FOLLOW UP

Had a right fair weekend, thanks. Partied a little, slept a lot, cleaned house, filled the fridge, slept some more, I'm fighting a bug which I think is more psychological than physical, but still I got a lot of sleep. (I saw this documentary on Bill Hicks last night, but I can only go one thing at a time these days, stamina etc dontcha know. So.)

(1) The Romance Novel section in the Union Square Barnes & Noble is completely ghettoized. It's up on the top floor, in the back row, behind literally everything else, against the back windows. It couldn't be harder to find if they had put a false wall in front of it. And the aisle itself is skinnier than all the other aisles, and the lighting sucks back there so you can't read anything… You think I'm kidding. Go check it out. If I wrote romance novels, I'd be pissed.

(2) Given all of (1), the Romance aisle was packed. Packed. Literally dozens of women comparing titles, reading passages aloud, talking, on a relatively quiet night in the rest of the place, it was a madhouse back there. And when I wandered into the maelstrom, there was a wave of quiet as I approached and passed. It was like they were expecting me to hit on them or something. Sorry (or rest easy, whichever), ladies, I'm actually looking for something specific here, and I'll be on my way.

The novel itself is not, far as I know about the style of these things, a romance. Ultimately it wound up being quite good, though the first few pages kind of threw me. (I recognize the size of the chip on Carrie Pilby's shoulder alright, not to mention the feeling of I've-never-been-wrong-so-it's-gotta-be-all-of-you that torques the story along, but I've never given an off-the-cuff speech as long as the half-dozen examples Caren sprinkles through this book in my life.) As a coming-of-age tale about a young adult genius-type who graduated Harvard at 19 and forgot to pick up some social skills along the way, I could identify with it. It's quite beach-ready, and certainly a nice way to blow an afternoon on a barcalounger (or a park bench overlooking the Hudson for that matter).

Not that this is a huge group, but I'll say this, for the dust jacket if nothing else: Carrie Pilby is at least as good as any novel (written by a friend of mine, published by a major publishing house) I have ever read. So -- cool.

INTRODUCING SUBLIME TO RIDICULOUS FOR OVER 20 MINUTES
I spent a significant part of the weekend looking for Caren Lissner's spanky new book. I was, admittedly, spending rather a lot of my time in various headache-inducingly shrill pubs, art gallery birthday parties and most of the Eastern edge of Central Park, and not so much in actual bookstores. Also, the book itself (Carrie Pilby, Red Dress Books) is apparently in the "Beach Reading" section, which I didn't even know existed, at least not in the stores I checked. (Wandering around the upper east side with an out of town friend was lovely, but in retrospect I might have been more forceful in dragging her into every Barnes and Noble along Broadway, which it turns out there are quite a few, and can we get a hell yeah for media saturation. If nothing else, those places are air conditioned, which can be a help on a muggy early summer afternoon when you're not used to the seasonal change yet.)

I am, however, quite eager to read it, the book I mean, even if she's publicly concerned about it being considered light summery fare instead of the Nobel-track gravitas stuff that traditionally doesn't start selling until about 40 years after the author dies, if ever, cos she knows (& I'm kind of dimly aware) that really, now's not the time to worry about that long-view claptrap, she oughta get the career started first, then hit 'em with the big stuff, her Fairytale of New Jersey, her Ulissners, so considering that, you're damn right I'ma keep looking for Caren's book, and it's not only because she's the Editor of the Hoboken Reporter, and now a published novelist whom I know (and as such is a living, breathing continuous poke at the tender spot in my what-do-I-do-with-my-second-draftedness), but (but!) on July 1st, I'll be co-hosting a special Canada Day version of the Tuesday Night Trivia Contest at the Baggot Inn with her. You'll be hearing more about this momentous event between my two homelands soon.

Because, needless to say, I think getting to hang out and play trivia with her for y'all is downright swell. Come check it out. You're gonna find out things about SCTV and Lorne Greene you really, really didn't want to know. And you'll win stuff. Even if you suck at trivia.

Oh, one more thing: check her blog daily. You won't want to miss an installment by accident and have to catch up.

WHATEVER, WHATEVER

For the dozen or so of you each day who arrive at this site looking for news about Shakira's Ass, I finally have some:

It's been optioned by Paramount.

UPDATE
It's been a quiet online week for a couple of reasons. I've spent too much time solidifying my hold on things at work, and that has less to do with the job than it does that I've been a little numb lately, like I'm walking around enveloped in padding. Like I'm practicing for being old. Which is not terribly conducive to the creative process. I abstain because I care. You're welcome.

I did go out last night, though, to see Brad & Tanya True do their duet thing at Micky's Blue Room in the East Village. Basically, their set consists of a series of pieces about how they just wanna go home and shag like minks, and they spare few details. Despite the occasional ick factor (Brad's torch song about discovering the joys of his own prostate being one high point of the show), it's not entirely devoid of sweetness.

They had some little contest, and the prize was a purple skullcap do-rag Tanya had found, apparently on the street. Now, she'd cleaned it in Kiss My Face Body Wash, so it was okay, but the thing wound up on my cue ball head for a few minutes before I fobbed it off on some pretty thing at the bar, and even now, two showers later, I can still smell that body wash stuff on me. (Because face it, if it ain't industrial-strength delousing agent or Hai Karate, it doesn't touch this boy's skin.)

I also ran into a couple of people I used to be close to that I haven't seen since I went into my little exile. And I acted like an incoherent ass in front of both of them. Sean (of Pawnshop) manages the place, and was gracious and swell enough that I might not have destroyed my chances of playing there sometime soon. (It's lovely in the heat of summer: big bay windows overlooking the great human zoo of Avenue C, AC cranked up to Arctic day & night, and draft kegs which I'm guessing are packed in dry ice. There are few places better to spend a sticky July night.) And the last time I met Stacey, she was some partygirl ne'er-do-well with a series of friends who started fights with bartenders, and now, now she's a director! Of plays!

But I couldn't speak coherently in front of them for love or money (or gigs or free beer), and I hadn't drank nearly enough to justify that. So maybe I should get out more often. See, if I didn't care about keeping the social graces, I'd have bought some farmland in Saskatchewan and cranked all this shite out on a Selectric instead.

Maybe the big ole Meetup party at Siberia on Friday night will help (come on down and get this fella a shot of whoop-ass, and keep 'em coming till one of us drops).