Northingflix

I’ve been giving heavy consideration to creating a brother blog for “My Books Are Waiting,” which will provide an outlet for my other passion, film.  But I won’t be calling it “My Films are Waiting,” since all I’ve got to offer in that realm are a few silly movies featuring our cats.  No, I’ve been thinking that it might be fun to use our ridiculously high-powered Netflix account to another end:  Discussing recent titles that have come to me in the mail.  To be honest, the only reason this idea is tempting is because my wife and I have watched a ton of great movies and TV series lately that many people may or may not have heard of.

So, stay tuned.  It’s very likely that I’ll have another blog up-and-running on this topic someday soon.  And just in case I’m sending out the wrong signal here, I’m talking about recent films like “Little Children,” and TV shows like “Huff.”  I’m not the type to gorge on action flicks and the latest eight-season -long drivel that Fox pumps out.  Though there may be a few posts about dirty secrets (who doesn’t love an ancient episode of “McGuyver” every now and again?)  For all of those who are interested, I’ll keep you posted.

 

I’ve Always Loved Boris Yeltsin. No, Honestly.

Just sat down for a smoke and a quick email-check — both of which I do too often.  I was hugely excited to find that support@wordpress had sent me a comments moderation email.  (Of which I’ve disappointingly gotten only one before now.)  I simply had to approve it, for it’s one of those comments that should not go unseen.  Here it is, in full, a comment posted for my most recent entry, “The Blue Nametag”:

Hello! I just want to know, why I have found this page using russian keyword, that translates from Russian like “roof”?

Excellent question.  Apparently I’m big in Russia.  Take that, America!

 

Seeing Stars

I’m going to share a dirty secret with you. I worked at Borders for nearly four and a half years. Yes, I was one of those unlucky creatures who did the bidding of corporate overlords. I sold my soul for minimum wage and free coffee. (Or should I say free acerbic sludge?) Nonetheless, I never once saw a famous person. You would think that a major contender in the book world — not to mention one of the longest-standing branches in the entire state of Arizona — could manage to round up some appearances by some well known authors. But no. While the college-town store on Mill Avenue (just a skip and jump from ASU) was hosting an event for Kirk Douglas on the publication of his memoirs, our store’s biggest “star” was instead Jerry “The King” Lawler, signing his own autobiography. Where were the people real readers wanted to see?

Apparently, they’ve been touring the independent circuit. The writers I wanted to meet were at The King’s English all along.

I’ve been working for the company for roughly a month now, and already I’ve met the eminent poet Mark Strand. (He looks less like Clint Eastwood in person.) I’ve bumped into Gordon Campbell, whose debut novel already has already shown promise of making him the next premier mystery writer. (Campbell is possibly the nicest man I’ve met in all my years of shaking hands with published authors.)

It was on just my first or second week at the store, however, that I was able to meet someone whose writing I’ve admired for years: Diane Ackerman. This woman is proof that brains, beauty, and a great sense of humor can indeed go together. She’s also proof that after publishing ten books a person can still manage to be down-to-earth and…well, human.

I recall one of our rare book signings at Borders one day. It was for a local author whose books, for some unknown reason, were quite popular. She called herself “The Queen of Clean.” Her reputation as an unorthodox housewife — using such things as Tang to clean toilets — preceded her; it was a busy night.

 

The Art of Not Reading Philip Roth

I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. First it was The Human Stain, which I rather enjoyed and mistakingly took to be exemplary of Roth’s work. Then I moved on to one of the many Zuckerman books, The Anatomy Lesson. Already my interest was waning. Thirdly, as a sort of last-ditch effort, I picked up The Dying Animal; I was hoping that its diminutive size would assist in the reading, as lengthier Roths can be a chore to plod through. I finished the novel in an afternoon, but instead of feeling a sense of accomplishment I was plagued by foul images concerning menstrual blood and…I’ll stop there, come to think of it.

One would like to say that Roth made a departure from his autobiographical, glaringly solipsistic masturbatory fantasies with The Plot Against America. But the progress, if it could be called such, was short lived.

I unpacked his newest book in a shipment a few days ago. I read the title, Exit Ghost, and was intrigued. Upon reading the sleeve, however, I rolled my eyes and said to a coworker, “Well, good old Roth goes back to his roots.” It appears that Zuckerman is as resilient as his creator. And he’s even more neurotic than before, even more of a codger, even more pissed off about everything he sees around him. Once more Mr. Roth uses his alter ego to tell us all how much he hates us all; and according to this review from Atlantic Monthly’s Christopher Hitchens, the award-winning novelist even finds time to tell his own devoted readers what he thinks of them!

Say what you will about Mr. Hitchens (and some have said more than enough), this review is serrated, but tactful.

In the novelist’s defense, let’s  not forget the true exemplary Philip Roth novel:  The definitive manual of tidying up after autoerotic activities — otherwise known as Portnoy’s Complaint.  With that in mind, who can really say that the 75 year-old novelist isn’t worth his weight in…cloacal substances?

Mr. Roth, with toilet paper roll in hand, we salute you.

 

Under the Influence

There was a great quote whose source escapes me: “I’m a drinker with a writing problem.” I doubt this author was referring to coffee, but that’s what this post is largely about.

Have you had one of those mornings when the first step in the writing process is to fill the house with the effluvia of roasted beans?, and once your nerves are properly galvanized you finally find inspiration welling up from within? Furthermore, have you ever found it literally impossible to formulate the simplest of coherent sentences without the aid of the magic bean? I have. But that’s all behind me now. Here’s why: