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It's drizzling and humid outside, and the windows are open and the house-fan is on to draw a breeze. Honey is on the floor next to me working on a bone in which I've inserted a bit of the provolone and nuked it. Because sometimes just plain rawhide is boring for her. And I can understand that. And that damn bone is really too big for her. But she doesn't know that. Or care. So neither do I. And pretty soon she'll fall into her morning slumber, comatose on her back, her pink belly and white neck exposed, and her over-sized feet suspended above her at all angles. And all this is a backdrop to me listening to "Falling Down," my favorite track off of Scarlett Johansson's album of Tom Waits covers, and a track I've had cycling in my head since sometime last week.

First the album: Anywhere I Lay My Head has gotten some praise from critics, but unfortunately for SJ, that praise has focused more on Dave Sitek's production and musical re-workings of the Waits' songbook than the blond starlet's voice. Which is too bad, because I do think SJ's voice, while a bit flat, works well with the mood of the album, particularly on "Falling Down." I'm not saying her voice is great. But I don't think it's bad, either. And really, is Tom Waits' voice "great?" Still there are elements of passion and strength in Waits' voice that just aren't there with SJ, and I think this is what critics are pointing out.

Regardless of what you think of SJ's voice, the album is strong. It was recorded in Maurice, Louisiana, which serves as a sort of sonic backdrop to most of the songs. Swarms of insects carry the music to your ears, where it lingers, low and heavy, with a syrupy wetness. This is an album you need to listen to naked and sweating with the A/C off and a slow-spinning fan overhead.

Not that I've done that. Twice.

I've had "Falling Down" on "Repeat-One" quite a bit over the last week (a setting I've referred to before as: OCD? What OCD?). I've been alternating between the SJ cover and the Waits original, which has been an interesting exercise (Again, it's an exercise you might only appreciate if your alphabet begins with the three letters referred to in the previous sentence). Anyway, I thought I'd put both tracks up here for a little side-by-side comparison. A note to any expensive lawyers out there: I would be more than happy to remove either of these upon request.

Okay, so first the SJ track. Some things to listen for:
1) Come from St. Petersburg, Scarlett and me ... is the original lyric, something that SJ thought might be corny in doing this song, but which Sitek, according to the album notes, thought added to the "synchronicity" of the project. I agree.
2) David Bowie's voice appears on this track, as well as on one other track on the album: "Fannin Street."
3) The banjo that comes in during the second verse was inspired by Kermit's "Rainbow Connection."

Okay, so here it is:

If you're like me (and I truly hope you're not) you'll want to press play on that sucker again and again. If that's the case, than I'd urge you to go get it on iTunes or wherever you get your music.

Now, for the original. I hadn't listened to Waits' version before hearing SJ's. But I went out looking for it as soon as I did. The track below is from the album Big Time. I don't have any notes to add on this one. But I do have a suggestion on how to listen to it: imagine you're in a dimly-lit bar holding a pint and drowning over lost love. If you can't do that, then drink half a six and stand in your living room in front of your bare windows in your underwear belting out the lyrics to your neighbors.

Not that I've done this, either. Three times.


After several listens, I think I like the Sitek/Johansson version the best. But let me qualify that: I think the Waits version has a more timeless drunken-bar-song quality to it, and it stands strong on Waits' scratchy, pain-filled voice. But the cover is, in many ways, a much more interesting recording and it's immediately catching and powerful. Of course, the lyrics are the best part of any Tom Waits song. And in this respect, both tracks are on even footing.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Reviews  Music 

I think I must have received a bad shipment. Which is enough to destroy any drug user's week. I have noticed the last couple of times I shot up, as that little mechanical plunger is pushing the stuff in my leg, it just hasn't felt the same going in. And I was beginning to wonder if maybe something was amiss. And then Tuesday I got this flare up of the AS. Which hasn't happened since ... September? And that sort of confirmed it. But that's a hell of a way to receive confirmation. Metal rod, creeping it's way up the spine. Concrete in the joints. And so I responded as any self-respecting chemically-dependent person would: by drinking too much and watching a great movie—twice—before passing out on the floor of our basement. Escapism through film and unconsciousness through alcohol are great American pastimes. And Tuesday I was a Patriot.

And I hope all it is is a a bad shipment. Because if it's not that. If it's something else—like maybe the Enbrel just isn't working any more—well, that would be bad. But I'm starting a new batch of blue pens on Saturday and hopefully there'll be more kick to them.

It's weird how the body forgets pain. I've gone along for the last 4-5 months feeling normal. And when you're feeling normal, you tend to forget not-normal. You take normal for granted. And you begin to thumb your nose at not-normal and call it really filthy names, like "ass muncher" and "goat boy." And I'm real good at that. Because I sometimes like to burn bridges. And my body was ready to burn that bridge with not-normal and say good riddance. And I thought not-normal had gotten the message. Because he wasn't coming 'round at all. And I thought finally that annoying little fucker has left me alone. And I even started wondering if not-normal had just been a figment of my imagination. Like the monster under the bed. And maybe I'd just grown up and had begun to see that not-normal was nothing more than a coating of dust and few stray socks. And since normal was around to back me up, I was feeling a little cocky about all of this, getting more rigorous at the JCC, up-ing the weights, speeding up the stairs. And so there may have even been some chest-puffing going on. And I probably even told not-normal to go fuck off a time or two.

But not-normal heard me, and he was a little pissed. And so he worked his way in—just a hint at first—but then by Tuesday afternoon a full-blown limp had set up shop in my legs and my spine refused to go straight. And my mind recalled what this was like, and it didn't like it. Because he knew what came next. And so he gave me the green light to binge drink and watch movies. And do a little of the forgetting one might usually reserve for a really bad break-up or a death or something like that.

And I hate whining, especially on a day like this. Because it's sunny and crisp and there are signs of life on the trees. And it's Easter weekend, to boot. So I'll end this on a positive note and talk about the movie I watched. Because it was the glaring bright spot of Tuesday: The Darjeeling Limited. See it. It's now in my top-five favorite movies list, and if somebody would like to buy this for me as an anniversary present, I would give that person lots of kisses. Owen Wilson and Adrien Brody are fantastic. And so is Jason Schwartzman, for that matter. I think I'm just kind of partial to Wilson and Brody, in general. But all three really play off each other well in this movie and there is just some really great dialogue. In fact, this is definitely a dialogue-driven movie and I'm usually a sucker for those when they're done right. And Wes Anderson, who also did The Royal Tenenbaums and Rushmore, has a good reputation for doing it right. Here's one of my favorite lines: "I love you too, but I'm gonna mace you in the face!" This is probably one of those movies, however, that you will either love or feel completely indifferent about. And so if you don't like it, you'll probably wonder what the hell I was thinking, and if you love it, well we'll be able to just kind of nod at each other one day and maybe quote a line from the movie and that'll really be all we'll need to do, because we'll just know we appreciate the thing and it'll be enough. I'll say one other thing about it ... when you watch it, make sure you watch the 15-minute short clip called Hotel Chevalier which co-stars a short-haired Natalie Portman along with Schwartzman, and serves as a prologue to the main feature. It's so filthy and entirely good.

Okay. So now I'm just going to count the hours until tomorrow arrives. When I can inject this fresh batch of junk and hopefully feel that rush of calm come over me and a bit of the fatigue that comes along with it ... because that will mean it's good and it's working and this concrete in my joints should start going liquid once again and normal will come back.

link to this | comments (9) | File:  Reviews  Movies  Health  Back  AS 

Casey Dienel has been in pretty heavy rotation on my iPod for close to a year now. Especially the song "Frankie and Annette," which I frequently put on "Repeat One," a setting also known as "OCD? What OCD?" Her solo album, Wind-Up Canary, left me scratching my head a bit at first listen. But something about it grabbed me and pretty soon I found my thumb spinning that click wheel to her name again and again. Her voice just floats over her songs, held up by this thin piece of yarn, which is worn and fraying a bit. And so you sit there biting your nails wondering if the damn thing will collapse right in front of you, quivering and broken on the ivories. But it never does. And I think it's the danger and recklessness of that ongoing tension that is so addictive and exciting about her music. And beautiful.

Casey Dienel is now playing with a band and they call themselves White Hinterland. I saw them last Friday at Cake Shop. They've got an interesting sound, kind of jazzy, only with a violin and some sort of eastern stringed instrument I didn't recognize. I do wish they had done more of the songs from Dienel's solo album, but it kind of sounds like maybe she has "moved on" from those a bit. They did do one, though: Doctor Monroe. Overall, it was a solid performance. And by the time it was over, I found myself wanting more.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Reviews  Music 

A little over a year ago, my friend Tom signed a book deal with Random House. Well, one year and three months later, the book is finally in stores and I wanted to put in a little plug for it.

The book is called The Last Town on Earth. Go buy yourself a copy! I'll admit, I have not read it yet, so I can't speak to its excellence first hand, but it's getting some incredible reviews, including this one at the NY Times (link might require a login).

Also, this isn't just a plug for Tom. I designed and built Tom's Web site.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Reviews  Friends  Books 

I don't really go to that many concerts anymore, and when I do, it's usually somebody I really like. So it's hard for me to give an objective review of the Fiona Apple concert I saw Monday night at Wolf Trap. Some people might remember from this post, that I have a slight thing for Fiona. (If by 'thing' you mean 'crush' and by 'slight' you mean, 'resembling a 2-ton boulder.') Luckily, C has a sense of humor when it comes to these things, and doesn't mind my weakness for a certain genre of female vocalists. In turn, I put up begrudgingly with her addiction to anime. It's a fair trade.

It was a very humid evening at Wolf Trap. The only breeze came from the weak movement of air made when somebody opened their mouth to speak. I'm willing to bet there was not a dry patch of skin in the entire place. But I didn't mind. After all, I grew up in Houston. I have an excellent humidity tolerability index. And besides, as soon as Fiona went on, most corporeal concerns vanished from my consciousness, which was kind of nice. Sort of like a really good painkiller.

David Garza opened the evening. Jeff had clued me in ahead of time to DG, so I checked out some of his songs on iTunes before the show. I liked them, but found I mostly liked the rock-oriented stuff he did with a full band. So his acoustic performance at Wolf Trap was quite a different vibe, and I had a harder time getting into it, but part of that might have simply been my anxiousness to see Fiona. His sound did grow on me as he got further into his set.

Fiona came on stage dressed in a long, blue, strapless gown. If she was bothered by the heat, she did not let it show. I respect that in a performer: carrying on, regardless of surroundings. (A side note - When I lived in Dallas, I want to two different concerts at the Starplex during a particularly bad cricket epidemic. Elton John barely said a word about the crickets. As he sang, you could see on the giant screens above him that the buggers kept perching on his jacket lapel. But he didn't flinch. Dave Matthews, on the other hand, who I had seen a week earlier, was really freaked out by them and eventually had the Starplex turn up the house lights so that they wouldn't all flock to the stage. This had the unfortunate side effect for those of us out in the lawn, of not really being able to see the stage very well. Now, I like Dave Matthews, and I'm sorry he gets freaked out by crickets, but come on, what a pansy-ass. It's not like they were deadly bees or anything. (Sorry, Dave, I know you work hard, but we're talking about crickets here.)

By the end of the performance, FA was pretty well drenched in sweat, and her dress was a darker shade of blue across her torso from the wetness. But, lost in her music, she barely seemed to notice this until late in the show when she paused to introduce the band. "I feel like a giant ink blot," she said. Also, a nasty scrape appeared on her chest just above her left breast early on in the show, apparently self-inflicted, and apparently the result of an overly-aggressive bout of self-flagellation as she writhed on stage. But never mind cuts and scrapes. She seemed oblivious to them, too.

She performs with a certain violence, Fiona, bordering on rage. Her lyrics already have that quality to them, but on her records the anger is tempered somewhat by her soft, throaty vocals. On her records, she's like a shed full of dynamite, quiet and calm, but threatening to blow at any second. Onstage, it's as if somebody finally went inside and lit a match, causing her to explode in a cathartic display of rage and resentment. But her fans love it - I love it - and on Get Gone, when she spoke the words Fucking go! to the unfortunate 'you' of that song, it inspired a roar of approval among the crowd.

Fiona hit her stride about two-thirds of the way through her set, during 'Not About Love,' (also my favorite song) where her vocals took on this perfect mixture of raw emotion and a sort of jazzy playfulness.

I guess my only disappointment was with the band. With the exception of Dave Palmer who played keyboard and sub'ed for FA at piano when she stood at the mic, I thought the rest of the band sounded uninspired and flat. The drummer should have been on life-support. His licks were dull and unimaginative. And the bass player dragged like Snuffle-upagus on heroin. This was made all the more apparent against the backdrop of FA's force. I have to say that when David Garza joined the band to do Extraordinary Machine, it really rounded things out. Things sounded slightly more energized. Maybe he should have played with them on every song.

But I don't mean to end this on a bad note, so let me summarize this way: FA was incredible and I'd definitely pay to see her live again, sweat and all.

link to this | comments (8) | File:  Reviews  Music 

I went to see Ana Marie Cox (AMC) read at the National Press Club tonight with Mat. For those who don't know, AMC was the original voice behind Wonkette. Her book Dog Days was recently published and the event at NPC was a promotion for it. While she has stopped doing Wonkette full time, she does maintain this blog. Also, in case anybody is interested in more background, I found this Q&A session to be a good read.

The reading at the NPC began sort of strangely. The host introduced AMC and when she got up to speak, she opened things up to questions right off the bat. Of course, nobody had any questions because we were all in the same uncomfortable position: nobody wanted to be the one to break the odd tension in the air that always exists during the first few minutes of any presentation. Nobody, it seems, including the guest of honor herself. I definitely sympathized: the first few minutes of a presentation are always the hardest. Everybody is sort of getting acclimated to the 'feel' of the room and it's filled with a weird vibe. But it definitely added to the strangeness for her to open with a call for questions, but now I know why she did it: AMC is at her best when fielding questions. That became obvious later in the evening, after she read from her book and people finally got up the nerve to speak. AMC's casual, witty personality really comes out when she has the crowd to play off of.

But she was very different when she was reading from her book. She was downright timid and shy, which was sort of charming, actually. In a lot of ways, AMC is a delightful contradiction. You expect to find her 'Wonkette' persona - this sort of self-confident 'blogger diva,' who is sharp-tongued, clever, and witty. But instead, you find this sort of vulnerable, very human person who becomes visibly nervous when reading from her book. It was sort of refreshing to see that kind of honesty.

Anyway, I definitely felt inspired by her, which surprised me a little. I think for a long time I sort of just pegged her as a 'gossip columnist,' without much depth, which wasn't really fair. She has good insight and perspective on a lot of issues, from writing to politics, and I like that she's so down to earth. And I think it's really cool that she's made a successful segue in her career to 'novelist.' (There need to be more 'blogger-turn-novelists' out there.) She talked about how hard it was to write the book and how she virtually had to 'hold a gun to her head' to do it every day. I could definitely relate to this. It's hard stuff, writing novels. And it doesn't seem to get easier the more you do it, or the more you get published. Of the authors I've heard speak, even the ones who have published numerous books, most say the same thing. Frankly, I'm suspicious of the ones who pretend it's easy. What are they hiding, anyway?

I feel a little bad that I didn't show my support by purchasing a book. Sorry, AMC, But I usually prefer to read paperbacks because they're so much easier to hold and carry around with me. (And okay, they're cheaper.) I promise I'll buy the paperback!

Oh, and I wish I had been less shy myself and told her that I enjoyed watching the SOTU with her commentary as a backdrop. Catherine was out of town that night, and it's no fun watching something like that alone.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Writing  Reviews  Blog 

This blog does not often contain much in the way of 'scandal' or 'gossip.' Mostly, this is because it is about me and, let's face it, there's not much about me that is 'scandalous.' And if there is, like the time last year I finished the last of the milk then stuck the empty carton back in the refrigerator - my heart still races at the thought of it, I usually don't write about it in public.

Until now.

Let me come out with it, then: I'm having an affair. I know, I know. Crazy, right? Who with, you wonder? Who could this vixen be, this licentious home wrecker? Well, here's where things get a little more interesting. I'm having an affair with Fiona Apple. And you want to know the truly outrageous part? Fiona doesn't even know it. (So keep it under wraps, okay?)

I have to say that my iPod is an accomplice in this whole thing, the pimp. He set the whole thing up. He and his iTunes. I don't begrudge him, I'm simply placing blame where it is due. Thanks to him, I've had several clandestine dates with Fiona, unbeknownst to Catherine. Sunday, we went for a long walk together in the city, enjoyed the crisp fall air. We worked out together, did the dishes. That night, I even brought her to bed with me . . . while Catherine was sound asleep right there next to us! I'll admit it, this is a bitter pill to swallow. It is not for the faint of heart.

The only thing that's played on my iPod since Friday evening has been Extraordinary Machine, Fiona's latest release. But I just can't seem to help myself.

The first listen was sort of a 'get to know each other' thing. We weren't really sure if it was going to work out. There were new sounds, new sensations. It was strange.

But the more we got to know each other, the more those sounds enveloped me, heavy, like a burden I longed to bear. I craved more.

The entire album has that dark, floating wavelike feeling that made Tidal so memorable. The melodies are infectious and interlaced with delicious, well-timed moments of dissonance. Her throaty, sensuous voice breathes an easy honesty into her lyrics. Each line contains a bare-boned candor, unadorned, simple in it's depth.

from 'Parting Gift'

I opened my eyes while you were kissing me, once
More than once
- And you looked as sincere as a dog
Just as sincere as a dog does
When it's the food on your lips, with which it's in love

There are slow, minimalist songs like 'Parting Gift,' (quoted above) which I love, and poppy, I dare say almost 'hip-hoppy,' little confessions like 'Tymps (The Sick in the Head Song).'

I would definitely recommend this album to anybody. And as far as Fiona and I go? Well, as with any heated affair, I'm sure this thing will begin to cool. I'll move on to other music, other artists. She'll continue to not know I exist. But Extraordinary Machine will always be one of those albums I'll come back to from time to time and remember warmly that one special weekend we had together.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Reviews  Music 

Last night I went to the National Press Club to see John Irving read from his new book, "Until I Find You." It was really cool seeing John Irving live and in person, but the evening was not without it's oddities.

I've been a fan of Irving's since my early teens. Back then, I was definitely drawn to his knack for weaving strange sexual threads into his plots, which were themselves plenty strange to begin with. A mother killed by a foul ball. A boy conceived by a paralyzed soldier with an indefatigable erection. And, of course, at the heart of it all there always seemed to be a boy who had a close relationship to his mother, a distant or absent father, and who was fated to achieve something great. This was good fuel for my 16-year old brain. This was material I could sink my teeth into. And I did, reading every novel of Irving's up to "A Son of the Circus," which was published in 1994.

I have to admit that when Irving came out to the podium, I felt a momentary feeling of shock followed by an irresistible urge to applaud. I think I even heard some people in the audience gasp when they saw him. It's that knee-jerk reaction you feel when seeing somebody famous up-close whose work has had a profound effect on you. There's a certain amazement that comes over you for a few moments. This was evinced best by the two ridiculous women who introduced him and flittered and fluttered around like schoolgirls at the prom fawning over the quarterback. I felt embarrassed for them and I think their nervous introduction helped ground the rest of the people in the room.

Irving reads eloquently, the way you would imagine his prose should be read. His delivery is quiet and precise, and you can detect a faint New England accent on more than a few syllables. His voice has a slight roughness to it, like a fine-grain sandpaper, perhaps a 500- or 600-grit. You wouldn't use it for heavy projects, like removing layers of paint from wood, but you might use it to smooth a blemish off an antique table. He's not what you expect a writer to look like, either. He's typical wrestler: short with a wide, but solid, frame. At 55, he's still somebody with whom you'd think twice about picking a fight.

Now, while I thoroughly enjoyed the event, there were a couple of things about it that seemed somewhat 'off.' First of all, Irving prefaced and concluded his reading with a surprisingly thorough synopsis of the book. This was entertaining in it's own way; however, he told so much about the story through these bookend remarks that if I had just purchased the 800-page hardback at $25 I might have been slightly pissed off. Irving's preface and epilogue to his reading, complete with thematic explanations and character outlines, could have been sent directly to the publishers of Cliff's Notes or Reader's Digest. I thought it was funny that a writer known for his long-windedness had actually abbreviated his novel into an author's version of the 'elevator pitch.'

Another odd thing: the selection Irving chose to read had an over-abundance of the word 'penis' in it. Most people reading this blog know me and know I'm not a prude, but having John Irving drop the 'p-bomb' at least two-dozen times in the course of the evening became a tad uncomfortable, even for me. This had less to do with the word itself as it did with the delivery of the word, which was read with the same eloquent, proper tone as the rest of the selection, much the way a doctor might read from a medical textbook about some odd discoloration or birthmark on the very same organ. It definitely had a shrinking effect, not unlike a cold shower.

The evening wasn't all strange. My favorite part came after Irving finished his reading and talked some about the writing process itself. Some things he said that I found interesting:

• He has no choice in his subject matter. It just is.
• While his characters aren't always autobiographical in so much as they are based on real people, he thinks there is something autobiographical in the fact that he keeps inventing them.
• He writes all his novels from end to beginning. He must know the end and the beginning before he can begin. He approaches each chapter in the same way: end, beginning, fill in the middle. I thought this was fascinating if for no other reason than it is so different from the way I approach any writing project.
• It took him 7 years to write his latest book, and a couple of years were just spent outlining ideas and discovering the story before he even put pen to paper.
• I learned that a 'Rose of Jericho' tattoo was a rose with a vagina hidden somewhere in it.

As I said, I haven't read anything by Irving in a long time. I'm not completely sure why. It's wrong to say I 'outgrew' him. He is a master of language and, simply put, you can't 'outgrow' him. I guess the only thing to say is that my taste has changed. I blame it on the Internet! (I'm only partly kidding.) I think the main thing is that Irving's prose has become a little too polished for me. It makes me feel less like I'm reading an edgy novel by a modern author and more like I'm reading something from a time that is not my own.

Update:

John Irving appeared on the Daily Show today, August 17th. Starting sometime tomorrow, you should be able to see it here for at least the next week or two. After that, it may get relegated to the archives.

Update 12.05.2006

In case you're curious what a Rose of Jericho tattoo looks like, it's probably something like this:



A reader forwarded me this great pic. (Thanks F!)

link to this | comments (5) | File:  rose_of_jericho  Reviews  Books 

A tiger, a hyena, an orangutan, a zebra, and a teenage boy are stranded at sea on a lifeboat. Sounds like the setup to a joke, doesn't it? It may in fact be one, with the punch line having something to do with 'stripes.' But it's also the premise of Life of Pi by Yann Martel, which I finished reading a couple of weeks ago. The book left me with a renewed faith in the power of narrative to convey big ideas. On the surface, as you can imagine, this is an adventure story about one boy's survival at sea, and a riveting one at that. But below the surface, like the rich and varied sea-life that swim beneath the lifeboat in Martel's novel, you'll find a wealth of ideas. At it's core, this book is a philosophical meditation on the nature of storytelling itself, and how we derive meaning from narrative. It touches on themes regarding the presence (or absence) of God, man's free will, the nature of reality, the nature of language, and our ability to, as the author himself puts it, 'choose the better' story.

I passed by this novel in the bookstore several times before finally picking it up. And even after I brought it home, it was a couple of months before I actually began reading it. I think there were two reasons for my hesitance, despite the fact that I had heard great things about it: First, I felt like there would be some kind of mathematical or scientific undercurrent in the novel, probably because of the presence of the word 'Pi' in the title. While the word 'Pi,' which is the abbreviated name of the main character in the book, does have some thematic meaning in the book, that meaning is not purely mathematical or scientific in nature. It's more philosophical, really. My other concern, which was based on the book jacket, was that it would be one long allegory, which struck me as unappealing. While readers may find elements of allegory in the novel, it is not the underlying style of the book, which was a relief to me. Incidentally, in relation to the concerns over allegory, I also wondered if the story would be an extended parable. Though in the Author's Note it is promised that the story "will make you believe in God," I don't know that it actually teaches a moral or religious lesson. It certainly struggles with religious meaning, but doesn't seem to pass any judgments - the main character practices Hinduism, Christianity and Islam with equal fervor.

After reading over the paragraph above, I'm realizing that if you have any of the same concerns that I had before reading the novel, my explanations probably won't allay them at all. Still, you shouldn't let these things deter you from reading this novel. If you get nothing else out of Life of Pi, you're sure to find it a thoroughly entertaining action-adventure page-turner. At the same time, if you're the type of person with a thirst for Literature (with a capital 'L') you don't have to feel guilty about enjoying this book because you'll find plenty of deeper meaning and significance, even if it's different from the meaning I've managed to find in it.

Oh, the book really gets going in part two, but pay close attention to part one anyway, as all that stuff comes back in part three.

Life of Pi (Amazon)

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Reviews 

If you've been thinking to yourself, 'Where might I go to smell teriyaki-scented car fresheners, have rubber, decapitated limbs thrown at me, and have brutally graphic, frequently gory, and often horrific prose read to me?' then I have just the thing for you: go see Chuck Palahniuk read at one of his 'Smell the Meat' book tour stops. Last night I was lucky enough to see this odd, carnivorous event first hand, and I have to say that, while I did not become one of the many people who have actually passed out while he read from his new novel, Haunted, I could certainly see how this was possible.

The event took place in the Grand Ballroom of the National Press Club, which is on the 13th floor of that building. Already, before even entering the room, I was feeling a bit 'haunted' by that fact. I've been to the Press Club for one other occassion: a press conference held by the large non-profit I used to work for, and it was also on the 13th floor. What I found myself wondering then, and again yesterday was this: Why does this building even have a 13th floor? Isn't that supposed to be a no-no?

The Grand Ballroom was already mostly filled by the time I got there, so here is some good advice if you do go to a Palahniuk reading in the future: get there early. He's often early himself, apparently, and will sign books at a leisurely pace before the event starts. He also seems to enjoy standing for odd poses with fans who want a picture with him. I saw him pose with several people, pretending to inject a fake needle into their arms. (This had to do with the fact that one of his fans had given him a pen that looked like a syringe before the event.)

I found a seat near the center of the room next to a mother who appeared to be accompanying her three junior-high aged kids to the event. The first thing I noticed about this woman was that she wore mocassins, and the way she was dressed, it seemed like she had walked straight out of my 1985 elementary school yearbook. She did not look comfortable at this event, and that made me a little uncomfortable, particularly when Chuck told stories about guys caught dead in sex booths, still holding their dicks in their hands, or a chronic masturbator with HIV who was afraid he had killed his dog because the ignorant canine would inevitably find and eat his soiled tissues from the trash-can each morning. Oh yeah. This was some uncomfortable business, alright. Still, most of the people laughed, gaffawed, or at the very least, cracked a smile. Not the mom sitting next to me.

The first thing Chuck did when he got up to the podium was have some helpers pass out these teriyaki-scented car air-fresheners. You quickly learn that the words 'air-freshener' and 'teriyaki-scented' are contradictory in nature. He then asked people to 'touch their meat' and if they didn't have any meat, to 'touch somebody else's meat.' I found this quite humorous, in an MTV, Beavis-and-Butthead sort of way. I like a literary man who can come down bathroom humor now and again, and with Chuck, this is again and again.

Chuck told a couple of stories about past readings, and some of the strange fans he'd met along the way. Then he read from his novel, Haunted. He read a story from it called 'Hot Potting,' which, if it isn't the most grotesque story in the book, it probably ranks pretty high up. The climax of the tale involves a stark, shocking description of the particulars of what happens when a man is slowly killed from falling into a scalding hot-spring that is 200 degrees fahrenheit. The prose from this story is at times crude, and at times scientific, just like most of Chuck's writing. He uses the crude to bring it down to raw basics. Then he uses the scientific language to keep reminding you that this is real. This really could happen to a person.

I was pretty grossed out, but luckily I'm not the kind of guy who becomes light-headed or sick from hearing such verbal descriptions read aloud. But somebody like Catherine definitely would have had to leave the room. In fact, several people did just that. Most stayed, however.

When the reading was over, Chuck opened a big bag of rubber limbs - legs, feet, arms, hands - and began hurling them into the audience. They were shockingly real looking, complete with painted on blood, and bones that jutted out of the limbs. I came very close to grabbing a leg of my own as it spun through the air at a frightening velocity, but it went just over my outstretched hands. I felt the breeze of it touch my fingers. Chuck said these made good dog toys, but I don't have a dog, so they wouldn't have done me much good.

The event closed with a Q&A session. My favorite moment out of this was when a young girl just about to graduate from high school asked Chuck if he thought it was worthwhile to spend a lot of money going to writing programs to learn how to write if you can just go and do it without the formal classroom. I understood what was at the root of the question: what were his thoughts on creative writing programs, MFAs, etc? Were they a waste of time? His response was very tactful and insightful. On the one hand, he didn't want to discourage her from pursuing an education that would probably serve her well. He joked that there were a lot of professors out there who made their living from those sorts of programs and one day he hoped to be one of them, so he didn't want to shoot himself in the foot. But, on the other hand, he told her the only way to have stories to tell is to live an interesting life, choose your friends 'unwisely,' and make stupid mistakes as frequently as possible. But then he made sure to add this at the end: just don't get brain damage and don't die. I thought that was a nice touch.

The mom next to me still did not smile.

I stood in line to have my hardback copy of Haunted signed by Chuck before I left. I stood in line for about 20 minutes trying to think of what I was going to say. When I got up there, it was all very fast, but I managed a brief exchange that went something like this:

"I think it's encouraging that you didn't start seriously writing until you were in your early 30s and that you were published at 35. I'm in my early 30s now and I sometimes wonder if I missed my creative prime because I was too busy living."

He gave some thought to this before he said, "We haven't gathered enough good stories until we're at least 31."

Then he handed me the signed book. I smiled, thanked him sincerely and walked away grinning. I'm 31, I recently left my job to begin writing part-time, and I do finally feel like I have some stories to tell.

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