a long hallway. And all at once Golf Husband takes the chair out of my arms, puts it in the back of their SUV and I'm handed the money they owe Byron. A smile, a wave, and they pull off as I stand on the curb.
So long Byron's chair. I hope you like your new life.
For today's Photo Essay Tuesday I dug deep into the archives and found an old picture of Byron and I.
Byron and I were clowning around after one of his 2nd Story shows - Byron posing like Tyra and me doing his visual PR. Only the more I stared at the photo I the more I kept thinking, "Why does this look so familiar?"
Sheridan road - between Belmont and Diversey - is kind of like a canyon.
On the east side of the street sit sky scraping condos made of steel and glass and reeking of the 60's and 70's. If you go a block further east you hit Lake Michigan, and these tall and tacky buildings form a kind of barrier, insulating this part of the neighborhood from the lake. On the west side of the street sit older apartments. Ancient stone buildings with copper awnings and ornate carvings; they're doorman buildings and some have bay windows.
Walking north today I approach the corner of of Sheridan and Barry. On the northwest corner sits a twelve-story stone giant simply called The Barry. Built in 1925, it's an old, regal high rise.
Sitting in front of the building are two girls, no older than ten. In front of them are a table, a pitcher and a sign.
"Lemonade! $1.00!"
I nod politely at them as I walk past and they nod back. Summer in Chicago has finally arrived.
For years I've talked about Atmos and Vega, my two semi-adopted dogs. And while Atmos and Vega will always be there, lately there's been a new dog in my life. His name is Murphy.
This video was sent to me by his owner, whose name escapes me at the moment.
Personally I like to think that when he does this he's telling the ambulance about a secret shortcut.
Some of you may remember my video review last week where I reviewed 8 books in 3 minutes. One of those books was Nixonland, by Rick Perlstein.
This morning, in my email inbox, was an email with the name Perlstein in the sender's address. The message?
Subject: "Dance, NIXONLAND! Dance!"
Date: June 19, 2008 3:28:57 AM CDT
To: joshua@joshuaeisenberg.com
Fun podcast. :-)
RP
Seriously? A man who has a book on several #1 lists on Amazon.com saw my video review where I'm gulping down Pop Rocks while singing circus music while reviewing his book?
I immediately forwarded the email to my editor at UR Chicago, Kim. She wrote back, " I like that an established reporter/political writer used a happy face in an e-mail."
Over the years I've had many, many jobs. And to celebrate Bring Your Blog Readership to Work Day I thought I'd share some of those jobs with you.
Back in the 80's I worked on Wall Street for a while. I drove a hard bargain, but sadly after my third heart attack I had to quit.
After that I moved to Seattle and became a barista. I could sling a mean cuppa joe. No, seriously. I'd throw cups of coffee at customers. I got fired right away.
Then I tried house painting for a bit. But you know what ended up getting painted? My wallet!*
I settled on being a dog trainer after that. Above is a shot of me right before I got my face ripped off by a client. Literally.
Finally I ended up as a UPS delivery guy, and was proud that I could coin the phrase, "What can Brown do for you, sweet cheeks?"
The other day I was talking to my mom about my trip to Colorado, and the subject of my altitude sickness came up.
Me: It actually made me feel kinda sick.
Mom: Well maybe if you were a little taller that kind of thing wouldn't happen.
Me: Yeah, that's enough. I've got to go.
Because first and foremost I'm going to assume that the Free Celebrity Toolbar knows the innermost thoughts of...I'm gonna say Hillary Beck. That sounds like a celebrity, right? No, seriously, who is that woman?
If only I could read her innermost thought via toolbar.
While getting tea yesterday at my new favorite coffee shop on Clark I noticed a book: The Maxwell House Coffee Cookbook.
The book was published in 1964, and basically all it has is recipes of things with coffee in them. But not normal things like coffee cake or, oh, I don't know, coffee brownies maybe. No, it has beef stroganoff with coffee in it. From the recipe: "Meanwhile, add instant coffee, 1/2 cup water and 1 teaspoon of salt to the meat." Mmm!!!
Other meals that Maxwell House seemed to believe would be better if instant coffee were added to them?
- Coffee Glazed Ham Slice
- Roast Lamb with Coffee Gravy
- Shrimp Tempura with Coffee Sweet-Sour Sauce
Dear god I wish I was making this up.
...And because I love you people, I went the extra mile and found The Maxwell House Coffee Cookbook on Amazon. I'm sure if you order now you can still get it in time for Father's Day and let your dad know how much you dislike him.
UR Book Smarts is back. And to catch us up right quick I reviews 8 books in 3 minutes. If I knew math I could tell you how many books per minute that boils down to, but I don't know math. That's why I'm a writer.
Well now I've started a new one: YourFaceIsStupid.com. Mostly this began out of disbelief that no one had taken the name yet. "It's such a great domain!" I thought to myself. So I bought it. But then, what to do with it?
So I've started accepting pictures of people's stupid faces and posting them.
Below is just a sample of some of the beautiful mugs you'll find by visiting YourFaceIsStupid.com:
And just how can you get involved? Just email your photo to submit@yourfaceisstupid.com and sit back to enjoy the benefits. And by 'benefits' I mean 'ridicule from your friends'. Sorry, sometimes my English doesn't translate too well.
About a month ago I did some web-type work on Librarian Girl's blog. Her friend did the header, I did the rest, and everyone else lived happily ever after.
LG insisted on paying me, but I refused to let her do any such thing. So the other day I got this email:
"Watch for a bottle of wine in your mail soon. I normally wouldn't announce the gift-giving ahead of time since that's kind of weird, but there wasn't really a spot for me on the order form to send you a card along with it, so I didn't want you to receive a mysterious bottle of wine and not know that it was from me."
Sweet, no? It might have been sweeter if I hadn't received a second email a few minutes later.
"Ok, this is the most-prefaced gift ever given, but I have to say one more thing.
The dude on the phone when I ordered the wine (it's from a local vineyard outside Seattle) didn't write your name down right. I just got my receipt...for delivery to JOEL Eisenberg.
Now it's going to look like I don't even know YOUR NAME. Not true! Not true!
I never cease to get myself into embarrassing situations.
Have a great day, Joel."
Oh LG. As long as I get my booze, you can call me whatever you want.
Well even after I had canceled my cable I still had my TV just sitting there.
So the past weekend I finally thought, It's just taking up space now. I should get it out of of here.
So I did. And what's taking its place?
That's right, I'm taking a huge step backward. Not only will I not be able to sit back and watch something, I'll have to write my own something. On a typewriter.
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