acriedel

You should listen to my music... I'm going to be huge!

2009-06-02T13:39:54Z

This is for those dear friends that are planning on visiting my beloved city of New York: Have you visited before? Remember when you used to walk around Times Square, back in the days of hookers and druggies and sex shops, and three-card monte was all the rage among con artists and criminals trying to rob you of your holiday money?

The hookers and sex shops are gone, but the con artists still return to attack the gullible. Three-card monte might be gone, but now we have an influx of "undiscovered talent" ripping innocent tourists off.

Let me explain how it works: you walk around Times Square (I've seen this happen around Union Square, so be on the lookout if you plan on visiting there), take in the views and marvel at the neon billboards. All of a sudden a group of gentlemen approach you (usually two to three, sometimes just one), with an old-fashioned portable cd player and a backpack in tow. They tell you they are struggling artists who have recorded their first album on their own, with their own funds, because the record companies haven't: a) discovered them, b)have good taste, c)finished their deal yet, etc., etc. They play you a sample of their music on that portable cd player and... would you know it? The music sounds good!

They ask for a mere $5 or $10 for a copy of their cd and will even be so generous as to autograph them for you.

Since most of us have moved on to mp3 players or iPods, it is unlikely that a tourist will pop that cd into a portable cd player on the spot and catch them at their game. No, the con is not fully realized until you get home and decide to pop that cd into your computer so you can burn those tracks and download them to your mp3 player... Surprise! Your cd is empty!

So, please be aware of this con and pass this info to those friends you know will come to visit this lovely city. And by the by, if you're coming to New York, remember there is more to it than Times Square, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty or Ground Zero. Visit our lovely neighborhoods: the Lower East Side (my hood!), Hell's Kitchen (good restaurants and bars), Chinatown (eat some real Chinese food for once), Upper and West side (not that I care much for them, but...). And that's not even counting the outer boroughs.

But, consider yourself warned about the cd con.

Lost once again

2009-01-21T21:49:51Z

One of my favorite tv shows, Lost, returns tonight. I'll have a few friends over for dinner and drinks. It's time to find out what ever happened to that island and our favorite six friends and those left behind. A welcome return of quality programming to my household, especially after never-ending sessions of Cheaters, Attack of the Show! and G*d knows what else.

I like television but will take a great book over the boob-tube any day. Not that I am a fast reader, I am not. You could say that I am a writer's (and a publisher's) dream: I buy hundreds of books a year, yet read a mere 12 (that was the pathetic total of books read in 2008 for me). This year I am on track to breaking my puny reading record: I have read 2 books thus far in the month of January. I read THE OTHER by Thomas Tryon and THE TENANT by Roland Topor.

These two books were published by Millipede Press, a publisher I'm starting to admire for their reprints and quality books. The paperbacks are sturdy, hand-sewn, elegant and with loads of extra goodies. Their sister imprint, Centipede Press, publishes high-quality limited edition books that are also excellent. I've been quietly buying their catalog over time.

Today I started reading Gary Braunbeck's KEEPERS. The first four chapters are promising (it is my first time reading Mr. Braunbeck), and I hope to finish this book by the end of this week. That would bring my total of books read in January to a whopping 3! A Herculean achievement for a reader like me.

I should really offer a review of both Tryon's and Topor's books, which I enjoyed very much, but my tank is not yet full and the prospect of a very long entry doesn't whet my appetite just yet. Let's just say that they are recommended.

On Returning

2009-01-20T19:40:09Z

After a few years of inactivity on this journal, I return to dust the space, redecorate and keep the mice some company. It has been an eventful respite but we, in the end, must all come home.

For those of you who still list me as their friend, thank you. You are better friends than I have been. Most of you probably didn't even notice, but I hope you can extend a second welcome to me.

I need a few days to re-learn the mechanics of this website--the format and the look of these pages has changed dramatically since I first joined! I plan on changing the layout of this page, adding some pictures and maybe a video or two (is that even possible?).

Updating this journal feels a bit strange: in a way it's like reaching into the past. But I have changed and the past doesn't affect me the way it once did.

Onward.

Alex

1408

2007-01-22T23:10:20Z

This past Saturday I received my signed copy of Stephen King's "Secret Windows" that I purchased through the Haven Foundation Store. Pretty neat.

So, today I got an invitation to be part of the screen test audience of Stephen King's newest feature film, 1408, and was asked if I wanted to bring someone along. I told them I am bringing David, but is there someone out there, in the New York City area, that would like to come along with us? The film will be previewed on Wednesday, January 24, at 7:45 p.m. Let me know by tomorrow night.

I'm Back

2007-01-15T22:44:08Z

I will write the updates in the form of a list, considering that it has been a few months since my last entry, and I don’t have the strength to share them all in the form of a narrative:

-End of August, 2006: My mother returns to the Caribbean after a two-week visit. On the same day of her return, as I boarded the Air Train at JFK on my way back home, I got a phone call from an agent who wanted me to talk about my novel. I excused myself and asked if I could call once I got home, considering how I would be underground very soon and would be unable to hold a conversation with her. I got home and called back. I pitched my novel and she asked to see more. She was excited and I experienced everything in a sort of daze.

-7:30 p.m., October 24, 2006: David and I ride the Vespa uptown to 95th Street to Symphony Space to see Stephen King promote Lisey’s Story. We get good seats a few rows in and a Symphony Space staffer hands out a piece of paper and pencil to every audience member to jot down a question for Mr. King. She says a few questions will be chosen and answered by Mr. King. I am shocked to find out later on that my question was the second to be answered. “After seeing the connections in your work (I mistakenly referenced “IT,” when in reality the connection was in “Insomnia”) to your wife’s work, and taking into account the recent release of Mrs. King’s “Candles Burning,” a horror novel, is it possible that we will see a future collaboration between Tabitha and Stephen King?” Mr. King answered that he obviously admires his wife’s work and has thought about writing something with her in the future and will bring it up to her soon.

-Fall, 2006: David (he is featured in ‘Uncle Dick’ and ‘Coma’) and I appear in a music video (I appear in ‘Coma’) for our friend’s band Smith Island. David is campy and funny and excellent as Uncle Dick, a preacher/mailman with a dark secret (he dresses in his wife’s clothing) in this most unexpected acting turn and I bring on the creepiness factor as a evil nurse/mechanic in a woman’s coma-induced hallucination. You can find the videos here (Uncle Dick), and here (Coma) and this additional video (I think there is a flash of David or myself… maybe) here (Asylum).

-Fall 2006: After the successful completion and release of the videos mentioned above, Gabrielle Stubbert, lead singer of Smith Island, and myself, start talks about collaborating on a short feature film (she shot all the videos, and edited them with David’s help).

-December 2006: I read Ruth Reichl’s “Garlic and Sapphires: The Secret Life of a Critic in Disguise” and Kenneth J. Harvey’s “The Town That Forgot How to Breathe.” I enjoy Reichl’s book, but it is Harvey’s book that stand out. This Canadian author is talented and unique and I am glad to have discovered this book. To be honest, it was the cover to the softcover edition that got my attention, and I was not disappointed. A father brings his young daughter to vacation in his hometown, Bareneed, a fishing town in Newfoundland. Strange creatures, such as fishes of impossible colors, albino sharks, and even a mermaid, surface in the waters of the town, followed by the corpses of those lost at sea throughout the town’s history. As these events unfold an epidemic strikes the townsfolk: they simply forget how to breathe and, as a consequence, begin to die. One of the themes that Harvey explores in his novel is the noxious effect of technology in the essence of a town and its inhabitants and I consider he developed this theme with care and aptitude. He is a great writer, no doubt, and because I was so pleased with this book, I have started to seek out his library.

-December 31, 2006: We spend New Year’s Eve at Gabrielle and Peter’s (her husband) house in Tribeca.

-Friday, January 12, 2006: My copy of Poppy Z. Brite’s “D.U.C.K.” and “Liquor for Christmas” arrives.

-Today, January 15, 2006: I manage to be one of the few people who gets a signed copy of Stephen King’s “Secret Windows: Essays on the Craft of Writing” through the Haven Foundation Website. The site claims the book was sold out within two minutes. I feel very lucky.

It’s been a year since my last vacation and I’m starting to feel wanderlust creep into my soul. David mentioned something about going to New Orleans next month, considering how travel and lodging in New Orleans is so cheap after Hurricane Katrina, and we’re looking into it right now. We are committed to doing our part by bringing our money to New Orleans and supporting a city that has been neglected by the rest of the country. Let me just say that I think it’s embarrassing how this country has not demanded that the levees are rebuilt (and paid for by the government). I hope that something, anything, is done before yet another hurricane season arrives and more lives are at stake. I don’t want to pay for a war in Iraq. I’d rather send my tax money to Louisiana.

It’s been a mild winter so far in New York City. I have yet to see a flake of snow. Thankfully.

A Message from The Beyond

2006-08-30T15:33:51Z

I reach through the veil to let you know I haven't disappeared altogether. I haven't had the urge or need to update this journal for most of this year and the reason escapes me. What can I say? Sometimes I think it's all due to that change we human beings are said to live through every 7 years or so. It must be a lie but, according to this rumor, after 7 years we are intrinsically different. Much like seven days equal a week, seven years equal a stage of life. It goes something like that, anyway.

The changes I have lived through in the last seven years are so numerous I could not recount them here. Hey, all I have to say is that I am not in my twenties anymore. That should tell you plenty.

In the last few years (I guess since late 2002--read back to the first entry and see what I mean) I went from a separation, a divorce, some shocking scares, the loss of almost all the friends I once had, and a crippling case of writer's block, to a kind of rebirth. If you've known me for a while (and it seems to me that most of the people in my life right now don't really know me prior to 2002--and odd and almost disconnecting feeling) you know that I tend to draw inward. In those moments of reflection I tend to worry about everything: why am I feeling sad? Why can't I get motivated? Why can't I just enjoy this beer and stop feeling like a loser? Why do I always feel like an ill wind is about to blow? Oh, I'm not so obtuse not to see that there are plenty of skeletons thumping around in the old gray-haired bean. Maybe this is all growing pains and soon it'll all be a thing of the past. The thing that keeps me most intrigued is that I feel so different. It's a good thing, I am sure.

Part of the reason why this change is so difficult for me is that I can't seem to relate with most of the things that drove me in the past. Consolidating the two personalities, the likes and dislikes, is what feels so disconnecting. How can I be the same person yet feel so different from someone who was obviously me? It almost feels like a paradox of sorts. But it's life. It's the normal effect that growing older has on us.

This all serves to say that I can't explain why I haven't written in so long. I can't say that it is because I didn't feel like it, because I wanted to. I just couldn't bring myself to care. Yet, great things happened in the last few months. I am now a permanent resident of the United States of America, with a 10-year green card in my possession. I had my last interview and it lasted all of 5 minutes. Most of you know this already since I emailed you about it in June, when it happened. One of the longest shadows in my life cleared on June 26, 2006. To think that after so many years of constant worry and dread it would all end on a drizzly day, well... it seemed so small compared to what I expected.

With that battle behind me I started to focus on my goals. What was next for me? I had a novel languishing in a drawer because I couldn't bring myself to care enough to finish it, even though I thought and tortured myself about it every day. I happen to be a decent cook and all of a sudden I was looking at the New School's student catalog for some classes, since I thought I would enjoy learning to master the kitchen. The world and plenty of possibilities were before me and I couldn't come up with a clear answer. It forced me to relax a bit, not to force the eventual, and I guess I took the time to contemplate. Do I know what I want to do now? Maybe a little better but it's not very clear yet.

Right now I am back to work on my novel. I didn't expect to get back to it so soon, but something unexpected happened last Monday and now I am rushing to complete it. I can't say much about what happened last week, but when the moment comes I will share it with you.

At the moment I am slogging through Boccaccio's The Decameron. It's easier to read than I expected it to be, yet at 800 pages it is much too long. The print is minuscule and the stories presented get to be a bit repetitive. The idea is simple: a group of ten young men and women escape the Plague-infested city of Florence to a mountain retreat to partake in storytelling and "merriment." They decide to while the days away telling each other stories heavy with moral and sexual lessons. Each person tells a story for the length of the ten days that they remain sequestered in the castle they have claimed (apparently, its owners have succumbed to the Plague). The book is divided into ten sections, one for each day, and each section is divided in ten stories, for each story told by each person. Since there is little plot outside of each story, the book tends to feel like a collection of cautionary tales or morality plays. Somehow, the book feels heavy and, most definitely, over-written. I tend to finish every book I start to read, so I will finish this one, but I cannot wait to get to the end. After this I will read Poppy Z. Brite's Soul Kitchen, followed by Scott Smith's The Ruins, and Mark Z. Danielewski's Only Revolutions.

Of course, I will be back here. Hopefully it won't be next year.

2005 and Beyond...

2006-01-17T22:54:02Z

It's been a few months since my last update. I apologize to my dear friends. Maybe you thought I went and died sometime between June and now, and I guess in a way I did. I finally feel I'm kicking that strange case of the blues that's hung over me for the last 3 years. It's been confusing but I'm coming across with a clearer perspective on my life and goals. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I'm turning 30 this April. Those of you who already passed this birthday know what I'm talking about.

I cannot say that 2005 was all that bad. I now have a long-haired female Chihuahua dog named Boo Bailey as a pet. I only call her 'Boo,' but I guess it doesn't hurt her to have a middle name. She's 5 months old and is as sweet as candyfloss. She doesn't bark, she doesn't bite and she doesn't ruin the furniture. She even traveled to the Dominican Republic along with David and myself for the holidays and had her first swim on the beach, caught her first mouse, and nibbled on her first discarded, rotten fish. She has soft, lustrous black fur and white-tipped toes. Ask me and I'll send you some pictures.

In July-August David and I traveled to Maine. We rented a car and stayed in different Bed & Breakfast hotels along the way. We made the obligatory pilgrimage to Stephen King's house in Bangor. I bought an expensive book at the local Stephen King bookstore and we ate breakfast with the locals at a diner by the airport featured in the novella "The Langoliers." I thank David for allowing a Stephen King fan those simple pleasures.

We also spent a few nights in Eastport, the easternmost point in the United States, a typical New England fishing town frozen in a Victorian time warp. The town seems to be shrouded in a heavy fog at all times and most businesses close by three o'clock. Its antique shops are filled with forgotten or donated family heirlooms that have never traveled past the Indian reservation on the outskirts of town. Visitors may come in, but the locals live by the sea and I doubt they can travel far from it. If you ever travel to Eastport you’ll know what I mean: most townsfolk work in the fishing, lobstering or antiquing industry. It’s a dead town holding on to the memories of a past that is long gone. A hundred years ago the northeastern coast was dotted with sardine canning factories that now line the beaches with broken windows and tilted doors. I heard a local say that Easport was once home to rich business men who made millions during their time, and I guess it’s true considering the beautiful architecture of its homes, but their descendants have few things to boast about besides their property and history. Twice a day (or is it more?) the tides recede up to 20 feet and the coast looks like a muddy desert. We saw a few fishermen by the shore collecting fishes (for bait, I assumed) that could not swim along with the tide to deep sea. We walked along the soft, salty mud and picked beach glass and random garbage dragged and dropped by the currents.

The fog would roll in at dusk and most people would turn in for the night. David and I asked our innkeeper if there was something to do in town and he told us of a concert in a neighboring town. It was a pianist, straight from New York, who played gahgeous Mozart in a church. The only way to get there, other than by car (which would take 45 minutes because you would have to drive along the bay), was by boat. We got our boat tickets and sailed straight through the fog bank to Lubec for the concert at dusk. The captain served us wine and David took a few pictures of the boat’s mascot, a male Labrador Retriever. We got into town with a buzz and could only stay until intermission. We decided our time would be better spent at the local bar, by the docks, knocking back some drinks with the fishermen, trawlers and captains. Just as we stepped out of the church, I kid you not, it started to pour and we ran down the hill to the town’s bandstand, where we guarded ourselves from the rain until it dissipated. We joked that God knew we had drunk in His home and was sharing His displeasure.

After staying in Eastport we spent a few days in the decidedly touristy and commercial Bar Harbor. We drank gallons of local beers and hiked through forest paths (we even found a nudist’s beach by the lake in the woods). Despite the ubiquity of hippies and granola types Bar Harbor seems more of a Disney version of Maine than most towns Downeast. It’s Maine for the masses. Then again, so is Ogunquit, but we loved it. It’s the perfect example of a manicured New England beach town, riddled with bleached white homes, bleached blonde girls and white folks all around. I think I saw two black people in Ogunquit and I was the third darkest-skinned person after them. Despite the shocking lack of multiculturalism in Ogunquit I must admit it was beautiful, fun and rewarding.

Since we had a few days in town we got to experience the town in full, including a game of Bingo at the Fire Department with all the local octogenarians. David, who tends to be very competitive, went ahead and won 3 games that night, a situation that got me slightly nervous as I could feel the jealous gazes of the hardcore Bingo ladies around us. But, David walked out with $135, which we promptly spent around town, so all those jealous ladies can just blow us. The money probably went straight back to them anyway.

It was a good summer. We rode our bicycles every day after work around Manhattan. We drank margaritas and took Vicodin pills by the piers. We watched dozens and dozens of films and I read a few good books, among them Peter Straub’s SHADOWLAND. The fall came softly and sometime in October a friend of mine moved into The Dakota and I entered past those famous gates for the first time. I still can’t believe that someone I know lives in the building where John Lennon lived and died and where Rosemary’s Baby was filmed. The first time I visited The Dakota was during a raging storm and as I sat in my friend’s apartment a bolt of lighting crashed outside in the patio by the fountain, covering the walls and windows with a stark, white light. It was a moment that could have easily fit in the aforementioned film.

I went to the Hamptons for the first time this fall as well. Boo came along and ran along the beach for the first time, unleashed, happy and undisturbed by the slight chill in the air.

It was also during the fall that New Orleans suffered the tragedy of Katrina. I love New Orleans and was concerned for Poppy, her husband and her cats. Thankfully she and her family are okay despite the tragic loss of some of her companions. Having grown up in a country that suffered its share of hurricanes I could relate to the fear and desperation of New Orleanians before, during and after the storm. It is sad, one must admit, how ill-prepared the nation and the state was to prevent the catastrophe that ensued. But, I don’t fret… New Orleans will come back. There’s still to be one town or city that has not rebuilt after a hurricane. Santo Domingo was leveled by a hurricane at the beginning of the 20th Century but that didn’t stop the efforts of reconstruction. I figure most New Orleanians will want to return to the land that gave them shelter, their families, their culture and identity as soon as the air clears. I’m just hoping the people of the Lower Ninth Ward and other affected neighborhoods will get back what belonged to them before the storm.

Last week, David and I returned from a 17-day vacation in the Dominican Republic, as I mentioned above. We came back with deep tans and lighter pockets, but I’m glad to have come returned after all. It’s a new year and I have new dreams and goals. I hesitate to write them out because the year could take a nose-dive later on and I can end up doing nothing, but let me just say that I plan on being more productive.

I want to apologize to everyone for disappearing on you. I haven’t written, called, followed-up or even visited anyone. Don’t feel bad. I was busy clearing the cobwebs in my noggin. I was busy finding out what I’m really about. And right now I’m trying to amend my hateful ways by contacting each one of you in different ways.

I can’t promise anything, but I hope to post on this journal more frequently. I hope.

Leaving The Resort Behind

2005-06-09T21:56:25Z

I finished reading Bentley Little’s The Resort last week sometime and have been carrying the book everywhere in my bag ever since. It was so I would sit and write my thoughts about the book, a task I’ve been avoiding. Well, the bag is too heavy and I think it's time to get it over with and move on.

An apology to any Bentley Little fans should be forthcoming. I doubt my review will be all that positive.

The Resort starts with the Thurman family driving through the Arizona desert toward their destination, a luxurious resort named The Reata. The Thurman are your average American family: couple in their mid-lives, two teenage sons and a younger, withdrawn and fragile boy. They have heard about the resort through word-of-mouth and reserved their rooms after receiving a brochure boasting of the fine accommodations and superb treatment. As they arrive they can see the resort is everything they expected and more. The rooms are exquisitely appointed, the pool is gigantic and heated, the restaurants offer incredible meals and every whim and desire is tended with utmost care. It’s the hotel of anyone’s dreams.

Now, when the Thurmans step out of their rooms on the first evening and return after dinner, they find that there is someone in their room. A man yells from behind the door that they should not disturb him, that this room has been his all along. That’s when the strange occurrences at The Reata begin. The guest, a truculent man with a nasty mouth and a violent streak, does not grant the Thurmans access to their belongings and forces them to fetch hotel help in order to move to another room.

And the strange happenings pile on: the boys think they see a body at the bottom of the pool; Rachel Thurman sees a maniacal gardener do a flesh-crawling dance while staring at him from a few floors above; a hotel manager drags an employee to a locked room, from whence cries and pleads of mercy pour forth.

A few other characters check into The Reata, among them a film critic/journalist, a writer and spouse couple, and a rebellious teenager whose parents spend the day playing golf. These character, just like the Thurmans, experience the oddities of The Reata. It’s obvious The Reata is an entity unto itself, much like The Overlook Hotel in Stephen King’s The Shining. Something is not right in this piece of the Arizona desert.

(Spoilers to follow)

Wouldn’t you know it? It takes a kid (Ryan, the shy, fragile Thurman boy), to unravel the secret of The Reata. Why do the ghosts who bathe in the indoor pool flesh out while swimming, but turn back to skeletal wraiths when stepping out of the water? Why does the activities coordinator engage the guests in dangerous sports game that almost always end up with bloodshed? Well, it’s obvious that the shy kid, the one who wants to write a book about hauntings and revenants will come up with the answer. It’s obvious that he’s the one to count on when the boys decide to explore the area behind the hotel where the ancient ruins of a hotel start to rejuvenate and rebuild itself. It’s obvious that he’s the only one who can vanquish the rejuvenated Founder.

The first half of this book was weird enough to maintain my interest and drive the story along. The characters, though almost too thin for believability, move through strange situations with an aggravating dejection. You see, the hotel’s power of rejuvenation saps their ability to care about anything, to remember gory sights and freaky shenanigans, and to do the rational thing to do when in caught in a supernatural nightmare. I guess I see Little’s point: they’re trapped in the hotel and they can’t control themselves. I also guess I don’t have to tell you that this is an old story and one we’ve seen ad nauseam in the history of horror literature.

But it’s after the last half of the book, after the Thurman boys (and David, the rebellious kid) find the ruins of the old Reata hotel in the desert behind the new Reata, that the book collapses. As the blood starts to pour and the needless characters presented before begin to die off (I don’t think the movie critic character added anything to the story, nor the writer and his wife, which I find disturbing), Mr. Little gets caught up in a gross-out contest with himself. He writes of orgies that end up with a sacrificial dismemberment; a Sunday service where a man dressed only with an Elk head mask (??) begins to chant to the pagan god Pan; a field game where opposing teams charge the field with weapons and murder each other. The dialogue degenerates to a risible, clichéd mess of hackneyed expressions (i.e.: “It will be reborn anew after the sacrifice!” or, “That guy was in a broken mirror. I saw something moving in the mirror, and it wasn’t me. It was him. And he wasn’t in the restaurant but some mansion with animal heads on the wall. He looked like an old-time millionaire cowboy, kind of. And he was real scary.”). This was particularly sad to see since I considered Mr. Little’s dialogue one of his strongest assets.

In the end, it’s all about a fountain of youth that nourishes the decrepit Founder back to life, and how he’d do anything to keep that water flowing. Apparently he has to sacrifice some people (Ryan being the last sacrifice and the one who will bring about the “change”) to Pan in order for this to happen. And the Founder has the power to turn each guest into a thoughtless zombie, or to bring forth ghosts of yesteryear, but he just can’t control the fountain’s waters. That is beyond him.

Mr. Little closes the story with the death of Ryan, a sacrifice that ends The Founder’s reign of terror and The Reata’s hold on the surviving guests. I was left with a few questions, such as: why is it that the hotel started to rejuvenate now and not before? What is it with the faces in the clouds? What was the shape in the pool? Why is it that no guest had a relative, a friend, or a boss who inquired about them once they overstayed their visit at The Reata?

All characters, situations and actions serve the plot. We are expected to believe supernatural terrors without being given an opportunity to care about those who experience them. Because the characters are so poorly drawn I lost all interest in the story once the mystery of The Reata was revealed.

Overall, a book I will not read again. As mentioned above, the first half of the book is good, but the last half reads like clumsy writing. I will try another one of his books, maybe even more than one, but this book did not impress me. This is not anything like Tooth Fairy, The Wooden Sea, or The Shining.

I’m now reading Jack Kerouac’s On The Road to clean my palate and so far, this story, leaves no nasty after-taste.

On Prime

2005-05-21T04:30:36Z

After some consideration I have decided not to review The Dark Tower series. We’re talking about seven books and I don’t have it in me to review a whole series at once. I will say a few things about the books and leave it at that.

The Wolves of the Calla and Song of Susannah were the weakest books in the series (Calla being the weakest). There’s a certain sloppiness in these two books that I felt harmed the story. I felt there were situations, weapons, characters and dialogue that steered the story toward its conclusion without a pointed concern for logic. To suspend disbelief, I feel the fantasy and fiction must be logical within their own context. It’s hard to point my finger at what bothered me in these two books because Mr. King is aware of the contrivances in his story and even hints at his purpose in including improbable situations to move the plot along. Having said that, I must point out that these two books did seem to be written off-the-cuff. I think that is what bothered me… Mr. King had no idea how the story would go until he wrote it. I could almost see Mr. King’s thought process as I read these books, but I’m not so sure it was the best choice for these books.

I’m torn because I enjoyed the Dark Tower mythos and loved the characters, but I thought some of the plot was born out of convenience. When things happen to the characters in such a torrent, when such odds are stacked against them, it’s a relief to know that the answer or solution is not always there. It’s good to know that God won’t just drop from the sky when you most need him.

Agh… I guess this is why I didn’t want to review the series. On the one hand I feel Mr. King could have used some organization in this particular series, but on the other hand I feel he is writing better than ever in his old age. I don’t know of too many writers who love to outline their work prior to sitting at their computers but something about this series cried for an outline.

- The clever ending was appropriate and cathartic.

The inclusion of themes and characters, as well as situations, from his prior work offered a constant thrill for me. I was glad to see Father Callahan return to the page after his departure from the town of Salem’s Lot. I was also glad to see Ted Brautigan appear in the last book. I’ve always loved it when writers create their own universe in their stories. Not all books are related but all of their characters coexist in the same universe. It’s pleasant to hear an old name in a new story and it consequently enriches a character since the reader has a better sense of their past by having read about them in other stories. In the end, it is about the characters and I doubt that when a good writer finds a beloved character, he or she can say everything there is to say in just one book.

Speaking of recurring characters, let’s move on to Poppy’s latest book.

* * *
I finished reading Poppy Z. Brite’s Prime in two days. It’s always delightful when one has no other concerns while reading a book than to complete it, even though the ending of said book comes way too soon. Poppy has yet to write a doorstopper and I mourn for that. Lost Souls and Drawing Blood do weigh in as the heaviest books she has yet written, but quantity has never been a factor in Poppy’s books.

First, I’d like to say that I promised myself to dedicate a few months in the future to re-read all of Poppy’s work, in order to revisit some forgotten moments in my life. I’ve said it before in here: Poppy’s work was instrumental in my life (it still is), back in 1993 and I still remember the visceral reaction to her prose which I experienced when I read Lost Souls. It was writing unlike any I had encountered before.

I never saw Lost Souls as a horror novel per se. The struggle to find one’s place in the waste land of youth and wanton abandon while surrounded by outside forces that vie for a piece of your identity is horrific. The horror in Lost Souls, if I remember correctly (which is why I will reread it very soon) is in the repercussions of misguided choices, belief in one’s imagined strength and the inevitable harm of youth. Vampires have never been particularly horrific to me. If anything, they represent the opportunistic, weaker side of ourselves that we find so hard to resist. They are the laziness that robs our energy. They are the incertitude that forces us to wander until we arm ourselves with the will to face life on our own, to give up codependency. If one pays attention, one will see that it’s always the weakling who gets infected by the vampire. It’s the lost soul who falls to the charms of an easy life.

Then again, one could always argue that Poppy has been writing about foodies from the very beginning. Zillah, Twig & Molochai are discriminate in what they eat (and drink), though their palate isn’t as refined as Poppy’s most recent characters. Let’s not forget: they are smokers.

(Some spoilers to follow)

Rickey and G-Man don’t live an easy life. They’ve co-owned a restaurant, Liquor, on Broad Street in New Orleans, near the courthouse and jail building (if you can risk gorging yourself on liquor-laced food and drinking to your heart’s content and then attempt to get in your car next to the courthouse and jail then I imagine you are the perfect patron for Rickey and G-man’s restaurant—you have titanium balls!), and they’ve gotten a bad review. While the journalist has made an effort to praise some choices in the menu, he casts a shadow on the relationship between the restaurant’s financial investor, Lenny Duveteaux, and his chefs. His review implies that there must be some reason why Lenny has taken on two unknown chefs (to revive his reputation or to maintain his chokehold on the New Orleans restaurant scene, he infers), but this reason has remained a secret.

As the chefs and the investor try to sort out a way to settle their issue with the presumptuous journalist (who turns out to be a novice food writer), New Orleans’s District Attorney, Treat Placide (a great name for this impish character) spends every waking moment securing his reelection, rather than doing his job, like any DA worth his salt. Placide’s rival in the run for his position is Oscar De La Cerda, Lenny Duveteaux’s personal attorney. It is no surprise to see that soon after the appearance of the review on the Cornet, Placide Treat accuses Lenny of “conspiracy to commit fraud, injuring public records, and failure to pay sales taxes” and sends him to jail. Another day in the life of corrupt politicians in New Orleans.

The review and the charges send Rickey over the edge. He wants to break his association with Lenny but the two chefs, who are not particularly greedy or selfish, do not have the money to buy him out. It falls upon them to find a way to earn some money but the options are limited. It is around this time that Rickey receives a letter postmarked in Dallas from a restaurateur, Frank Firestone, offering him a one-week consulting gig to revamp his restaurant’s menu. To accept that invitation means a reunion with a person he hasn’t heard of since his days at the CIA in New York: Cooper Stark, the hotshot chef who once dazzled a naïve John Rickey with his celebrity and good looks. The restaurant has fallen unseen by the unrefined Texan coots who just want a meal that can satisfy their extravagant yet pedestrian taste. Firestone is a man who thinks brunch is the proper start for a day of business and who wears the skin of his state’s favorite animal on his feet. He is sure that Cooper’s rather Yankee menu has turned off prospective diners and he knows Rickey is the man to help him. Rickey has won a James Beard award, he works right next door, and his restaurant has succeeded.

Putting aside his rancor for Cooper’s improprieties and with the level-headed support of his lover, Rickey heads to Dallas to rework the menu for Frank Firestone. He creates a menu that features beef at its core and suggests a new name for the restaurant: Prime.

As Rickey works in Dallas, Placide Treat’s machinations are getting darker and upon Rickey’s return we are treated with the true extent of his desperation and cruelty. I won’t give away the story (I’ve recounted what you can read on the back cover of the book, if only with more detail), but I will share my pleasure with Poppy’s handling of this tale of suspense. Poppy loves a good mystery and it shows in this book: the tension bubbles like (I’m trying to resist food similes here…), well, hot soup in a pressure-cooker and the rewards are just. A scene in a Dallas apartment reminded me of the Poppy of yesteryear and I know those fans who liked her work then will like this particular sequence of events.

It’s a great story, a strong book, but the best is saved for those small moments when Poppy grants an inside view at what I’m convinced is just a tough world. The more I read about chefs the more I think about fishermen. Chefs and fishermen spend their lives in constant stress, working as a team to earn their living (one lazy fisherman can ruin a whole day’s catch, as I imagine one slow chef can back up the whole kitchen and restaurant), drinking until their livers hurt, and ragging on each other to cope with the tension of their jobs. It’s macho work, to run a kitchen, and Rickey and G-man belie any sexual stereotype by their hardy, tough-guy approach to work ethics and fine dining.

It struck me how involved Rickey and G-man are in the restaurant scene. These guys work hard and hardly ever party (I’m not counting end-of-the-night drinking sessions with the guys). They do not have any gay friends and Rickey bristles at the sight of a rainbow flag. I admit, I sometimes wonder why they don’t have one single gay friend (I couldn’t really read Dirty King’s sexual vibe—I feel that was purposefully left in the air). They have been together since their teen years and have not dated other people. It was interesting to me to see how Rickey has not been able to let go of his guilt concerning his tryst with Coop, yet no mention is made of G-man’s encounter in The Value of X with a dancer while Rickey was at the CIA. Granted, it is hinted that nothing may have happened, but… At any rate, it’s an insular gay life they live, without a frame of reference about men-men relationships, but despite that the relationship has flourished on trust and genuine love. I do wonder if they have a secret stash of hardcore porn somewhere in their house in Marengo Street (all signs point to ‘no,’ as the only incriminating thing found in a covert search of their property is a bit of pot.)

(Forgive my interjections and parentheses. As you can see, I can’t help myself.)

Kitchen work can make one cranky but thank God for the caustic sense of humor of cooks and colleagues. I have to praise Poppy’s ear for witty ripostes and cracks. I think I laughed out loud every ten pages or so. Here are a few samples:

- When Rickey and G-man are having dinner at the Stubb’s house, G-man’s brother eyes the food that his mother has displayed, such as “pannéed veal with a delicate golden breading, spaghetti with red gravy, green beans smothered with bacon and onions, stuffed artichokes, and eggplant baked with shrimp and mozzarella.” Salivating, Henry says: “This is practically health food. Look at all these vegetables.” (page 34)

-“You remember that next time one of ‘em sends back his tuna tartare because it’s raw.” (on “urbane sophisticates of New Orleans,” page 49)

The one-liners and jabs are sparingly used throughout the book but are constant and true. Nothing comes across as forced or unnatural. If anything, read this book for the subtle, biting humor. It’s great to read a book that can both keep you tittering and in suspense.

I loved this book and I’m looking forward to the next chapter in Rickey and G-man’s story. Like Stephen King, Poppy has created her own universe in her novels and familiar characters are running into each other. In this novel, for example, we get to reencounter a character from The Lazarus Heart, Linda Getty, who stops by Liquor with Woofer Scagliano, Treat Placide’s lackey. In Poppy’s New Orleans two serial killers once killed an Asian boy named Tran. In Poppy’s New Orleans Luke Ransom once broadcasted his tirades and rants from a swamp on pirated airwaves. In Poppy’s New Orleans, a band of vampires once stormed into town in a van. Everything is possible. It’s possible to make it selling liquor right next door to the courthouse. It’s possible for two guys in love to do what they want to do without sacrificing their integrity and souls. And it’s possible for a lithe, short female writer to show everyone she can be more of a dude than you. Read Prime and you’ll see what I mean: a dude wrote this book.

And he has bourbon in his breath. You know what that means: he's got titanium balls.

Off The Vine

2005-05-10T23:15:21Z

Written on Tuesday, May 3, 2005

I’m telling myself this journal is turning into a quarterly. The horror. Goes to show how busy I’ve been and how weak I can be at times.

It has been crazy, to be honest. Just last week, I returned from a one-week vacation in the Dominican Republic with David, where I spent my birthday with my parents and my sister, Jennifer. We spent three short days in Santo Domingo, the capital, and the rest of the week at an all-inclusive resort in the easternmost part of the island at Bavaro Beach. I’ll see if I can post a picture online later.

This trip, which was a surprise birthday gift from David, had more impact on me than I could imagine. It was almost 8 years since the last time I visited the Dominican Republic, and just as long since I’d last seen my father and my sister (I saw my mother last year in Germany, and in October 2001, when she visited me here in New York). After my emotional crisis in 2002 (just at the time when I stopped writing fiction), I recognized a pivotal change occur within me. I left behind the wonder of my youth (I used to think I could do anything I wanted and I believed it) and became a doubtful man. This new approach to life marred my confidence and prevented me for moving ahead with any project, whether it was personal, professional or artistic. To be blunt, 2002 to 2004 was the worst (and yet, here is the paradox, the best) period of my life.

But I got a therapist. I kept doing the things I liked, such as reading, attending author readings, drinking, and traveling. The writing I placed on hold… until the fog wall lifted, I told myself. But the wall didn’t even flicker for two solid years. I was stumped as to why I couldn’t write. Why I had lost all interest in writing. I even theorized that I had fooled myself for so long since a real writer would write no matter what difficulties life threw his way. Hell, Cervantes wrote DON QUIXOTE while in prison in Argamasilla in La Mancha and with a maimed left hand. If that’s not enough to bring on a huge case of self-doubt and a solid bout of writer’s block, then I have no reason to bitch and moan.

And so a few months ago I found out I was going back to Dominican Republic to visit my parents and my sister. To see the city I’ve left behind and the relatives and friends I no longer see. It scared me.

I got scared because my father and I barely talked and I wasn’t sure how I would approach him after so long. I was scared because I didn’t want to see some people from my past. I was scared, I now know, because I didn’t want to face my past.

“You must go and see them,” David told me. “You’ll see everyone’s no longer what you remember. Parents get older and you need to see them age.”

Wise words, I tell you.

It was a month or so before my departure that I spoke with my dear friend, mroctober. He had invited me to submit a story for his “So Fey” anthology. I guess he liked the few samples of my writing that he’s read and felt I could submit something worth of inclusion. After reading the guidelines and speaking with him, I knew I wouldn’t submit a story. The theme (fey characters) was something that turned me off since I don’t think of my writing as a) speculative, and b) fantastic. Among other things, that was the main reason I couldn’t think of a story that would satisfy Steve. I kindly turned down the invitation and went back behind the wall.

And then I found out about the trip. David had to tell me because I needed to renew my Green Card stamp on my passport to travel and he felt I had the right to prepare for the trip. Sometime during that time, Steve came to the city again and we met for a few drinks. He reinstated his invitation and challenged me to think of a story: “What kind of writer are you if you can’t accept a challenge? You can do it, but you won’t.” His words remained with me.

I thought of a fantastical creature I could write about and found one in the Dominican folkloric tales I heard as a child. I thought of the characters and the story and how I could get them all to fit in the story. And it was my upcoming trip that tied it all together.

A week after Steve’s visit I sat in front of my computer and wrote a 6,000 word story, titled “Off the Vine.” The words flowed and the story, in my opinion, works. I am very happy at the outcome and I thought Steve would be as well. Turns out I misunderstood a part of his request (“anything up to 1,000 words would be great”—I heard “anything, even a 1,000 words, would be great”). Steve wants me to cut 5,000 words out of the story and I cannot see it work with 5,000 words gone. So I keep the story.

The story does need some trimming (and some rewriting in parts), but I am working on that right now (sometimes). I’m sad the story will not be included in Steve’s book, which promises to be a great book, but I’m grateful to Steve for getting me started again. He stirred my languid brain and it may turn out to be that his challenge will have far-reaching consequences later on. I wanted to thank him in this venue, so here it is: Thank you, Steve.

I already thanked David.

To see my old apartment the same as the last time I saw it. The old toaster (one can only toast one slice at a time), or the old sandwich maker (yes, you guessed it: only one side heats up), or the old clothes hamper in the bathroom, or my old Teddy Bear (as old as I am, if not longer (taking into account manufacturing))… it all was uncomfortably comforting. I felt a deep sadness to see my parents live surrounded by the objects of a past life. My mom was unhappy and my dad had buried himself (almost literally if you visit the service room, which is filled with empty boxes, computer parts, books and garbage) behind a wall of his own. He’s been hiding there for a few years now.

But a few days later the house brightened and my parents blossomed. My mother got a haircut from David and put on a pair of jeans. She laughed almost constantly and so did I. My dad, who is really a great guy with a quiet sense of humor, laughed as well.

It was okay to sleep in the old room and hear the familiar sounds. It was okay to be back in your childhood room as an adult.

And upon our return I felt the change. I felt a new sense of connection with my prior self (I brought back a few of the old records I used to listen to as a child and the books that I first collected). I remembered why I loved to read so much. Why I wanted to write so bad.

I thought, “maybe I write to keep the demons away,” as someone smarter and far more prolific once said. Maybe the demons won the prize for the past two years. But, if anything, my life is calm now and I discovered that I read and write because it’s what I do. The joke was always on me. There were no demons.

And I’ve been reading. And writing. I finished reading Stephen King’s THE DARK TOWER series and wrote a few scenes for BLACK END SESSIONS. It looks as if I will also write my short story “Dies Mala” after all. But…yes, I finally reached the Tower and I got to see what was on that top room.

Written today, Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Right after completing the series, I read Bev Vincent’s THE ROAD TO THE DARK TOWER: EXPLORING STEPHEN KING’S MAGNUS OPUS, which I finished last night.

Today I started reading Poppy Z. Brite’s PRIME. In my next entry I will review the Dark Tower series and Bev Vincent’s book. Soon after, I will post my thoughts on PRIME.

P.S.: To my Mercyground friends: thank you for your heartfelt birthday wishes. I read them all and will respond to each one as soon as I post this entry. Too bad I won’t get to see you this coming week. Next year, though…

Oddities and Curiosities

2005-02-22T20:51:45Z

After three months, I can say I’ve been gone for too long. A new year has started since my last post and I find myself wary of writing now. Too much has happened and I don’t want to give a complete list of my activities since my last post, but I know I must start somewhere. So, I’ve decided to give a brief recap of my last few months here at the beginning and then I’ll finish with some thoughts, oddities and curiosities.

I guess the biggest news is that I finally moved from Brooklyn to Manhattan. I live in the Lower East Side, a neighborhood that suits me well since I’ve loved it from the very first time in this city. My stories are set in the Lower East Side, a neighborhood rife with history, daily horrors (see below), and mystery, so it’s a pleasant surprise to find myself living in a neighborhood that holds so much inspiration for me.

I’m so close to everything now that I can walk to SoHo in 15 minutes. Chinatown in 10 minutes. East Village in 5 minutes. Hell, I can even walk home from work if I want to in 45 minutes (something I do in warm nights). Anyway, living in the Lower East Side has been good for my soul. I find myself more at peace with my surroundings (let’s not forget this is New York City though, and safety is never guaranteed—as I mentioned above, see below).

I haven’t written anything in a while. A long time ago my muse packed her bags and went on a leave of absence. It’s not a secret to my friends that last summer I became so troubled by my lack of enthusiasm for the writing that once meant everything to me. I also looked different, topping the scales at a scary 190 lbs, the biggest I’ve ever been (I’m 5’11”). I moved through my life without a goal and that sunk me into such a state of depression that I sought help from a therapist. I believe in being proactive when it comes to your health and obviously I didn’t have the tools to fight whatever it was that ailed me.

I can’t claim that I know exactly what is going on but small discoveries mark the way to the loot. I’m this close. But that sense of despair has disappeared. That weight is gone and going (I’m now at 179 and heading for 165). My finances are improving and I have great people in my life. And the muse, well… she’s sending postcards now.

Last month I was invited to star in a music video by my friend Gabrielle Stubbert, of Smith Island. The video was for a song titled “Coma,” which I see listed in her website. The video for “Coma” tells the story of Gabrielle’s mother who as a young woman fell into a coma and awoke to tell her bizarre, psychedelic hallucinations while asleep. Doctors and nurses turned into mechanics, working on her with gigantic tools and saws. Her bed would float above Earth and beyond into the sky, where she would see everything.

For the video, Gabrielle flew in her mother from Los Angeles to play the nurse. I play the doctor. Our friend Dierdre plays the young coma patient (she’s the face for Smith Island—that’s her you see in the front page, not Gabrielle).

So, the video is ready and premieres tomorrow at Arlene’s Grocery here in NYC. Please, come on by and see me in a music video as menacing as you’ll ever see me.

Last week I was thrilled to see Peter Straub read at the KGB Bar. Mr. Straub read an unpublished essay/story about the conceits of film noir and their characters. I was sitting right in front of him by the bar. Ellen Datlow was there also, as was Kelly Link and others. It’s always fun to see one of your favorite writers read their work (and if you haven’t read Straub you must! “Pork Pie Hat” is a great novella which can be found in his book “Magic Terror”.

Oddity: Let’s talk about my new abode. Here’s an incident that gave me the cold chills that extreme coincidence can only provide. In 1999 I was cast as an extra in the motion picture “Boiler Room” with Ben Affleck, Giovanni Ribisi, Nicky Katt, Jamie Kennedy, Vin Diesel and so on… I walked in to a casting office with a friend of mine who wanted to try out for an ad and instead I got the job in the movie. For two days I was on set and was included in various scenes. The film is there and most of my scenes are in the beginning. In one of those scenes, after the stockbroker trainees pour into the hotel to celebrate you can see me come up to a bar and put my arms around a fellow extra. An unknown then the actor on whose shoulder I rested my arm was Desmond Harrington. I saw him years later in Steven Spielberg’s TV show “Taken” which I mostly enjoyed and remembered him from those days on the set of “Boiler Room.”

Ok, so we fast forward to my move to my new apartment. Imagine my surprise when I received a letter addressed to no other than Desmond Harrington at my new address. Turns out he was the prior tenant at my new place.

Desmond, if you ever read this, give your female French friend your new address.

Odd: My next door neighbor lives in complete darkness since he has no electricity nor gas. An older man, I figured he knew the building owner somehow or is one of the original tenants who could never be evicted. He hardly moves in his apartment except very late at night, like last night when I heard a slight thump on the wall next to my pillow.

Hair Rising: Did you read about that aspiring actress who got shot here in New York a few weeks ago, a Nicole duFresne? That happened directly across the street from my building. Remember, safety is never guaranteed.

But despite these oddities I still love my neighborhood. It puts my senses into a frenzy and it’s the most alive I’ve felt in years. No wonder the cloud is lifting and my muse is itching to come back home. I just have to clean the house before she comes back. You know how it is: you don’t want a loved one to come back to dishes in the sink.

P.S.: I must thank my friend galatea_world for her wonderful hospitality last year when she invited David and me to a concert with her. It was most gracious and we both loved it. Sorry I’ve been disconnected, Racquel… Drinks sometime soon?

P.P.S: Why did Paris Hilton have Stephen King’s email in her Sidekick? I don’t think she can take time away from her narcissistic idolatry to say, read even the slimmest of SK’s books… oh, yeah, I forget: Paris Hilton is an author… No. I still don’t understand.

The Short of It

2004-12-02T23:35:57Z

So Bush was reelected. War is still waging. Thanksgiving came and went. Christmas is in three weeks. I spent the last month freaking out about an immigration interview that was postponed, hiding in my cave until now. I’ve resolved I won’t stress out about the interview. After 12 years of constant stress, I need some respite.

No one cares about my reaction to the election, so I’ll spare you. The only good thing that happened that week was that I ran into Anthony Bourdain, author of “Kitchen Confidential” and the new “Les Halles Cookbook,” during my lunch break on 6th Ave., between 56th & 57th St. Maybe he was on his way to Alain Ducasse’s Mix on 58th (two doors down from my workplace)—not! (David went to dinner at Mix a few weeks ago. Not having eaten there before I went online to check what Chowhound foodies and other critics had to say about the place… turns out they serve the equivalent of cow dung and skunk manure. I warned David but he “had” to go. $90 later and with his taste buds on strike, he concurred). So, I must buy a copy of “Les Halles Cookbook,” and get myself to the restaurant someday. I’ve lived here for 6 years now and I’ve never eaten there yet, so…

Oh, I guess I lied in my last entry. I never got around to finishing Dan Simmons’s “Summer of Night.” I don’t discount the merits of this book but I just could not get through it. It’s on hold until I feel the urge to pick it up again and complete it.

Instead of finishing that tome I embarked on other reading adventures. Around Halloween I picked up a copy of ”Stories of Terror and Madness From the Borderlands,” edited by Elizabeth E. & Thomas F. Monteleone. This is how I would break this book down: The Monteleone’s effort to let the reader know that one is about to read a collection of “unique” stories is made clear in the foreword. There are no “vampires or ghosts or serial killers or witches or were-creatures or anything else you’ve already read somewhere else.” I guess they’re right. There are no vampire or ghost stories. Personally, I don’t understand the bias against ghost stories. Every writer of the genre has written at least one ghost story and when the author succeeds a ghost story can creep out a reader more than a tale of the bizarre or that which lies in the Twilight Zone. That’s the thing. The Monteleone’s love The Twilight Zone. It’s pretty evident. I love The Twilight Zone as well but I wouldn’t go as far as calling a Twilight Zone-inspired story “terror.” ‘Strange,’ yes. ‘Weird,’ yes. ‘Suspense,’ yes. But ‘terror,’ no. Let’s get our definitions right: ‘Terror,’ that overwhelming, “intense, overpowering” fear is what I feel when, after reading a story, I cannot turn off my light until I watched a bit of TV to clean my palate. Or, when I call a friend on the phone and leave a rambling message to calm myself. Or, when I think I notice something move in the corner of my eye and avert my eyes to the spot to feel my heart race in my chest. But, when I finish reading a story and I find myself thinking, “wow, that was strange,” or “cool concept and neat ending,” I’m not terrorized, I’m just awed because I’ve seen a writer set off some nifty fireworks. Or do the ‘rabbit-out-of-the-hat’ trick.
Ghost stories like Oliver Onions’s ’The Beckoning Fair One’, or disturbing stories like Ramsey Cambell’s “Again,” or Robert Aickman’s “The Hospice,” or Algernon Blackwood’s ”The Willows” are stories of terror. They filled me with a sense of dread, of ultimate creepiness and foreboding, that I have never forgotten them.

In “Borderlands” we are treated to some fine writing and some adequate tales. John R. Platt succeeds with his story “All Hands,” about a man who wakes up every morning with a different set of hands, each belonging to someone else. “Faith Will Make You Free,” by Holly Newstein, is a retelling of the Jewish myth of the Golem. This story is one of my favorites in the book and the author shows a lot of promise in her writing. John F. Merz tells a great story with “Prisoner 392,” immersing the reader in the mind of a prisoner who plans and executes a prison break with surprising results. Much to my surprise, I enjoyed David J. Schow’s “The Thing Too Hideous To Describe,” a story of Lovecraftian sensibilities about a giant worm-like creature that lives on the side of a town, the ‘Thing’ all fear the most, and its intense loneliness. It was the artist Seal who once sang “it’s loneliness that’s the killer,” and this story illustrates that point. I say that I was surprised to enjoy this story because I have previously found Schow’s writing somewhat inaccessible. Oh, and then there’s Stephen King’s “Stationary Bike.” Now, the first few pages reminded me of my last visit to my doctor’s office, earlier in November, when I when to get the results of my blood work and a physical. The only thing the doctor found unusual was a high cholesterol and triglycerides reading. He recommended I lose a few pounds and get some exercise. The conversation with my doctor went almost exactly like the one in King’s story and that was affecting. And to think I was considering buying a stationary bike, or turning my bicycle into a stationary bike during the winter months… (I’ve already lost some 7 pounds and get my exercise walking the streets of New York).

Overall, an interesting book, yet not one for the records.

I also read Amy Tan’s ”The Opposite of Fate: Memories of a Writing Life”. This one I read in two days. I like Amy Tan and this is a perfect book for the Amy Tan fan. To read about her mother is worth the price of the book alone, but it is when writing about her art that she shines.

Yesterday, I completed “McSweeney’s Enchanted Chanber of Astonishing Stories”, edited by Michael Chabon. This is one of those ‘wet dream’ books: new stories by Poppy Z. Brite, Peter Straub, Stephen King, China Mieville, and more. What in Hollywood would be called a “star-studded cast.” Margaret Atwood, Jonathan Lethem, Heidi Julavits and Joyce Carol Oates.

First, let’s talk Poppy Z. Brite’s (you must think, “gee, this dude can’t stop babbling about Poppy Z. Brite”—well, I won’t. Deal with it.) “The Devil of Delery Street.” Some fans haven’t stopped their bitching and moaning about Brite’s exit from the horror arena. A lot of people want her to write another “Lost Souls,” or “Exquisite Corpse,” and claim her current writing lacks the chills of her earlier efforts. Here’s what I have gathered: Poppy is done writing “horror” novels. Not gonna happen, folks. No “Lost Souls: The Reunion Tour.” No “Exquisite Corpse: The Feast.” If anything, the only horrors one can find in her novels now are in the kitchen of some restaurant or the mind of some overworked chef. But, for those who still pine for her stories of the “bizarre”, well, there’re her short stories. The “horror,” if one must call it that, continues in her short fiction. In the case of “The Devil of Delery Street,” just because the title includes the word “Devil” and the story features a poltergeist of sorts, one must not think this is a horror story. It’s horror if you’re part of the Stubbs family. In the Stubbs &/or Rickey stories published so far we see Poppy Z. Brite record a different sort of horror: coming of age and family. In “The Value of X,” Brite’s first novel about Gary Stubbs & John Rickey, we witness the painful coming of age for both boys. It is after an “outing” of sorts and a separation that John & G-Man become men. In the chapbook “The Feast Of St. Rosalie” we see Rosalie Stubbs come of age shrouded in religious imagery, “stepping” out from her cave into womanhood. And in “The Devil in Delery Street” we witness the youngest Stubbs girl, Mary Louise, move from childhood into her teenage years in an unsettling way. My theory may be flawed and it may require a rereading of this family’s saga in order to pass muster, but I believe no Stubbs child enters into adulthood without some suffering. Seems a broad statement, I know, but read the stories and you’ll know what I mean. It’s not easy being a Stubbs.

Poppy has crossed over to the literary arena. This book aligns her with the greatest writers in modern literature and I couldn’t be happier. The woman deserves her kudos.

Peter Straub, yet again, writes an excellent, magnificent short story in “Mr. Aickman’s Air Rifle.” This is not quite up there with “Pork Pie Hat” (a story so magnificent it can make you cry), but it is a fine tale. Heidi Julavits creeps us out with a rather simple story, and Daniel Handler handles the “locked room” mystery with interesting dialog and pitch-perfect characters. Stephen King, sadly, wanders a few pages too many with “Lisey and the Madman,” a story that somehow feels as light as a Chinese puff pastry. But, this collection is fine and a must-read, so go out and get it.

My next reading project will prove a challenge: today I start reading the first tome in the Stephen King The Dark Tower series, “The Gunslinger.” I have a few thousand pages ahead of me, but I’ve been looking forward to this for ages. I will review the whole series in a future entry.

That, my friends, is what I’ve been up to as of late. Oh, I almost forgot! My dear friend, mroctober has turned my name into a pharmaceutical brand! I am honored and amused about this. Please, go read his story ”The Eater of Elevation.” The guy can write.

"I'd fight that sucker in a phone booth"

2004-10-09T18:15:21Z

A very loud bird is screeching outside of my window. Somehow, despite its desperate sound, it pleases me that I can hear wildlife in Manhattan. Suppossedly, if one walks around Central Park and looks up to the trees one can see a myriad of birds (and this book: "Red-Tails In Love: A Wildlife Drama in Central Park", suggests there is something to the rumor), and even more surprising, if you're ever around Brooklyn College, look above... you might see this. It's a city full of pleasant surprises.

I've been busy with work. Tomorrow I leave for three days to a conference in upstate New York. I'm taking my copy of Dan Simmons's "Summer of Night", which I've been reading since I finished Robert McCammon's "Speaks the Nightbird". That's over 4 weeks, right? Not good. I will post my review once I finish the book, but as Kathy Bates says in the film "Stephen King's The Stand": "It doesn't look good to the kid right now." I'm not dying to finish this book. My main problem is with Simmons's characters and how poorly drawn they are (with the exception of Duane). I can't keep the characters apart in my head because they simply do not "jump" from the page. This preliminary review notwithstanding (I'm about halfway through with this book), I will read the sequel to "Summer of Night": "A Winter Haunting". This award-winning book has mixed reviews, so I'm hopeful the charaters and story will improve the second time around. But first, I will complete "Summer of Night."

Next book I read won't be horror. Sometimes I need to break it up.

And talking about horror... can someone please explain to me what in the world is going on with this (Discussion forum, toward the bottom... find the threads titled "Poe's Progeny" and "Gcw...a life")? I just will say that Ramsey Campbell has proven himself to be a modern classic and this kind of personal, libelous attack is painful to see. I don't wish to involve myself in this at all, but man, oh, man... Some people need to nurture a life beyond the internet.

Ah, and last week I found a copy of Poppy Z. Brite's Brittish paperback (1st edition) of "Lost Souls" in excellent condition for $4. Ah, some people don't know a good thing when they have it. I also found a first edition hardcover (UK Edition) of Ramsey Campbell's "The Face That Must Die" for... yeah, you guessed it: $4. And to think that a month ago I saw a copy of PZB's UK Paperback (1st edition) of "Exquisite Corpse," for $6, but didn't get it because I already own 3 copies of the book. There's a reason why they call NYC the "book capital of the world"

This Way to the Wax Museum!

2004-09-21T17:13:23Z

I'll preface this by saying: I'm a dork. Not a secret. I've said it before.

Anyway, today, on my way back from getting fingerprinted by INS for my green card, I got out at the 5th Ave. F subway stop and walked toward my job. I saw the NY Public Library Branch next to the station and walked in, wondering if they might have a copy of Oliver Onion's "Widdershins", a book I've wanted to read for ages.

They didn't have it, so I started to walk out, when I noticed someone sitting by a catalog computer... someone very familiar: Zach Galligan!

Now, I'm not a star-fucker, or care much for actors and the like (I've met more than a few here and there...), but the movie "Waxwork" (both of them), is one of my all-time favorites. It's a campy horror flick from the 80s and I love everything about it. I know the lines by heart.

Anyway, there was Zach Galligan, and I couldn't have lived with myself if I didn't greet him, so I did. I told him how much I loved "Waxwork," and how pleased I was to meet him. He shook my hand. And that was it.

He walked out soon after and so did I.

Have to tell you, that made my day. It was so darned cool.

Scratch one off my list.

Breaking News

2004-09-13T17:17:43Z

My final immigration interview (God willing!) is on November 22, 2004. Everyone, please cross your fingers for me.

And... holy shit! I won $1,250 on a lottery sweepstakes today! It's a scratch off sheet that came in the Daily News paper yesterday and they print a set of number to scratch off every day this week. Today I matched $1,000 and $250 three times, so I won. I still have tomorrow, Wednesday, Thursday & Friday, so I have four more chances to win. I will let you know if I'm still lucky with this sheet. Keep it coming, I say!

"Speaks the Nightbird" by Robert McCammon: A Review

2004-09-02T16:15:20Z

A few years ago, in 1999 or thereabouts, I read on the internet that Robert R. McCammon had retired from writing after his last novel in 1992. After reading most of his novels and loving them, including the epic "Swan Song," and the suspenseful and tender "Boy's Life," I had welcomed McCammon into my list of favorite writers. Turns out McCammon was disillusioned with the publishing industry, a common feeling among writers. Like his colleague Poppy Z. Brite would proclaim later on (as well as Clive Barker), McCammon was done with writing horror books and wanted to move on. His publishers, reticent to give his work the respect he felt it deserved, were not open to the idea of books outside of the genre and McCammon retired. The New York publishers wanted him to churn out the same book year after year, crippling any chances of originality and growth. You can read all about it in this interview.

But like any other writer who is compelled to do his bidding regardless of remuneration or recognition, McCammon could not stop writing. A fan of constant, painstaking research, he wrote two historical novels before his retirement: one a mystery, the other a war novel.

I remember reading the first issue of the now defunct online magazine "The Spook" and noticing McCammon's name listed in the credits page. He had made a sort of comeback as an editor, yet his writing was not featured in the magazine. That is, until a few issues later, when it was announced to great fanfare that "The Spook" would serialize one of those novels McCammon had written before his retirement, "Speaks the Nightbird." Of course, I looked forward to the serialization and printed them out as they were released. Abruptly, the serialization ended because McCammon had sold the novel to a local publisher, River City Publishing, and we were told to wait for its imminent release.

I bought the novel upon its release, but it wasn't until two weeks ago that I started to read it. At first, I was intimidated by the novel's heft (726 pages), but considering how I love long novels I pressed on.

The novel opens with two men sitting on a horse-pulled wagon, a magistrate (Isaac Woowdward) and his clerk (Matthew Corbett), in the year 1699, who have left the port city of Charles Town (nowadays Charleston) for the village of Fount Royal. The magistrate has been summoned by Fount Royal's mayor, Robert Bidwell, to bring peace upon his stricken town. Ritualistic murders have claimed the town's reverend and two men. Citizens blame the wife of one of the victims, Rachel Howarth, a Portuguese immigrant of witchcraft and beg for her death. Bidwell, in efforts to abide by the law and to bring some measure of progress to his settlement, insists that the witch is tried and accused properly.

Woodward, an aging magistrate who has crossed the ocean from England with a great secret in tow, is a fair man. Like most men of his time, he was aware of the Salem Witch Trials, though he had not presided over a witchcraft trial himself. His clerk, Matthew, an inquisitive adolescent at the beginning of the novel, is eager to learn the tools of his master's trade, yet he differs from Woodward. His curiosity is his greatest weapon (and weakness), but he lacks the fine education of his master.

Fount Royal is populated by a set of genuine characters that accurately portray what life must have been like in the british colonies during 1699. There is the schoolmaster, Johnstone, who wears makeup and a hobbles with a bad knee. There's Lucretia Vaughn, a low class woman that aspires for dignity and finesse but is halted by her perpetual mediocrity. There's a ratcatcher, a gaol keeper, a blacksmith, and more. It is in these characters, and in the stories they tell of the witch or how she has affected them, that the story unravels.

As the accused sits in the gaol, the testimonies and accusations mount and the case grows stronger. It is Matthew, with his curiosity and the prodding of a well-intentioned character, who decides to investigate the claims further and discover what is really at work in Fount Royal.

It's impressive to witness how McCammon fleshes out a story with so many possibilities and outcomes. His research of the time is evident in the clothing, the language, the architecture and social mores displayed throughout the novel. Oh, and how he succeeds! He manages to mount the suspense from chapter to chapter, offering a new discovery every few pages and effectively sustaining the sense of urgency. This is the same McCammon who wrote "Swan Song," "They Thirst," and "Mystery Walk," but he sounds more confident.

With chapters that average between 20-30 pages, the rhythm of the reading is clipped but continuous, flowing, perfect for a mystery novel such as this one. Almost every character comes to life with such vibrancy that it is almost impossible to believe how well formed they are. The character of Exodus Jerusalem, a bible-thumping, lecherous preacher who makes his way into Fount Royal, is one of the most powerful characters I have read about in the last 5 years. It's important to have every character command the scene in certain ways, and McCammon succeeds in making sure there are no worthless characters.

This novel is a complete success. It is an interesting, worthy read and I cannot imagine a reason why it shouldn't be read everywhere. It is a love story, a story of progress, of enlightenment. It is a heart-wrenching, life-affirming book that reminds us what great literature is. Man, I loved, loved, loved this book. If anything, I am sad that I won't get to read it for the first time again. I haven't had so much fun reading in a while.

Please, make sure you pick up this gem. You can buy the two paperbacks (the book was split in two tomes due to its length), or hunt down the hardcover on Abebooks, or borrow it from your local library if you can't part with your money (though I advocate the support of our artists-- buy their books, cheapskate!).

You see? Great books happen when you give authors the freedom to write what they love. Editors everywhere, heed this call: do what you know how to do, which is to edit and let the authors do what they know best, which is to tell a story. Love your author and stop acting like the desperate, white-trash surrogate mother who wants to decide how the biological parent will raise her own kid.

The Sounds of a Village

2004-08-25T17:52:17Z

Since everyone knows how I worship James Newton Howard, the film composer, it should come as no surprise that in the last two weeks I've had the score for The Village on repeat play. James shines once again with an understated, elegant score. Violinist Hilary Hahn textures the cues with her solos and it almost sounds like tumbling leaves in the Fall. Like clear ravine water on it course downstream.

This score mirrors James's earlier score for Snow Falling on Cedars, another great score. To think of it, I don't think I've heard a score by James that fell off its mark. The guy is a genius.

And what I would give to spend half an hour with him. As it is my story, I always meet the celebrities or artists I could do without meeting, and the ones I admire remain elusive.

I cannot wait for James's score for the upcoming film The Interpreter.

"Peaceable Kingdom" by Jack Ketchum: A Review

2004-08-24T22:38:49Z

I have attended two Bram Stoker Awards weekends so far. I am not a member of the Horror Writers Association and yet I attend. I love horror and it gives me something to do during a weekend in the summer. I also get to go home at night, which is great.

I’ve met some interesting people during those two weekends. Some of those in attendance have known each other for years and it shows. They’re the ones that hover in corners and hide the liquor in the bathtubs. Or they are welcoming and inviting. You know how conventions can be.

During the two years I’ve attended writer Jack Ketchum has been in attendance. The first time I met him he was walking around the penthouse with a bottle of absinthe. He was of the gregarious, inviting kind. A very funny guy who didn’t hesitate to crack a joke with me, even though he’d never seen me before. It’s the kind of thing one appreciates later.

This year I saw him again and I think he remembered me. I think. Regardless, I saw him walking around the penthouse with a glass of scotch. The man knows his drinks.

My dirty secret during these past two years was that I hadn’t read any work by any of the authors present, except Peter Straub. So, there I was commiserating with Jack Ketchum and I didn’t dare mention any of his books. This year, before the weekend ended I bought a copy of his short story collection "Peaceable Kingdom" and his novel "Red."

Around the beginning of this month I started to read "Peaceable Kingdom." As I always do, I read all stories in order. At first, I was worried that I would be presented with a collection of graphic, hyper-masculine horror short stories which try to evoke a sense of dread by showing us how gruesome a death can be. The first story, "The Rifle," while clear and unnerving, posits a notion that many of those hyper-masculine authors love to write about: a mother discovers her son displays all the signs of becoming a serial killer (he eviscerates small animals, shows a marked interest in weapons, and is more than an outcast). I efforts to avoid a certain disaster in the future, the mother surprises the kid in his hideout and snuffs him with a rifle. To be very honest, I didn’t care too much for this story. It seemed Mr. Ketchum was going for the shock and not the emotional distress he intended. Maybe it was because the character of the son wasn’t all that developed and I couldn’t identify with him, nor feel pity for his assassination. Maybe it was because I couldn’t believe the mother would blow him away for something she wasn’t sure of. Regardless, the story did not hold for me and since I believe the first story sets the tone for the rest of the book, I didn’t feel to hopeful for this collection.

The second story, "The Box," was more of my cup of tea. A man and his children are riding the Metro North Railroad back home after a day of shopping in New York City, when a stranger sits before them. He carries a box and one of the kids is curious as to its contents. The stranger allows for the boy to take a peek at his box to appease his curiosity. Once home, the kid refuses to eat. And he does not eat the following day. Nor the next day. Once the kid tells his sisters what was in the box, they also stop eating. It is up to the father to ride the train hoping to see the man again to find out how to undo what has been brought upon his children (and wife). It is a bleak, unfortunate story, that though a tad loose in its reasons, it manages to evoke the right feelings of desperation and fear. My kind of story exactly. If anything, this story revived my hopes for the book and I was eager to find more like it.

The following stories, "Mail Order" and "Luck" did not impress me as much. "Mail Order," a revenge story that holds all of its weight on coincidence, goes for the shock like "The Rifle." "Luck," a western, was lost on me. I have no clue what happened and it is not a story I am likely to read again.

The tone of the book remains pessimistic and masculine throughout. It is obviously the writing of a man who likes to make people flinch. He manages to create some violent, repulsive imagery (he has a tendency to write about child killers, rapists, or sadists), and his language is brisk, concise and effective.

Among my favorite stories are "The Business," "Twins" (a great, original piece), "The Holding Cell," "Forever" (another excellent story-- this one drips with pathos), and "Closing Time," winner of the Best Long Short Fiction Bram Stoker Award this year. "Closing Time" tells the story of two lovers who have split just around the time of September 11, 2001. It is a painful time for the city of New York and most of its citizens are trying to find a new purpose in their lives. There is a criminal, a professional robber, who decides to take advantage of the vulnerability of the people in New York, and goes on a crime spree, robbing bars around closing time. All characters meet and the ending, an explosive, dramatic showdown, works wonderfully with the story. This was one great piece of writing and a worthy winner of the award bestowed upon it.

The collection closes with a story much like "The Rifle," dripping with violence, and it is with a certain foulness in the mouth that I closed the book. It took me two weeks to complete this book, which is not that bad, but not ideal. Maybe it was those "look at the blood I can shed" kind of stories, maybe it was the innumerable typos or just my affinity for stories with more fleshed out characters, but this collection could have been more. It is a great book and the talent is evident—Ketchum knows how to weave a story, yet I felt as one does when being shown a parade of freaks just to see a reaction. It’s the case of the stories that draw attention to themselves by the noise they make.

I realize my review seems mostly negative and it should not be taken as such. This was a good book, just not all that it could be. Not every story in a short collection shines, so the few clunkers in this book are allowed.

Regardless, I am looking forward to "Red," even if I have the impression that the book will hold as many nasty, ultra-masculine moments as his collection of short stories.

Just as I closed the book, I picked up my copy of Robert McCammon’s "Speaks the Nightbird". It has been sitting on my shelf since its release in 2002, so I thought it was time to read it. On that first day I read a good 50 pages, and by today, a mere 5 days later I am halfway through this doorstopper. I haven’t read a book as exciting, accomplished and entertaining as this one in a while, so I am thrilled to spend most of my free time immersed in its pages. It is everything a book should be and pretty soon I will post my review here.

Here’s my newfangled, absolutely personal and subjective rating system for books reviewed (a score of 1 being the worst and 10 perfection):

Title: "Peaceable Kingdom"
Author: Jack Ketchum
Publisher & Edition : Leisure Books. August 2003 (paperback)
Writing (1 to 10) : 8
Characterization (1 to 10) : 6
Plots (1 to 10) : 8
Style (1 to 10) : 7
Voice (1 to 10) : 8
Originality (1 to 10) : 8
Design & Packaging (1 to 10) : 4
Editing (1 to 10) : 2 (did anyone look at this at Leisure?)
Overall Rating (1 to 10) : 7.5

Choke on That

2004-08-09T23:33:38Z

I didn't know Chuck Palahniuk had a male partner until today. Good for him.

Read My Latest Book: Endless, Tome II, Book 31

2004-08-07T13:53:14Z

Taking into account yesterday's woes I tried to come up with a solution for my problems. It's easy: read what I have and just go with the flow in the future. If I'm lucky, I have some 50-60 years left in me, and I know I can get a few thousand books in during that time. Not as many as I'd like, but plenty to go the grave knowing I'm no moron.

I thought better about the Jeff Vandermeer book. While he does seem to have talent and a considerable following, I cannot at this time, follow a mythology book after book after book. In an interview he mentions how his next book is set in the same worlds, and so is the following book in the works, and the following. And so on. I'm not much of a fantasy reader and fantasy seems to thrive and survive because of the multi-tome series trend. A colleague, an avid reader of fantasy books, was just reading Robert Jordan's "Crossroads of Twilight (Wheel of Time, Book 10)", and this is a 864 page book. Book 10? To be frank, I don't have the stamina nor the will to follow a mythology for 10 books. Even J.R.R. Tolkien had the decency to stop after four books.

When complaining about reading variety and scope, and about how slow I read, the last thing I need is to devote a year to a series of books, with more characters than I can follow. If I feel like I have to take out pen and drafting paper and start drawing family trees to keep up with the characters, then I'm putting in more work than I'm willing to do.

A Book and a Chance

2004-08-06T16:29:36Z

Yesterday I stepped into the Union Square Barnes & Noble Bookstore, as I do every day after work, and for the first time in my life I felt depressed while surrounded by books. I made my way to the fourth floor, my usual hangout (my routine is to buy some coffee on the 3rd floor, go up to the 4th floor and scan the horror section (nothing new or interesting in months), then sit somewhere toward the back to drink my coffee and read whatever book I'm reading at the time), and avoided the crowds that went to see Al Franken read from his new book. I looked at a copy of Jeff VanderMeer's "City of Saints and Madmen: The Book of Ambergris", and while turning its pages my depression kicked in. The book looks great. It has excellent reviews and I dig the author's website. Yet, I didn't pay the $20 for the book (first of all, I rarely buy a book by an author I've never read full price... I cross the street to the Strand Bookstore and buy them for half price... If I love the book, I will buy the author's concurrent or previous work at full price to support him/her). It's not that I didn't buy it because I couldn't afford it. I just don't know when I will be able to read it and that thought sunk me into a funk right away.

Sometimes, my mind runs its own tragic play. As I held the book I thought, "I'm still reading 'Peaceable Kingdom.' Then I have 'Speaks the Nightbird.' Then there's 'Black House.' Then there's 'Collected Shorts of Josef Conrad.' 'Lost Boy, Lost Girl..." And so on... If you read books, you know what I'm talking about.

Not content with torturing myself over my pile of books to read, I started to think of all those other books I have never read or acquired that I would love to read one day: 'The Brothers Karamazov,' 'Republic,' 'On the Road." Oh, you know... With loathsome self-pity, I thought, "Oh, I'll never live long enough to read all the books I want to read. And how many books in my 'to-read' pile will remain unread upon my death? God knows I've bought enough books to read for the next 200 years."

I'm not the fastest reader. I can read fast, but I prefer not to. There's life, work and the fact that as I age I can't manage to read in bed before going to sleep as I did in the past (I remember 4 or 5 hour reading marathons before lights out in my teens). Now, I read a page or two before I turn out the lights. I read for 15 minutes in the subway on my way to work. Another 15 minutes on my way back. And once at home I check my email. And LiveJournal. And...

There are those books that I read in one sitting. When Poppy Z. Brite releases a new book or short story I always put aside whatever I'm reading at the moment and have me a good old-fashioned, butt-splitting read-through of the whole book. It's why I'm waiting for her to release a 900-page epic. That one might take me a week to read. If.

Same happens with Mary Morris, Stephen King, or Jonathan Carroll.

I guess it saddens me that I am not a faster reader. Or that I can't sit at home all day and just read, read, read. Yet, my reading schedule still allows me to make some great discoveries. You see, I tend to read book reviews and if I find something interesting, I will look for that book and read it. That's how I discovered Julia Slavin's excellent book of short stories "The Woman Who Cut Off Her Leg at the Maidstone Club and Other Stories", and Mark Z. Danielewski's daring post-modernist haunted tale of a house bigger in the inside than on the outside, "House of Leaves".

I'm wondering, what 'life-changing' books am I missing? What book out there, written or unwritten will never make it to my library because of my very human limitations? It is staggering to think that one's life could change so radically by, let's say, an empowering, heartbreaking, educational, thought-provoking read. If a book is a chance for me to find a new way of thinking, to learn something new, to enhance or adjust my personal philosophy, to grow as a human being, then how many chances will I never seize? That question can sink me into a foul mood.

It is why I continue to read.

Six Feet Under Predictions

2004-07-22T20:56:36Z

Two nights ago I watched the latest episode of Six Feet Under, “That’s My Dog.” I have watched SFU since its premiere and have always loved its ability to carry a story with unique characters and quirky plot developments. Last week’s episode was very upsetting and unsettling (Warning: Please stop reading here if you haven’t watched this episode by now).

A quick summary: David Fisher, on route to the funeral home with a body in the back of his van, decides to give a lift to a hitchhiker standing next to a stranded van, who claims he has run out of gas. Keith had just left town to follow his celebrity employer and David feels lonely. He imagines the hitchhiker coming on to him and offering sex, which is one of the reasons why he picked him up in the first place. Things turn horrific in a hurry. The hitchhiker (Jake), steals a pack of gum at the gas station (after filling his gas container and having David pay for it), and urges David to drive him to an ATM so he can pay him back. After what seems an eternity (night has fallen and I got the impression that David, still chasing that fantasy, has been driving aimlessly around L.A.), David points out an ATM in a convenience store off the beaten path. Just outside of the store, Jake punches David and pulls out a gun. He orders David to take as much money as he can from the ATM. David complies and follows Jake out of the store and back into the van. As they drive away the corpse in the back of the van starts to release gas. Jake is so repulsed by the corpse that he orders David to pull on the side of the road and discard the body. David complies. David tries to drive into the highway and escape, but fails. Jake ties him up, David escapes, and is trapped again. Jake orders him to drive to a seedy part of town to help him buy some crack. Once they score the crack, Jake orders David to smoke it with him. David tries to escape, but fails. It is not until they are in a forgotten part of town, when they see a dog entering an alleyway (a dog Jake claims as his own), that David escapes his plight. Jake pours gasoline on him and makes him close his eyes. A terrified David sees his life flashing before him and he steels himself for death. But he opens his eyes to see the van pulling out of the alleyway (and Jake has taken his wallet). David walks out and wanders until he runs into a police car.

Now, I admit to being very distressed as I watched this episode. I could not believe that David was going through such traumatic events in such a merciless way. I was sure Jake would at least shoot him by the end of the show. That Jake didn’t kill David doesn’t surprise me. It’s the possibilities of what might happen in future episodes that intrigued me. I decided to make a few predictions as to what will take place before the end of the season:

-I think we will know what happened to Lisa. I hope I am wrong about this, but I have a feeling that Jake had something to do with Lisa’s disappearance. The last thing Lisa purchased was gas and there was the matter of the Dr. Pepper can found in her car (Lisa didn’t drink Dr. Pepper, because she thought it poisonous, according to Nate). It’s logical to think that Jake was standing next to a stolen van when David picked him up. It will be interesting to know where the van was stolen (in the vicinity where Lisa’s body was found?). Don’t serial killers stick to an area to collect victims? It is plausible that he got Lisa as he did David, and had her drive out to the ocean (remember that Jake commands David to drive to Long Beach (“When you see the beach you’re there.”)). Maybe Lisa was on her way back to the funeral home following the same route that David was taking and found the same scene on the shoulder.

-Once David tells Keith we will see Keith’s rage resurface. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Keith trying to use his LAPD contacts and skills to track down Jake, with intentions of exacting some sort of revenge. Maybe we’ll see Keith going back to the park where Jake and David scored the crack to track down the dealer and get some information. Meanwhile, David will smoke crack on the side and try to hide it.

-David will lose his license and Fisher & Diaz, Co. will be fined for dumping the body and sued by the deceased’s husband. This prediction makes sense in light of one casting news I found here. Let us all hope that Mitzy Dalton Huntley from Kroener returns to take advantage of the situation.

-If the lawyer isn’t prosecuting on behalf of the deceased or the state, then we could have a scenario involving Jake. I am not very convinced that Jake is a serial killer (serial killer and crackhead?), but if it is so, then we can assume he will stalk David since he took his wallet. I think Jake will contact him via telephone before he drops by the funeral home. I wouldn’t be surprised if he vandalizes the home and terrorizes the family. Could David or Keith commit homicide if faced with Jake and end up in court facing mansluaghter charges? Could Nate do the same?

-David will not share his proclivity for crack to Keith until much later. Let us remember how Keith reacted in a past season to his sister’s abuse of crack cocaine. When he realizes that David is smoking crack we can expect an ugly fight and a possible breakup. David, at this point, will have lost his license and Nate, in order to maintain the family business going, returns to his job.

-Claire will have a regrettable lesbian affair with Edie. This character development seems over reaching and unnecessary. Claire has never shown any homosexual tendencies, so I don’t buy that she would try a relationship with Edie just to see what it is like. I hope this is not an attempt to make her more interesting or “artistic.”

-Ruth will finally realize that George is a fraud.

-Brenda will get pregnant and end her relationship with her new boyfriend once Nate is faced with the truth of Lisa’s disappearance. He needs to realize that Lisa did not commit suicide and then he will begin to heal.

-Vanessa will find out about Federico’s stripper as soon as this week’s episode. She will start to investigate and face both Federico and the stripper when they least expect it. Rico can expect a divorce suit.

Do any of you have any predictions as to what will happen? Feel free to share!

In A Strange Boutique

2004-07-07T19:31:31Z

This past weekend I made my way to Washington, D.C. to see my friends Monica Richards and Dru perform. Monica got together with the old members of her defunct band, Strange Boutique, and put on a fine 10-year reunion show for the D.C. fans. David came along with me for the trip. We took the early morning bus on Saturday and arrived at the city after noon. It was a scorching day, too hot to go sightseeing, but that is what we did. David had never seen the monuments, the White House, the Washington Monument, and so on, so I took him around.

We were to stay with our friend Merry, but the heat and sticky clothing became a bit much to bear and we got a hotel room. Showered, refreshed and in shorts, we headed to the venue to meet my friend and some of other folks who had come in for the concert.

David and I hung out with Monica backstage before the show (Monica was wearing a black baby tee with a girl’s head silkscreen right between her breasts, atop the words “Bad Hair Day”), and she was pleased to see us. Siddal, a band I’ve never followed, opened the show. They played a comforting set of relaxing, ethereal music. Like Enya on Xanax.

Dru came onstage and I was transfixed. She looked so gorgeous I was taken slightly aback. Her voice, after two shows (New York & Pittsburgh), carried the tunes with creamy, delicious sounds. The crowd loved it and This Ascension received a well-deserved round of applause.

When Strange Boutique came onstage they did so one by one. Once all band members, except Monica, were positioned and hiding behind thick plumes of smoke the crowd went berserk. Monica stepped out from behind the mist and started with SB’s rendition of “Heroes.” A full two hours later, Monica walked away from her last song in tears, and I was grateful to have traveled to D.C. to witness what seems to be a unique experience.

Upon my return to New York I took care of a few tasks. The most noteworthy was the submission of “The Butcher Bar” to a magazine. Here’s to some good luck.

This weekend I head for the beach on a necessary break. I’m taking my sandals, sun block cream, a good book, and my novel. Maybe I can get a page or two out between dips.

Fortean

2004-07-01T20:32:57Z

Yesterday was a Fortean kind of day for me. First, there was my mother's story.

While I sit at work I keep my Instant Messenger on in case she (or some other friends) want to communicate. If I have time, and because my mother lives in the Dominican Republic, we catch up for a few minutes and I go back to work. Since I am horrible with writing letters, this is the best way for my mother and myself to keep up with our daily activities.

My father, on my mother’s Instant Messenger, greets me. Asks me a few questions and leaves abruptly. My mother gets back on.

“Your father and Jennifer [my sister] have gone out to investigate something strange,” she writes.
“Oh, yeah? What happened?”
“Well, I saw something strange this morning.”
“Oooh, tell me. What did you see?”
“It was 4:30 a.m. and I was sitting in the balcony, relaxing before I took Chili [the family dog] out for his walk. The mutt who lives in the building’s yard started barking and I looked up. I saw a tall, skinny man dressed in beige shorts and a white short-sleeve shirt walking in Doña Ana & Don Guido’s front yard.”
“Uh oh.”
“I saw him from behind. He was walking ramrod straight. He had long arms. Long legs.”
“Wow.”
“I couldn’t understand how he climbed the fence. I thought, “it’s a thief,” and was about to call Doña Ana when I saw the man go into the house through the front door.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. We asked them today if they have a guest in the house, but Doña Ana says they don’t. She’s scared and thinks it was a thief, but everything is in place. Your father is over there right now checking on things.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Well…”
“You think you saw a ghost? I think you did.”
“I don’t know. The dog was barking…”
“Animals are sensitive to things we cannot see or hear.”
“Are they?”
“Yes. I’m sure the mutt saw the same man you saw.”

At any rate. My mother, a rational, logical woman, has never claimed to witness a supernatural event. She does claim she once met a healer in Germany who laid her hands on her body and she claims to have felt the ‘energy’ course through her, out of this woman’s hands, like a warm flow of electrical current.

My mother signs off and I get back to work. Toward the end of the day I check my personal email and see an email from an editor who I queried on whether they are open to submissions. He says they’re open to submissions and I complete my cover letter and do a last once-over of the story. I have a few last questions about formatting and submission and decide to hit the Barnes & Noble in Union Square (17th Street) and check out the writing reference section to clear them up. I walked from work to Union Square.

Once at the bookstore I got a cup of coffee and headed to the fourth floor, where I sat and read for two hours. Around 8:30, on my way out (I was invited to see a movie at 11 and I had to go change out of my clothes, eat something and head to the theater), I stopped at the reference section. I picked up the 2004 Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market book by Writer’s Digest Books and paged through it. Was surprised to see an interview with Poppy Z. Brite that I didn’t know about, read it, and then looked for answers to my questions.

At 8:50 p.m. I was walking out of the door. The sun had set but the sky was a vibrant sapphire blue. Not even two steps out of the door I noticed something in the sky. A dark shape. I look up toward the Beth Israel Hospital buildings on 14th Street, it’s twin towers with triangular roofs, and saw an object approaching the tower on the right from the southwest. The object, all black (no lights), had a cigar shape, with its ends slightly curved downward. It almost looked like the handset of an old phone. Comparing it to the building, it was two to three floors high and the size of one of the towers (a little less) wide. It moved northeast in a smooth way.

I knew right away that what I saw was not an airplane. Or a dirigible. Or a helicopter. Or a glider. Or a kite. I thought, “Maybe it’s a bunch of balloons tied together.” But I knew they were not.

I thought I noticed the edges shift somewhat. It was as if they blurred somewhat. Like the edges of an object underwater.

The object passed behind the two towers and I was still looking at the sky, with my mouth wide open and eyes agog. I looked around me, checking to see if anyone else had their heads craned toward the sky. I did not see anyone looking at the sky.

I looked back at the sky and, to my utter shock, I saw another object, smaller and with a more (god, I feel strange typing this) saucer shape a few feet below the other object. I saw the smaller object and noticed that its edges were not firm. They changed in fluid movements, like a bird flapping its wings, or a piece of cellophane paper curling on itself. It went from being flat to a “V” shape, then back to flat.

I was so shocked I stepped out onto 17th Street without noticing. I looked down in time to get back onto the sidewalk and continued to look as the two objects moved across the sky toward the northeast. To the Upper East Side or Queens.

Below the smaller object I saw a man-made airplane with its lights blinking red and white.

Half a minute later the objects disappeared behind the buildings and I could not see them anymore. I did notice the smaller object grew smaller still as it moved, as if it was compressing itself.

I was so shaken I didn’t know what to do after the sighting. It happened right above Union Square, one of downtown’s busiest intersections and park areas. There were hundreds of people around me and I did not notice anyone else looking up at the sky.

I am certain I did not see an airplane. Or any other flying object I’ve ever seen before. I make no claim to have witnessed an extraterrestrial craft in flight, but I can say that whatever it was it was unidentified to me. I considered reporting the sight to MUFON, but decided against it. I will check out the page on a regular basis. If someone else reports seeing the same thing I saw, then I will send them my story.

And to round up the collection of curiosities, here is a somewhat doctored (in my opinion) picture of the profile of the mountains of Machu Picchu, the lost holy Incan city. Here is another picture from a different angle (undoctored), and here is yet another undoctored picture. The face is in all of them and I wonder if the Incans selected that secluded spot for that very reason. There’s something bizarre and awesome about seeing that chiseled (Incan nose and all!) face on the mountains. Take into account this Nazca geoglyph design on the Peruvian desert (which can only be seen from the sky), and things get interesting.

I love this kind of thing.

Sanctus

2004-06-22T03:58:20Z

Someone I know, someone I see everyday, is a relic hunter. Not a hunter like the computer game character Lara Croft. Not a hunter of ancient artifacts, statues, or scrolls. Tim, when he’s not attending civil unions in New Paltz, or marching for civil rights, collects relics of saints.

Tim is a devout man. Single and middle-aged, I can understand where his unique hobby comes from. Not that I know the specifics, nor the history, but I guess I understand. He has dedicated his life to his search, the search for sublime faith and deliverance, and through the acquisition of relics he has accomplished the next best thing.

Often, it’s the religious ones that go after relics. A relic, which is often an object, or a cloth piece, or an actual piece of hair, nail, human tissue or bone matter that once belonged to a saint, or came in close contact with a saint, is the closest some people will ever get to divinity. A saint was once a temple of the Holy Ghost. To be able to hold and pray to something one or two degrees of separation from God is enough to bring on the greatest of sacrifices.

Earlier this month, Tim called me to meet him. He had something he wanted to show me. In a card, a rather modern version of the ancient reliquary, lay encased in plastic a piece of cotton cloth that actually rested on the skin of St. Josemaría Escriva de Balaguer, founder of the controversial Opus Dei. I have my history with the Opus Dei, so to hold a relic of the saint behind a few years of my childhood, turned out to be quite an emotional act for me. The piece of the coffin of another saint, no more than a sliver of wood, lay encased in clear resin.

Tim allowed me to take the relics aside and say a quick prayer to both saints. You are going to think I’m making this up, but that morning I had a stomach ache that would not quit, and holding those relics, a few moments after saying ‘amen,’ I felt my stomach settle for the first time. Maybe the power of faith or religious symbols can do wonders, or maybe it was my breakfast on its last stretch, but the experience left me wondering: what would happen to someone who spent his life collecting relics, like Tim? Are they guaranteed a reprieve of ills and aches, of financial woes and moral turpitude, by god or the saint they pray to? Are relics the equivalent of the Viper Security System (PLEASE BACK AWAY FROM THIS CAR—THIS CAR IS PROTECTED BY VIPER)?

Maybe soon I will be able to offer an answer of sorts. Tim has offered to procure a saint’s relic for a friend and myself.