Forgotten in the last post was my great surprise at the plethora of oil derricks dipping and rising in the barren fields on my way into West Hollywood from the airport. It was the first time I'd passed through working oil fields and I was astonished at their location within the vicinity of people's homes.
A saunter along Santa Monica Blvd early Monday morning bespoke a chief difference between the East and West Coast mentalities. Already, the cafes were crowded with people sipping lattes and nibbling upon all sorts of healthy looking (and inviting) rolls and breads. Inspired, I popped into the cafe near my hotel and ordered a bowl of oatmeal with raisins, walnuts and clumpy brown sugar instead of Weetabix (a Brit cereal which we can buy in East coast supermarkets, albeit at an exorbitant prices) toast and marmalade--delicious.
It's without risking cliche to conclude Californians--if not Californians, then certainly "Angelinos"--appear to be extremely health orientated; the overwhelmingly vast majority of women walking the streets had the proportions and fashion tastes of their European counterparts (admittedly WeHo as it is known is highly sophisticated) and the gyms--certainly the ones on Santa Monica Blvd--were vibrantly inviting and open 24 hours and people were actually using them after eleven at night. Another observation, one made after my second day, was that everyone seemed to be writing--not novels or memoirs, but rather the great American film script. It was amusing and very energizing (certainly energizing enough to make me resolve to resume my unfinished third novel on my return to the East coast) to sit at a table outside a cafe and hear a cluster of people talking unabashedly about script writing. Some even held group meetings at tables peppered over the sidewalks where they sipped iced coffees and critiqued one another's work. On one occasion, during lunch in a wonderful Spanish restaurant that served the most delicious seafood salad, a thirtyish something chap was having his work critiqued by someone of importance in the industry; I surmised that the scriptwriter must be a "somebody" by the gist of what he was advising about studio protocol in general, but soon was left in no doubt after the fellow took leave of his neophyte and was but ten yards down the street when said neophyte's boyfriend (who'd been sitting languidly at a nearby table with their sausage dog, Benedict) charged over and the two conversed excitedly about his good fortune to have someone so important spend time discussing his 'thriller-in-progress.'
Monday afternoon, I took a taxi from my hotel to the Adelphia Cable TV Studio where I taped Connie Martinson Talks Books which will air in Los Angeles on August 15th and in other cities, including Manhattan, shortly after that. Admittedly, given Connie's importance in book show circles, I was nervous and anxious not to make any gaffes, though she soon put me at ease. As I was waiting in the green room, I watched a prior author--forget about the glamor of being an author on tour; it's actually a conveyor belt at TV studios and radio stations--on the telly sharing an anecdote about how she was waiting in another NYC Green Room' for a national morning show anchor to interview her and how she was informed at the last minute by the producer that the national morning show anchor and she were wearing the same color of frocks. The incident was amusing and the popping of Xanix was alluded to, though I also could not help wonder why some women of intelligence obsess about another woman wearing the same shade of dress on the telly.
Thereafter, I was scheduled to speed off to do a live radio interview, one that was to be hugely important as the host's listenership was perfect for my novel, but the damned thing got cancelled. Maybe the Supreme Being was conspiring to make me suffer because I had been so unsympathetic to the prior author's Xanex predicament. It turned out the host's problem was familial and serious and I understood the reason for the cancellation of course, but still a part of me--a dark, selfish part hidden deep within my core--rebuked (if not actually cursed) the Supreme Being for a brief time most resoundingly. But in the end generosity and understanding prevailed and I do hope all worked out satisfactorily for the show's host.
It was not until the following morning, while on my way to Inglewood to do an interview on an overwhelmingly religious station with a huge audience --yes indeed, a religious show because one must not turn down the Supreme Being's largesse when it's offered, must one?--that I realized the cab driver, whom I'd used because he seemed friendly and honest, was in fact ripping me off...again most resoundingly. I'd been assured by my publicist that the Inglewood radio station was much closer to my hotel than the Adelphia Cable TV station of the previous day. Yet, I noticed the meter was running terrifyingly fast and, moreover, when the journey ended, the amount was but three dollars short of the previous days fare. I questioned this and the cabby--an Armenian whose family I felt I already knew very well--fell rock silent; but he recovered with some indecipherable utterance and then asked me much more lucidly to be sure to call his cell and have him cart me back to the hotel, no doubt because he figured I was suspicious by now.
Upon inquiry at the reception desk, it turned out my hostess, Ms. Bobby Howe, was having Cadillac and car dealership woes and would arrive an hour late, though I became not in the slightest bit unhinged as I has no immediate commitments. As I waited in the small, wood paneled waiting room I scrutinized a bunch of pamphlets containing information about the multitude of religious shows aired, as well as copious flyers with photos of backlit clouds and leafless trees in relief heralding bible study groups meetings, and one 70s looking one featuring the profile of a platinum-haired young woman and her heavily sideburned hubby.
A silhouette appeared on the glass front door around ten-ish and it seemed to swing open automatically. Five-foot-three, Bobby had coppery hair, was clad in pink, and administered an embrace that not even my mother has ever given me (We Irish are not big huggers, unfortunately). Bobby and I became friends immediately, even more so when she told me about her out-of-wedlock pregnancy years ago and a related fact she was a recovering Catholic. Throughout the course of half-an-hour, Bobby brought out every important aspect of the novel and my background--including Gabriel's conflict about his sexuality--and the result was one of the most sincere, one of the most valuable interviews I've ever had. She finished by having me read an excerpt, a piece about Gabriel's mother that I stumbled over about halfway through, but she would not edit it and assured me this would make our interview all the more sincere, all the more meaningful to her listeners. What she did edit out was a mistake I made out of ignorance when I gave the price of the paperback--apparently that is advertising and not allowed on shows like hers.
Of course, after the taping, I booked another taxi and discovered the fare was twelve dollars less. Full of zeal--I'd shared my story with Bobby and she was adamant I had to take action against the cab driver (she'd actually called him something a tad stronger)--I went to the hotel general manager because the malfeasant's company has a hub there. He was greatly concerned and has promised to investigate, even have this particular cabby banned from operating there if necessary, in addition to investigating the past practices of the company's cabby staff in general. It turns out they've had other complaints. It was one of those rare occasions where it actually helped to say I was also a NYC lawyer (implication being, I'm aggressive) as well as a visiting author.
Feeling appropriately vindicated, I booked another cab that Tuesday evening and was taken to my evening taping at Pacifica Radio for a very fair sum, the route taking me past the famous Hollywood pavement one sees often on the telly, the one littered with pink granite stars, as well as past the famous Chinese and Kodak theaters which have hosted and host the Oscars respectively. During the ride, my driver shared that there's a lot of cheating of customers going on among LA cabbies, from the downright mundane such as taking the longest route to a destination to the furtive use of an electronic device--presumably using infra-red technology--that causes the meter to turn faster as the car moves forward.
One final observation was the general vulgarity of the area around these infamous Hollywood shrines, so crammed were both sides of the Boulevard with camera outlets, fast food restaurants, T-shirt kiosks, loud tourists, etc. But then again, Hollywood life appears synthetic if not actually vulgar in the main, so perhaps it's fitting that the home of its hallowed shrines is but one cacophonous reflecting pool thereof.
[technorati: Los Angeles, Hollywood, Connie Martinson, Pacifica Radio,Bobby Howe]
Thursday
Los Angeles jaunt: Part One
Catching a 10.15 am flight from Philly on American West (whom I shall never fly again out of principle because they are extremely cheap and do not allow one to ply oneself with their booze for free and charge $5.00 for ear phones), I found myself one seat in front of an orthodox Jewish family with four young, vocal children on their way to Santa Barbara.
Seeing them caused me to remember the time a few years ago when Larry and I dropped my parents off at Newark airport for their return flight home after a visit. Like me, my mother is a nervous passenger and, in the line in front of her at the check-in desk, were four Hasidic Jews. In Northern Ireland, there are no Hasidic Jews and, to people who have never seen them before, they can be very scary. My mother scrutinized them while affecting nonchalance to us as the line moved slowly forward. I know her every gesture and she wasn't listening to a word of my conversation, responding 'yes' to every question I asked her, and her face was glowing and had developed a sheen. Just as we were about to check in the bags, she chaffed at the bit, turned to my father and said, "James, I am not getting on a plane to London with these Arabs. It'll be the end of us."
It didn't matter one iota when I argued they were Jewish and prayed as much if not more than she did, and my twice-uttered insult that she was a bigot was ignored. To her, they were scruffy and dangerous-looking and she did not want to fly with them. In the end, I dragged the bags to the counter while my father calmed her down before the speechless check-in clerk.
In my case, the family was not Hasidic and they were all goodlooking, though curiously only the little girls were burdened with being dressed in painfully old-fashioned clothing. The wife was in her early thirties, English and highly educated judging by her rounded vowels, and I found myself taking many furtive glances at her while I debated myself back and forth as to whether she was wearing the de rigueur wig. (I occupy my mind on minutiae during flights, as well as scrutinize the flight attendants faces for any evidence of surprise or fear during bouts of turbulence and their attendant aircraft lurches, or upon the outbreak of unexpected creakings from within the plane's walls and bowels. My reasoning is, if it's unusual, their faces will register it.) In the end I concluded she was bewigged, because she kept scratching at the hairline on her nape during the flight and I was sure it couldn't be nits, my deduction being spot-on because she put on the little cap thingie which orthodox women wear during our stopover in Phoenix. What was truly remarkable about this family was that they were accompanied by a blonde-tressed Swedish or Danish au pair who had a small tattoo on her back and was dressed as liberally as they were conservatively. Indeed, it was clear her Scandinavian liberalism had already infected the family because their son was sporting a tattoo--admittedly only a transfer--on his forearm and Tati (their word for Daddy) who was clad in a black suit and hat, had obviously allowed it.
The flight would have been perfect had it not been for an outbreak of turbulence (judged excessive at the time of its occurrence, but filed in my mind under 'mild' once my butt was safely on the ground) halfway through the flight coupled with the alternate sighs and muffled squeaks that the aircraft's lurches elicited from one vastly more sensitive passenger--a macho, hirsute gentleman whom one wouldn't annoy if one encountered on a city street--across the aisle from me.
My first aerial view of Los Angeles was highly favorable and I was struck both by the contrast between Philadelphia's landscape of lush, green fields and woods and Los Angeles' crinkled mountains and the sprawling vastness of its grid. More than the distance and five hour duration of the flight, this remarkable contrast in topography viewed from the tiny porthole window of an aircraft was an apt reminder of just how vast is the territory of the United States.
Being practical, I had taken only a small backpack and I was out of the airport in five minutes. Though I had never been to LA before, within minutes I found myself ensconced in a Super Shuttle Taxi on my way to the hotel in West Hollywood...or so I thought. Thirty minutes later, after two complete revolutions of the entire airport's terminals in some mad hunt to fill the van with more victims, I had had enough, objected, and the other passengers chorused their agreement. What should have taken 40 minutes took one-and-a-half hours and I was dropped off last--as punishment for raising said objection, naturally. (Tomorrow, I shall relate further taxi service woes still raw in my mind.)
Anxious to taste West Hollywood, I showered quickly and hit the Santa Monica Blvd where I dropped in on A Different Light, the bookstore where I was to read the following night and went to supper at Hamburger Mary's. I'm a sucker for a good old fashioned hamburgers and this place goes right to the top of my list because it was cooked as requested, loaded with lots of interesting toppings, and accompanied by a huge organic salad (no iceberg or Romaine lettuce here) which worked wonders at extinguishing any guilt.
[technorati: Los Angeles, A Different Light Bookshop, Hasidic Jew, Judaism]
Seeing them caused me to remember the time a few years ago when Larry and I dropped my parents off at Newark airport for their return flight home after a visit. Like me, my mother is a nervous passenger and, in the line in front of her at the check-in desk, were four Hasidic Jews. In Northern Ireland, there are no Hasidic Jews and, to people who have never seen them before, they can be very scary. My mother scrutinized them while affecting nonchalance to us as the line moved slowly forward. I know her every gesture and she wasn't listening to a word of my conversation, responding 'yes' to every question I asked her, and her face was glowing and had developed a sheen. Just as we were about to check in the bags, she chaffed at the bit, turned to my father and said, "James, I am not getting on a plane to London with these Arabs. It'll be the end of us."
It didn't matter one iota when I argued they were Jewish and prayed as much if not more than she did, and my twice-uttered insult that she was a bigot was ignored. To her, they were scruffy and dangerous-looking and she did not want to fly with them. In the end, I dragged the bags to the counter while my father calmed her down before the speechless check-in clerk.
In my case, the family was not Hasidic and they were all goodlooking, though curiously only the little girls were burdened with being dressed in painfully old-fashioned clothing. The wife was in her early thirties, English and highly educated judging by her rounded vowels, and I found myself taking many furtive glances at her while I debated myself back and forth as to whether she was wearing the de rigueur wig. (I occupy my mind on minutiae during flights, as well as scrutinize the flight attendants faces for any evidence of surprise or fear during bouts of turbulence and their attendant aircraft lurches, or upon the outbreak of unexpected creakings from within the plane's walls and bowels. My reasoning is, if it's unusual, their faces will register it.) In the end I concluded she was bewigged, because she kept scratching at the hairline on her nape during the flight and I was sure it couldn't be nits, my deduction being spot-on because she put on the little cap thingie which orthodox women wear during our stopover in Phoenix. What was truly remarkable about this family was that they were accompanied by a blonde-tressed Swedish or Danish au pair who had a small tattoo on her back and was dressed as liberally as they were conservatively. Indeed, it was clear her Scandinavian liberalism had already infected the family because their son was sporting a tattoo--admittedly only a transfer--on his forearm and Tati (their word for Daddy) who was clad in a black suit and hat, had obviously allowed it.
The flight would have been perfect had it not been for an outbreak of turbulence (judged excessive at the time of its occurrence, but filed in my mind under 'mild' once my butt was safely on the ground) halfway through the flight coupled with the alternate sighs and muffled squeaks that the aircraft's lurches elicited from one vastly more sensitive passenger--a macho, hirsute gentleman whom one wouldn't annoy if one encountered on a city street--across the aisle from me.
My first aerial view of Los Angeles was highly favorable and I was struck both by the contrast between Philadelphia's landscape of lush, green fields and woods and Los Angeles' crinkled mountains and the sprawling vastness of its grid. More than the distance and five hour duration of the flight, this remarkable contrast in topography viewed from the tiny porthole window of an aircraft was an apt reminder of just how vast is the territory of the United States.
Being practical, I had taken only a small backpack and I was out of the airport in five minutes. Though I had never been to LA before, within minutes I found myself ensconced in a Super Shuttle Taxi on my way to the hotel in West Hollywood...or so I thought. Thirty minutes later, after two complete revolutions of the entire airport's terminals in some mad hunt to fill the van with more victims, I had had enough, objected, and the other passengers chorused their agreement. What should have taken 40 minutes took one-and-a-half hours and I was dropped off last--as punishment for raising said objection, naturally. (Tomorrow, I shall relate further taxi service woes still raw in my mind.)
Anxious to taste West Hollywood, I showered quickly and hit the Santa Monica Blvd where I dropped in on A Different Light, the bookstore where I was to read the following night and went to supper at Hamburger Mary's. I'm a sucker for a good old fashioned hamburgers and this place goes right to the top of my list because it was cooked as requested, loaded with lots of interesting toppings, and accompanied by a huge organic salad (no iceberg or Romaine lettuce here) which worked wonders at extinguishing any guilt.
[technorati: Los Angeles, A Different Light Bookshop, Hasidic Jew, Judaism]
Friday
Taking the Greyhound
This week has been absolutely hectic and it had nothing to do with the Orange Order. Next week will be equally hectic, and King Billy and his white charger are not involved either.
I went off to Boston to do some book promotion that involved taking the Greyhound bus for the first time ever, and I can now state unequivocally that the ride is nothing at all like they depict in the movies. Nothing! I remember watching countless American 'buddy' movies as a kid--they were my second most favorite movie genres, anything with Judy Garland being unbeatable (much to my Daddy's and brothers' chagrin)--and how romantic it all seemed to board one of those gleaming American buses and ride off without a care in the world and start a new life in a spanking new city, etc.
Throughout my maiden voyage, I was obliged to share a seat with a most friendly chap who had the worst case of halitosis I have ever come across in my life. It was dead NAF. (That's Brit for "nasty as fuck.") Throughout the journey I recalled a recent ad on the telly where a young girl sitting on an aeroplane slips a breath freshener melting thingie inside her neighbor's mouth while he's asleep so she can begin to enjoy her flight again. Unfortunately the only thing I had were some sugar-free mints and he refused my offer; so I was forced to keep turning away from him when he spoke and reply to his inquiries as if I were addressing someone else in the aisle.
One charming occurrence, for about twenty minutes, was how two children--a girl and Hispanic boy of about five or six--befriended each other about midway through the trip. They began to read to one other and then ask each other personal questions--very charming, until it dawned on me and a few other passengers that this conversation might tenaciously endure for the remainder of the journey. And so the trenchant blather did, their high-pitched remonstrations when one or other did not answer a question satisfactorily becoming as fatiguing as people being unnecessarily loud on cell phones--of which we had two such creatures in attendance. The most obnoxious by far was a middle-aged, ghastly thin woman who called people ad nauseum and was most anxious to share innumerable times with the entire bus a belief that her cell battery was dangerously low, that she was someone of consequence in props or set design and didn't like the new hire one single bit and had her caller heard anything about this woman's background, and that she was going to change in the South Station lavatories into a black skirt before meeting her friends at some restaurant.
Because I am leaving on Sunday morning for Los Angeles on Sunday to do some radio and TV for my novel's promotion, I will not be blogging much, if at all, until next Thursday. While there, I will also be doing a reading in West Hollywood at A Different Light, 8853 Santa Monica Blvd on Monday, July 18 at 7:30 pm (for the benefit of my 'Angelinos'? readers) and then on Wednesday, July 20th at 7.30 at Barnes and Noble in Walnut Street, Philadelphia (for the benefit of my Philly readers).
[technorati: Greyhound Bus, A Different Light Bookshop, Barnes & Noble, Boston]
I went off to Boston to do some book promotion that involved taking the Greyhound bus for the first time ever, and I can now state unequivocally that the ride is nothing at all like they depict in the movies. Nothing! I remember watching countless American 'buddy' movies as a kid--they were my second most favorite movie genres, anything with Judy Garland being unbeatable (much to my Daddy's and brothers' chagrin)--and how romantic it all seemed to board one of those gleaming American buses and ride off without a care in the world and start a new life in a spanking new city, etc.
Throughout my maiden voyage, I was obliged to share a seat with a most friendly chap who had the worst case of halitosis I have ever come across in my life. It was dead NAF. (That's Brit for "nasty as fuck.") Throughout the journey I recalled a recent ad on the telly where a young girl sitting on an aeroplane slips a breath freshener melting thingie inside her neighbor's mouth while he's asleep so she can begin to enjoy her flight again. Unfortunately the only thing I had were some sugar-free mints and he refused my offer; so I was forced to keep turning away from him when he spoke and reply to his inquiries as if I were addressing someone else in the aisle.
One charming occurrence, for about twenty minutes, was how two children--a girl and Hispanic boy of about five or six--befriended each other about midway through the trip. They began to read to one other and then ask each other personal questions--very charming, until it dawned on me and a few other passengers that this conversation might tenaciously endure for the remainder of the journey. And so the trenchant blather did, their high-pitched remonstrations when one or other did not answer a question satisfactorily becoming as fatiguing as people being unnecessarily loud on cell phones--of which we had two such creatures in attendance. The most obnoxious by far was a middle-aged, ghastly thin woman who called people ad nauseum and was most anxious to share innumerable times with the entire bus a belief that her cell battery was dangerously low, that she was someone of consequence in props or set design and didn't like the new hire one single bit and had her caller heard anything about this woman's background, and that she was going to change in the South Station lavatories into a black skirt before meeting her friends at some restaurant.
Because I am leaving on Sunday morning for Los Angeles on Sunday to do some radio and TV for my novel's promotion, I will not be blogging much, if at all, until next Thursday. While there, I will also be doing a reading in West Hollywood at A Different Light, 8853 Santa Monica Blvd on Monday, July 18 at 7:30 pm (for the benefit of my 'Angelinos'? readers) and then on Wednesday, July 20th at 7.30 at Barnes and Noble in Walnut Street, Philadelphia (for the benefit of my Philly readers).
[technorati: Greyhound Bus, A Different Light Bookshop, Barnes & Noble, Boston]
Tuesday
Orangemen's Day--a brief history
July 12th is a huge day in Northern Ireland and, seeing as I'm from there, I thought I'd explain it.
It all goes back to 1690. Yes that's right--1690! Tomorrow, July 12th 1690 becomes very much alive to some people in that part of the world. On that day, the Catholic King James (by the way, he was English and not at all fond of the Irish; in fact despised us) had crossed over to Ireland and the Protestants were decidedly unhappy because he was Catholic and they could not accept his rule. For months in the City of Londonderry (Derry to Catholics) the Protestants had been under siege by the King James' troops--the ancient city walls are three feet thick--and they were being starved into submission, were in fact eating their horses, cats and even rats.
On July 12th 1690--this was the day on the old Julian Calendar--the Protestant King William of Orange (a member of the same House that reigns in the Netherlands today, and who'd arrived in Ireland to assist the Protestants) crossed the River Boyne--a very famous river in Ireland--and a battle commenced between him and King James. King James lost the battle, though the siege of Derry and the Protestants liberation did not end for a further four weeks. (That day of liberation is celebrated separately in August by the Protestant Apprentice Boys and it's another day where the threat of violence lurks.)
From that ancient July 12th date till the present day, the Protestant majority--who formed the Orange Order throughout the Northern Irish province to honor King William --have celebrated the win by marching in the streets. Moreover, the Orange Order became synonymous with Protestant rule in Northern Ireland (and with overt discrimination against the Catholic minority) and all Prime Minsters up until the last one have been fervent members of the Order.
Even today, notwithstanding there is a sort of peace in Northern Ireland, there are many members of the Orange Order who insist it is their right to march through Catholic areas on July 12th. They refuse to change their march route and claim it is an ancient custom, a Protestant birthright, though nowadays the British government is much more impartial and has ordered the Police Service not to allow them to march in Catholic areas. (This, of course, disgruntles many police officers who are members of the Orange Order, but they must obey.) Official policy is that the Orangemen are entitled to celebrate their day but are not entitled to antagonize Catholics and, as a result, the police form a barrier between any Catholic areas on the official parade route and the marchers. Sometimes violence does ensue as either side shout insults at one another.
Many Catholics think it quite funny to watch the Orangemen strutting--accompanied by fife and drum bands--with black umbrellas, bowler hats and orange sashes identifying their lodge behind huge banners of King William on a white charger. Of note, no Protestant women are allowed to become members of these Orange Order lodges. It's a male only club even in 2005. Women may help raise funds and serve tea and sandwiches to their fathers, husbands, uncles and sons, but they may not aspire to membership.
Aside from the chauvenism (which many of the women don't object to, I might add,) I believe the entire "celebration" is archaic and utterly ridiculous. It's time to move on and let 1690 die forever. It's time for the Orangemen to accept they share part of an island with Catholics who have as much right to rule as they do. But then any of them reading my post would say, "He's a Catholic and a Fenian, so what does he know about anything?; let's march through their territory and humiliate them in the name of King Billy. God Save the Queen."
[technorati: Orangemen, Northern Ireland, Ulster, King William of Orange]
It all goes back to 1690. Yes that's right--1690! Tomorrow, July 12th 1690 becomes very much alive to some people in that part of the world. On that day, the Catholic King James (by the way, he was English and not at all fond of the Irish; in fact despised us) had crossed over to Ireland and the Protestants were decidedly unhappy because he was Catholic and they could not accept his rule. For months in the City of Londonderry (Derry to Catholics) the Protestants had been under siege by the King James' troops--the ancient city walls are three feet thick--and they were being starved into submission, were in fact eating their horses, cats and even rats.
On July 12th 1690--this was the day on the old Julian Calendar--the Protestant King William of Orange (a member of the same House that reigns in the Netherlands today, and who'd arrived in Ireland to assist the Protestants) crossed the River Boyne--a very famous river in Ireland--and a battle commenced between him and King James. King James lost the battle, though the siege of Derry and the Protestants liberation did not end for a further four weeks. (That day of liberation is celebrated separately in August by the Protestant Apprentice Boys and it's another day where the threat of violence lurks.)
From that ancient July 12th date till the present day, the Protestant majority--who formed the Orange Order throughout the Northern Irish province to honor King William --have celebrated the win by marching in the streets. Moreover, the Orange Order became synonymous with Protestant rule in Northern Ireland (and with overt discrimination against the Catholic minority) and all Prime Minsters up until the last one have been fervent members of the Order.
Even today, notwithstanding there is a sort of peace in Northern Ireland, there are many members of the Orange Order who insist it is their right to march through Catholic areas on July 12th. They refuse to change their march route and claim it is an ancient custom, a Protestant birthright, though nowadays the British government is much more impartial and has ordered the Police Service not to allow them to march in Catholic areas. (This, of course, disgruntles many police officers who are members of the Orange Order, but they must obey.) Official policy is that the Orangemen are entitled to celebrate their day but are not entitled to antagonize Catholics and, as a result, the police form a barrier between any Catholic areas on the official parade route and the marchers. Sometimes violence does ensue as either side shout insults at one another.
Many Catholics think it quite funny to watch the Orangemen strutting--accompanied by fife and drum bands--with black umbrellas, bowler hats and orange sashes identifying their lodge behind huge banners of King William on a white charger. Of note, no Protestant women are allowed to become members of these Orange Order lodges. It's a male only club even in 2005. Women may help raise funds and serve tea and sandwiches to their fathers, husbands, uncles and sons, but they may not aspire to membership.
Aside from the chauvenism (which many of the women don't object to, I might add,) I believe the entire "celebration" is archaic and utterly ridiculous. It's time to move on and let 1690 die forever. It's time for the Orangemen to accept they share part of an island with Catholics who have as much right to rule as they do. But then any of them reading my post would say, "He's a Catholic and a Fenian, so what does he know about anything?; let's march through their territory and humiliate them in the name of King Billy. God Save the Queen."
[technorati: Orangemen, Northern Ireland, Ulster, King William of Orange]
Friday
Outrage
I join my London friends--all of whom are safe, I'm delighted to say--in expressing deep outrage at the cowardly attacks on a great city and its inhabitants. As I watched the events unfold on the telly and saw the names Aldgate and King's Cross--tube stations I'd used sometimes when I lived there--I felt a great affinity for the Brits and applaud their stoicism.
[technorati: London, England, Britain, Underground]
[technorati: London, England, Britain, Underground]
Sunday
The Spanish Enlightenment
Ever since the issue of whether the word 'marriage' should be extended to include gay people who want their relationships recognized by the state, I had not been one to obsess about whether those relationships should be called 'marriages' or 'civil unions.' I couldn't understand the obsession of some who insisted it be called 'marriage' and nothing but 'marriage' would be acceptable. I admit now I was ignorant. I was ignorant because I understood neither the facts nor the law. Even lawyers like me can be ignorant....sometimes!!
The cogent reason why many gay people want the relationship to be called 'marriage' is that calling it anything else would automatically relegate it to an inferior status in society. For example, I understand that upon marriage as currently defined, 1,138 federal laws offering protections, rights and duties come into being automatically (as well as over 100 state laws) and that, moreover, these protections, rights and duties are NOT automatic upon registering a civil union with the state, whether that union is a homosexual or heterosexual one. Indeed, foes of gay people having the right to enjoy legalized relationships argue that there is no need for us to seek marriage, that we enjoy the same privileges as husbands and wives (such as transfer of property and health benefits, etc.) upon one of the marriage partner's demise. However, this is a devious lie. These foes conveniently obfuscate the legal reality that the privileges and rights are NOT granted automatically upon the union's coming into existence and gay (and straight, it must also be remembered) people are forced to pay additional death taxes on the transfer of the property and expend large sums of money to assert their rights. And another insidious lie that our foes try to spread in relation to the marriage debate is that gay people are anti-family. Let me state categorically this is untrue. We love our families. We love family life. We are an integral part of our families. Therefore, stop spreading lies and falsehoods, and stop trying to incite hatred.
I am thus delighted that the Spanish parliament--despite vociferous opposition by a group of conservatives called the Family Forum, a group aided greatly by the Catholic Church whose power is on the wan there--by a majority of 187 to 147, decided to extend the institution of marriage to its gay citizenry. They did so by annexing one sentence to the legal definition of marriage under Spanish law.
"Marriage will have the same requirements and results when the two people entering into the contract are of the same sex or of different sexes."
Spain is truly an enlightened land in this issue. So too is Belgium and Holland, and soon so will Canada. Even jolly old England that spawed 'The Margaret' (or should I state "cultivated" since her parents were Finchley greengrocers--"get you fruit and veg' here, best London fruit and veg' here") is giving legal recognition to gay relationships. This is not a question of gays acquiring rights to which they're not entitled, or of gays receiving preferential treatment. Seventy percent (70%) of the Spanish population favored giving the right to marry on equal terms to gay people. To the Spanish populace, it is a question of justice and equality under the law. And I believe justice is like a slow moving river. Whether foes of gay people like it or not, the right to marry and achieve equality under the law will come to the shores of these United States.
[technorati: Gay Marriage, Spanish parliament, Marriage, civil rights,Spain]
The cogent reason why many gay people want the relationship to be called 'marriage' is that calling it anything else would automatically relegate it to an inferior status in society. For example, I understand that upon marriage as currently defined, 1,138 federal laws offering protections, rights and duties come into being automatically (as well as over 100 state laws) and that, moreover, these protections, rights and duties are NOT automatic upon registering a civil union with the state, whether that union is a homosexual or heterosexual one. Indeed, foes of gay people having the right to enjoy legalized relationships argue that there is no need for us to seek marriage, that we enjoy the same privileges as husbands and wives (such as transfer of property and health benefits, etc.) upon one of the marriage partner's demise. However, this is a devious lie. These foes conveniently obfuscate the legal reality that the privileges and rights are NOT granted automatically upon the union's coming into existence and gay (and straight, it must also be remembered) people are forced to pay additional death taxes on the transfer of the property and expend large sums of money to assert their rights. And another insidious lie that our foes try to spread in relation to the marriage debate is that gay people are anti-family. Let me state categorically this is untrue. We love our families. We love family life. We are an integral part of our families. Therefore, stop spreading lies and falsehoods, and stop trying to incite hatred.
I am thus delighted that the Spanish parliament--despite vociferous opposition by a group of conservatives called the Family Forum, a group aided greatly by the Catholic Church whose power is on the wan there--by a majority of 187 to 147, decided to extend the institution of marriage to its gay citizenry. They did so by annexing one sentence to the legal definition of marriage under Spanish law.
"Marriage will have the same requirements and results when the two people entering into the contract are of the same sex or of different sexes."
Spain is truly an enlightened land in this issue. So too is Belgium and Holland, and soon so will Canada. Even jolly old England that spawed 'The Margaret' (or should I state "cultivated" since her parents were Finchley greengrocers--"get you fruit and veg' here, best London fruit and veg' here") is giving legal recognition to gay relationships. This is not a question of gays acquiring rights to which they're not entitled, or of gays receiving preferential treatment. Seventy percent (70%) of the Spanish population favored giving the right to marry on equal terms to gay people. To the Spanish populace, it is a question of justice and equality under the law. And I believe justice is like a slow moving river. Whether foes of gay people like it or not, the right to marry and achieve equality under the law will come to the shores of these United States.
[technorati: Gay Marriage, Spanish parliament, Marriage, civil rights,Spain]
Thursday
Buy a Friend a Book Week
Recently I was invited by book reviewer and blogger, Debra Hamel, to suggest three books for the first Buy a Friend a Book Week which runs from July 1-7. I thought what a marvelous idea. Books are often pushed aside in favor of buying video games, DVDs, CDs, the telly, etc. We're now officially in summer which brings with it a constant assault of repeat programming on the telly--sorry telly people, but repeats just don't cut it like they used to anymore, especially since you've repeated them once already before; I guess we're just too sophisticated for this sort of nonsense nowadays. So what better time for people to take the time to read a novel or compelling piece of nonfiction and also treat their friends to a surprise gift at the same time.
I've never been asked to recommend before--other than by my sister, Siobhan, and friends--and was absolutely thrilled to tender her my suggestions. In the end, I chose two novels--one recently published, the other a National Book Award winner that has stayed in my mind even though I read it over a year ago--and one book of nonfiction that was released as a Trade Paperback Original very recently by a small press.
So, check out my choices at:
Buy a Friend a Book
And I hope you enjoy them, too! I mean, who's to say, you can't whizz through the book yourself before giving it to your friend.
[technorati: The Bitch Posse, Julia Glass, Buy a Friend a Book, Book Clubs]
I've never been asked to recommend before--other than by my sister, Siobhan, and friends--and was absolutely thrilled to tender her my suggestions. In the end, I chose two novels--one recently published, the other a National Book Award winner that has stayed in my mind even though I read it over a year ago--and one book of nonfiction that was released as a Trade Paperback Original very recently by a small press.
So, check out my choices at:
Buy a Friend a Book
And I hope you enjoy them, too! I mean, who's to say, you can't whizz through the book yourself before giving it to your friend.
[technorati: The Bitch Posse, Julia Glass, Buy a Friend a Book, Book Clubs]
Tuesday
The Merger
My publisher CDS Books is an arm of the large independent book distributor Client Distribution Services and they were bought recently by the large independent publisher Perseus Group which has many imprints including the fiction one called Counterpoint. Currently, CDS Books and Perseus have begun their merger which will be completed in two months or so.
As with all mergers, some people leave and others arrive. I was very sorry to learn that Aron Epstein at my publisher will leave at the end of this week because he played an invaluable part in the recent release of my paperback edition, specifically in the marketing, publicity and even jacket design. It was Aron who worked with the jacket's designer to make it one of the best I've seen in a long time (of course it's my book and I'm biased, but the favorable comments I've received have been too frequent for my remark to be based merely on bias) and is certainly one that is making readers pick it up and purchase it in stores, particularly the chains currently.
So I would like to thank Aron from the bottom of my heart, both for his professionalism and friendship; every first author should be so fortunate to have had the opportunity to work with so dedicated and generous a person. I wish him much luck for the future.
At the same time I'd also like to thank Lane Jantzen and Elizabeth Whiting who believed absolutely in my novel and worked so diligently to get it positioned in the "New in Paperback" tables at Barnes and Noble and Borders respectively. Now that I am published, I know how cut-throat it is among publishers to get their authors books at the front of the store and keep them there for a period and I am very humbled that my little book has enjoyed and is enjoying exposure in those coveted spots. I also wish to thank Kate Greder who is working tirelessly with book clubs and other programs on the current marketing of my novel. I wish them a smooth transition during the merger and continued happiness and fun in their positions.
[technorati: Borders, Barnes and Noble, Client Distribution Services, Perseus]
As with all mergers, some people leave and others arrive. I was very sorry to learn that Aron Epstein at my publisher will leave at the end of this week because he played an invaluable part in the recent release of my paperback edition, specifically in the marketing, publicity and even jacket design. It was Aron who worked with the jacket's designer to make it one of the best I've seen in a long time (of course it's my book and I'm biased, but the favorable comments I've received have been too frequent for my remark to be based merely on bias) and is certainly one that is making readers pick it up and purchase it in stores, particularly the chains currently.
So I would like to thank Aron from the bottom of my heart, both for his professionalism and friendship; every first author should be so fortunate to have had the opportunity to work with so dedicated and generous a person. I wish him much luck for the future.
At the same time I'd also like to thank Lane Jantzen and Elizabeth Whiting who believed absolutely in my novel and worked so diligently to get it positioned in the "New in Paperback" tables at Barnes and Noble and Borders respectively. Now that I am published, I know how cut-throat it is among publishers to get their authors books at the front of the store and keep them there for a period and I am very humbled that my little book has enjoyed and is enjoying exposure in those coveted spots. I also wish to thank Kate Greder who is working tirelessly with book clubs and other programs on the current marketing of my novel. I wish them a smooth transition during the merger and continued happiness and fun in their positions.
[technorati: Borders, Barnes and Noble, Client Distribution Services, Perseus]
Sunday
Cruise and Lauer spat
I've really liked Tom Cruise as an actor ever since I saw him in Top Gun, though admit to finding, what I can only call, these 'public performances' with his newest woman (and now fiancee) to be rather contrived, certainly contrived enough to arouse my Irish suspicions as to whether there is any point to be proven behind it all. In fact, the way he sucked at her face and kept returning for more while on the red carpet in London was within a hair's breath of putting me off the dark chocolate mousse I was scarfing down at the time, and nothing but the most nauseating spectacles and smells come between dark chocolate mousse and me.
By chance, I caught him in a recent interview with Matt Lauer on The Today Show. and was similarly fascinated. It's fair to say Cruise took control (no pun intended) of the interview--this may be an interview technique he's mastered--which had steered into the arena of abuse of prescription drugs such as 'Ritalin' in American society. And, not only was he annoyed by what he called Lauer's support of the use of Ritalin--which I honestly did not see conveyed--but he also stated Psychiatry was 'pseudo science.' At one point he even said Lauer was being 'glib.'
I cannot speak to whether psychiatry is 'pseudo science' or not because I have not studied the matter sufficiently, though Cruise stated he had the facts and knowledge and it was absolutely so. Additionally, I will say upfront that I have no interest in Scientology, but I do agree with Cruise that there is a destructive tendency to overprescribe medications in society, particularly American society. Many children, perhaps because they are overly energetic or disruptive in some way, are being too quickly diagnosed as having ADD and ADHD, and bottles and bottles of 'Ritalin' and other similar medications are being dished out without any real thought as to long term consequences on the child. Cruise would appear to have firsthand knowledge about which he speaks because he was a child with extremely high energy levels, and his mother was told by doctors to put him on medications and refused. Later, he was in fact diagnosed as dyslexic.
With the safety of some prominent drugs called into question, (necessitating their removal from the market by order of the FDA--that institution being put under the microscope rightly too, currently) it is indeed worrying that we have become too overly dependent on drugs, that we have been on course toward becoming a 'prescription drug' society for far too long now. It is time to step back and demand meaningful accountability from the overseers of the pharmaceutical industry. With profitability must come real responsibility. It is time to stop the outrageous amount of prescription drug advertisements on primetime telly and in magazines, advertisements thinly disguised as educational but primarily intended to spur ill-informed patients to bring enormous pressure on their doctors to prescribe the marketed drug. For too long I've also watched attractive, sexily clad young women in the main--nothing wrong with them being attractive, but it's odd that none of them are even the slightest bit plain or overweight, is it not?--come into the doctors offices while I'm waiting to see my MD, all carrying huge cases filled with free drugs for the doctor to dole out to patients. And these visits to clinics are ubiquitous throughout America.
The latest mutation of this sexy approach to prescription medications is an advertisement on the telly where a young woman talks with annoying coyness to her presumed male audience about 'strong and lasting.' Of course, the word 'erection' is NEVER used, nor is the word 'penis' encountered--not even 'member', or 'dick.' (Okay, last one, I was being facetious, but God forbid they'd use essential or adult words to talk to adults.) No, it's always 'strong' and 'lasting'...followed by the wide, coy smile and perfunctory pause to allow the watcher to visualize his 'strong' and 'lasting' and where it can be dispatched. Our pitch lady is, of course, wearing a prominently displayed wedding band, undoubtedly to keep the Christian Right hounds at bay, as is her formerly sexually dysfunctional hubby.
So, I'm fully with Mr. Cruise on his challenge to stop overprescribing drugs. Let's stop overprescribing anti-depressants and, while we're at it, let's stop them targeting the gullible to create a spurious demand.
[technorati: Tom Cruise, The Today Show, Scientology, Matt Lauer]
By chance, I caught him in a recent interview with Matt Lauer on The Today Show. and was similarly fascinated. It's fair to say Cruise took control (no pun intended) of the interview--this may be an interview technique he's mastered--which had steered into the arena of abuse of prescription drugs such as 'Ritalin' in American society. And, not only was he annoyed by what he called Lauer's support of the use of Ritalin--which I honestly did not see conveyed--but he also stated Psychiatry was 'pseudo science.' At one point he even said Lauer was being 'glib.'
I cannot speak to whether psychiatry is 'pseudo science' or not because I have not studied the matter sufficiently, though Cruise stated he had the facts and knowledge and it was absolutely so. Additionally, I will say upfront that I have no interest in Scientology, but I do agree with Cruise that there is a destructive tendency to overprescribe medications in society, particularly American society. Many children, perhaps because they are overly energetic or disruptive in some way, are being too quickly diagnosed as having ADD and ADHD, and bottles and bottles of 'Ritalin' and other similar medications are being dished out without any real thought as to long term consequences on the child. Cruise would appear to have firsthand knowledge about which he speaks because he was a child with extremely high energy levels, and his mother was told by doctors to put him on medications and refused. Later, he was in fact diagnosed as dyslexic.
With the safety of some prominent drugs called into question, (necessitating their removal from the market by order of the FDA--that institution being put under the microscope rightly too, currently) it is indeed worrying that we have become too overly dependent on drugs, that we have been on course toward becoming a 'prescription drug' society for far too long now. It is time to step back and demand meaningful accountability from the overseers of the pharmaceutical industry. With profitability must come real responsibility. It is time to stop the outrageous amount of prescription drug advertisements on primetime telly and in magazines, advertisements thinly disguised as educational but primarily intended to spur ill-informed patients to bring enormous pressure on their doctors to prescribe the marketed drug. For too long I've also watched attractive, sexily clad young women in the main--nothing wrong with them being attractive, but it's odd that none of them are even the slightest bit plain or overweight, is it not?--come into the doctors offices while I'm waiting to see my MD, all carrying huge cases filled with free drugs for the doctor to dole out to patients. And these visits to clinics are ubiquitous throughout America.
The latest mutation of this sexy approach to prescription medications is an advertisement on the telly where a young woman talks with annoying coyness to her presumed male audience about 'strong and lasting.' Of course, the word 'erection' is NEVER used, nor is the word 'penis' encountered--not even 'member', or 'dick.' (Okay, last one, I was being facetious, but God forbid they'd use essential or adult words to talk to adults.) No, it's always 'strong' and 'lasting'...followed by the wide, coy smile and perfunctory pause to allow the watcher to visualize his 'strong' and 'lasting' and where it can be dispatched. Our pitch lady is, of course, wearing a prominently displayed wedding band, undoubtedly to keep the Christian Right hounds at bay, as is her formerly sexually dysfunctional hubby.
So, I'm fully with Mr. Cruise on his challenge to stop overprescribing drugs. Let's stop overprescribing anti-depressants and, while we're at it, let's stop them targeting the gullible to create a spurious demand.
[technorati: Tom Cruise, The Today Show, Scientology, Matt Lauer]
Thursday
Mall-sitting
Recently I did a signing at a mall bookstore as part of the paperback release of A SON CALLED GABRIEL. I call it 'Mall-sitting.' It's been a while since I did it. I despise malls. No matter how airy and full of color they are, I find them souless, the people's enjoyment as artificial as the smells wafting from the soap, Cinnabon and candy stores.
Is it because I'm Irish and malls have made no headway into that culture? Do Americans love there malls? I don't know. All I know is I grew up in a province that, although steeped in violence, had small towns which had beating, vibrant hearts. People shopped at their local butcher, greengrocer and grocery. Even today, though huge supermarkets like Sainsbury's (Brit) and Safeway have moved into the suburbs, the towns do very well because the Irish and Brits like to shop in their towncenters and are very fussy about where their meat and vegetables comes from. They insist on knowing that sort of thing. Imagine that...and have no tolerance for hormones and genetic engineering (except for darling Dolly, who was never meant to enter the food chain, anyway).
The signing was at a Borders Express. I was seated at a table strewn with a maroon cloth just outside the bookstore entrance, with mounds of Gabriel novels on either side of a fan of flyers bearing my name and heralding my appearance. Everytime I take my seat at these signings, I'm conflicted, and I cringe inside like a doggie being reprimanded.
First, I debate as I rearrange the book mounds whether I'd rather be doing a reading or just sitting waiting for people to stop and browse. This debate occurs as consistently as my fidgeting, whether the signing's at a Borders Express or just inside the door at a Barnes and Noble. (Independent bookstores usually don't have just signings.) I'm sure sitting at a table appears infinitely easier. I mean, one doesn't have to obsess about the horror of perhaps only two or three people showing up to listen to one read from one's precious work--at least that's the theory. But readings don't have the inbuilt cringe factor.
Why do I cringe, you might ask? Well, it's at time like this, I'm feeling most aware of myself, and I'm transported back to my boyhood when I felt extremely shy and never put myself forward in public. As an adult, I'm not like that, am actually quite assertive, but the shy boy lurks just beneath the surface, and out he comes. I think it's good to have that connection to oneself, but still it's uncomfortable, because the connection only comes into being at times of pressure and unease. I also cringe because I feel like a used car salesman, my sole purpose being to reduce the size of the book mounds upon the table. Quite rightly the book store wants to move copies of my novel (as do I), and the staff are wonderful and friendly, but inside at these moments is this feeling I'm a car salesman, not an author.
Selling a book at a mall is an interesting lesson in psychology, I've discovered. Some people assiduously avoid eye contact lest they might have to stop and get roped into buying something they don't want. One can always spot a book lover, because they stride over like they've found a new love; or they'll drink in the book's cover if they're in a hurry and you know, you just know, they'll check it out when they have time. Mall-sitting has definitely elevated my opinion of our youth. Contrary to what some people will have us believe, they're not all stupid and on drugs or alcohol, and many of them do have an interest in books. I could be cynical and remark those are the ones that do their homework and are bound for our nation's better colleges. The airheads are always easy to spot; the girls usually overly-tanned though not necessarily svelte, and they sport tops with no midriffs and travel in a posse, all carrying carrier bags stuffed with shoes and clothing (I can't help thinking they're the ones destined for the perfume counters in a few years); the boy posse wears fashionable clothing--baggy and designer--and either walk macho or slouch. The smart set--in which the Goths are well represented, I might add--will stop, actually pick up the novel, examine it in the way anticipated by the publisher, and ask intelligent questions. They'll say things like, "What a cool cover", "Is this your book? --Cool!", "You're a writer?". And, if mother is present, she'll invariably add proudly, 'My daughter [or son] writes as well.' And she should be proud of their interest and ability. I love these interactions. On Saturday, I even had two teenage chaps stop by whom I thought would be smartasses. I was wrong. They examined the book meticulously and asked intelligent questions. In this case, I was the one who learned a lesson, or rather was reminded of an old lesson I'd learned and forgotten. I was reminded never to prejudge...well, except when encountering airheads.
[technorati: Independent Bookstores, Borders, Barnes and Noble, Teenagers]
Is it because I'm Irish and malls have made no headway into that culture? Do Americans love there malls? I don't know. All I know is I grew up in a province that, although steeped in violence, had small towns which had beating, vibrant hearts. People shopped at their local butcher, greengrocer and grocery. Even today, though huge supermarkets like Sainsbury's (Brit) and Safeway have moved into the suburbs, the towns do very well because the Irish and Brits like to shop in their towncenters and are very fussy about where their meat and vegetables comes from. They insist on knowing that sort of thing. Imagine that...and have no tolerance for hormones and genetic engineering (except for darling Dolly, who was never meant to enter the food chain, anyway).
The signing was at a Borders Express. I was seated at a table strewn with a maroon cloth just outside the bookstore entrance, with mounds of Gabriel novels on either side of a fan of flyers bearing my name and heralding my appearance. Everytime I take my seat at these signings, I'm conflicted, and I cringe inside like a doggie being reprimanded.
First, I debate as I rearrange the book mounds whether I'd rather be doing a reading or just sitting waiting for people to stop and browse. This debate occurs as consistently as my fidgeting, whether the signing's at a Borders Express or just inside the door at a Barnes and Noble. (Independent bookstores usually don't have just signings.) I'm sure sitting at a table appears infinitely easier. I mean, one doesn't have to obsess about the horror of perhaps only two or three people showing up to listen to one read from one's precious work--at least that's the theory. But readings don't have the inbuilt cringe factor.
Why do I cringe, you might ask? Well, it's at time like this, I'm feeling most aware of myself, and I'm transported back to my boyhood when I felt extremely shy and never put myself forward in public. As an adult, I'm not like that, am actually quite assertive, but the shy boy lurks just beneath the surface, and out he comes. I think it's good to have that connection to oneself, but still it's uncomfortable, because the connection only comes into being at times of pressure and unease. I also cringe because I feel like a used car salesman, my sole purpose being to reduce the size of the book mounds upon the table. Quite rightly the book store wants to move copies of my novel (as do I), and the staff are wonderful and friendly, but inside at these moments is this feeling I'm a car salesman, not an author.
Selling a book at a mall is an interesting lesson in psychology, I've discovered. Some people assiduously avoid eye contact lest they might have to stop and get roped into buying something they don't want. One can always spot a book lover, because they stride over like they've found a new love; or they'll drink in the book's cover if they're in a hurry and you know, you just know, they'll check it out when they have time. Mall-sitting has definitely elevated my opinion of our youth. Contrary to what some people will have us believe, they're not all stupid and on drugs or alcohol, and many of them do have an interest in books. I could be cynical and remark those are the ones that do their homework and are bound for our nation's better colleges. The airheads are always easy to spot; the girls usually overly-tanned though not necessarily svelte, and they sport tops with no midriffs and travel in a posse, all carrying carrier bags stuffed with shoes and clothing (I can't help thinking they're the ones destined for the perfume counters in a few years); the boy posse wears fashionable clothing--baggy and designer--and either walk macho or slouch. The smart set--in which the Goths are well represented, I might add--will stop, actually pick up the novel, examine it in the way anticipated by the publisher, and ask intelligent questions. They'll say things like, "What a cool cover", "Is this your book? --Cool!", "You're a writer?". And, if mother is present, she'll invariably add proudly, 'My daughter [or son] writes as well.' And she should be proud of their interest and ability. I love these interactions. On Saturday, I even had two teenage chaps stop by whom I thought would be smartasses. I was wrong. They examined the book meticulously and asked intelligent questions. In this case, I was the one who learned a lesson, or rather was reminded of an old lesson I'd learned and forgotten. I was reminded never to prejudge...well, except when encountering airheads.
[technorati: Independent Bookstores, Borders, Barnes and Noble, Teenagers]
Tuesday
NYC Reading
Just a quick post to let my New York City blog readers know I'll be reading from A SON CALLED GABRIEL on Thursday evening, June 23rd, 7.30 pm. at Barnes and Noble, 267 7th Avenue Park Slope, Brooklyn, NY, 718.832.9066.
I'm looking froward to dining out in Park Slope as I've been told it's got great restaurants and is a very artsy place.
I'm looking froward to dining out in Park Slope as I've been told it's got great restaurants and is a very artsy place.
Thursday
Visiting 'TIME'
The q/a and reading to the Out group at TIME, Inc. was great fun, and I was in excellent company with authors Stacey, d'Erasmo, Susan Stinson and Alison Smith. Alexandria, Michael and John were our hosts and I'd like to thank them for the invitation to discuss my work.
First up to read was Stacey (whom I hadn't had the pleasure of meeting before) and she read from the beginning of her award winning novel, A Seahorse Year, about a San Francisco family coping with a 16-year-old son's mental illness, which Booklist stated was "a supple yet piercing novel of obdurate individuality." Most memorable for me was her lush description of a beautiful garden and the image conjured by her reference to three dried seahorses.
I hadn't met Susan Stinson before either and must say her reading from her Lambda Literary Award nominated novel, Venus of Chalk, was nothing less than spellbinding (and I'm tough to make that way) as her body swayed rhythmically and soft, melodic voice seduced the audience as she described her protagonist, Carline, bathing in a most inviting lake. I read somewhere recently that there's a survey out stating that women will read books by men yet men don't really read women's book's (something that shocked me profoundly). Well, Susan's third novel is high on my agenda. This is how she describes her approach to writing:
I am a novelist and poet whose work centers on the lives of characters who love rules yet cannot live within them. These stories are fueled by beauty that transgresses conventions of body size, sexuality and historical identity. My books are about ideology and disorder, continuity and disruption, bodies and souls.
Susan maintains an author blog and you can link to it by going to my "Author Blogs" sidebar and clicking on it.
Last but by no means least was Alison Smith who read from her award winning memoir, Name all the Animals. I'd heard Alison read before at the Lambda Literary Awards reading in New York a few weeks ago and yesterday she prefaced her reading with a very witty chat that struck a personal chord.
Alison's brother, Roy, died when she was fifteen and her memoir examines how this affected both she and her family. My own brother, Seamus, was unconscious for almost two months when I was seventeen-years-old and was left with a limp and some brain damage which precluded him from continuing with his academic work. While he has subsequently almost ninety-five percent recovered, he still has memory problems and feels very angry still about this accident, feeling it robbed him of sporting and college opportunities.
Yet, it's often forgotten that in these situations there are other 'victims.' My youngest sister, Siobhan, and brother, Dermot, told me recently that their childhoods (Siobhan was ten and Dermot eight) ended on the day of the accident because our entire family dynamic revolved around Seamus for years, his recovery, his rehabilitation, his future. To this day, my parents often tend to think of him in relation to his accident--my father particularly so in that a biased jury (one of copious examples of wretched Northern Ireland justice, unfortunately) exonerated the Protestant company responsible for the accident and no award was ever made--the event still fresh and raw in their minds. I hadn't thought about this (nor had my other sister, Deirdre, who was closer to me in age) until my sister Siobhan told me when I was over visiting in January. And Alison, in her funny and poignant memoir, shows us how it was for her to define herself in the aftermath of his loss.
[technorati: Stacey d'Erasmo, Susan Stinson, Alison Smith, Time Magazine]
First up to read was Stacey (whom I hadn't had the pleasure of meeting before) and she read from the beginning of her award winning novel, A Seahorse Year, about a San Francisco family coping with a 16-year-old son's mental illness, which Booklist stated was "a supple yet piercing novel of obdurate individuality." Most memorable for me was her lush description of a beautiful garden and the image conjured by her reference to three dried seahorses.
I hadn't met Susan Stinson before either and must say her reading from her Lambda Literary Award nominated novel, Venus of Chalk, was nothing less than spellbinding (and I'm tough to make that way) as her body swayed rhythmically and soft, melodic voice seduced the audience as she described her protagonist, Carline, bathing in a most inviting lake. I read somewhere recently that there's a survey out stating that women will read books by men yet men don't really read women's book's (something that shocked me profoundly). Well, Susan's third novel is high on my agenda. This is how she describes her approach to writing:
I am a novelist and poet whose work centers on the lives of characters who love rules yet cannot live within them. These stories are fueled by beauty that transgresses conventions of body size, sexuality and historical identity. My books are about ideology and disorder, continuity and disruption, bodies and souls.
Susan maintains an author blog and you can link to it by going to my "Author Blogs" sidebar and clicking on it.
Last but by no means least was Alison Smith who read from her award winning memoir, Name all the Animals. I'd heard Alison read before at the Lambda Literary Awards reading in New York a few weeks ago and yesterday she prefaced her reading with a very witty chat that struck a personal chord.
Alison's brother, Roy, died when she was fifteen and her memoir examines how this affected both she and her family. My own brother, Seamus, was unconscious for almost two months when I was seventeen-years-old and was left with a limp and some brain damage which precluded him from continuing with his academic work. While he has subsequently almost ninety-five percent recovered, he still has memory problems and feels very angry still about this accident, feeling it robbed him of sporting and college opportunities.
Yet, it's often forgotten that in these situations there are other 'victims.' My youngest sister, Siobhan, and brother, Dermot, told me recently that their childhoods (Siobhan was ten and Dermot eight) ended on the day of the accident because our entire family dynamic revolved around Seamus for years, his recovery, his rehabilitation, his future. To this day, my parents often tend to think of him in relation to his accident--my father particularly so in that a biased jury (one of copious examples of wretched Northern Ireland justice, unfortunately) exonerated the Protestant company responsible for the accident and no award was ever made--the event still fresh and raw in their minds. I hadn't thought about this (nor had my other sister, Deirdre, who was closer to me in age) until my sister Siobhan told me when I was over visiting in January. And Alison, in her funny and poignant memoir, shows us how it was for her to define herself in the aftermath of his loss.
[technorati: Stacey d'Erasmo, Susan Stinson, Alison Smith, Time Magazine]
Wednesday
Authors MJ Rose and Martha O'Connor
I'm off to read to a group at Time, Inc at their corporate headquarters in NYC tomorrow but I wanted to share that A SON CALLED GABRIEL has recently been fortunate enough to receive attention from some really great authors.
MJ Rose, an author and publisher of a very interesting blog called Backstory, invited me to read at Book Expo America as part of her Emerging Voices line up this year. She's just posted an essay I'd written about the backstory behind 'Gabriel'. I'm thrilled to have it published by her blog and you can check it and other fascinating backstories by other terrific contemporary American authors out at Backstory
While there, be sure to check out Martha O'Connor's intriguing backstory. Martha's debut novel is called The Bitch Posse, which I'm currently reading and plan to review soon, as well as post an author interview. Martha read my book and asked me to answer some questions she had, which I was more than happy to do. In fact, I was delighted when she contacted me. It's now posted on her blog at Martha O'Connor
Moreover, Martha has a child with juvenile diabetes and her blog is extremely informative about the latest developments in this field for those who would like to know more about it.
[technorati: Martha O'Connor, MJ Rose, Backstory, Diabetes]
MJ Rose, an author and publisher of a very interesting blog called Backstory, invited me to read at Book Expo America as part of her Emerging Voices line up this year. She's just posted an essay I'd written about the backstory behind 'Gabriel'. I'm thrilled to have it published by her blog and you can check it and other fascinating backstories by other terrific contemporary American authors out at Backstory
While there, be sure to check out Martha O'Connor's intriguing backstory. Martha's debut novel is called The Bitch Posse, which I'm currently reading and plan to review soon, as well as post an author interview. Martha read my book and asked me to answer some questions she had, which I was more than happy to do. In fact, I was delighted when she contacted me. It's now posted on her blog at Martha O'Connor
Moreover, Martha has a child with juvenile diabetes and her blog is extremely informative about the latest developments in this field for those who would like to know more about it.
[technorati: Martha O'Connor, MJ Rose, Backstory, Diabetes]
Tuesday
Check out the interview
I did a recent interview with Scott Esposito on his literary blog, Conversational Reading
Take a peek at his review of A SON CALLED GABRIEL and the interview.
Take a peek at his review of A SON CALLED GABRIEL and the interview.
Monday
Play a tune, piano man
My good friends and neighbors, L&L, they of the notorious Psychiatrist Game (mentioned in a previous post), have flown the coop for a fortnight and we're already missing them. They've gone to Italy via Rome (also doing a hasty jaunt by the Vatican before heading to Tuscany) with twelve others and one member of teh posse has paid all the travel and accommodation expenses. Everyone's on their own with regard to hiring a car to get to the villa, for the eats and the mucho delicious Tuscan vino, of course. When I last spoke to Lee, being a woman wisely aware of the chaos involved in reaching consensus about the grocery preferences for such a large group, she was busy mulling the initial Euro deposit amounts and ground rules for the establishment of a kitty, a term that immediately brought me back to my law school days when I shared with four other chaps in university self-catering accommodation. At the beginning of the second week the party splits up, with the majority returning to the US and six, including L&L, moving on to take in the sights of Venice, Lake Como and Milano, a city I love.
So this 'all major expenses paid' tour caused me for some unknown reason to think about patrons, especially patrons of musicians and artists, and I remembered my first encounter, albeit indirectly, with one such person a little while back. Larry and I had been invited by NYC friends to accompany them to a piano recital to be given by an up-and-coming Estonian (he might actually have been half-Latvian or Ukranian, I can't fully recall) at their acquaintances spacious apartment in the village. When we arrived the light-filled living room, which had a plantation house layout with high ceilings and pocket doors that were open in its middle, had the grand piano separating the front street-facing portion that was filled with eight rows of parlor chairs and the second half where guests milled guzzling wine and chomping on pretty canopies.
Duscha, a Russian with sparse, brassy blonde hair and a vulpine face rendered craggy by too many cigarettes, swooped in appropriately late and accompanied by her thirty-something pianist, a luxurious lynx fur coat clinging for dear life to her narrow shoulders. It was a benign early Fall evening and my European hackles instantly rose at the sight of the coat--yes indeed, I'm one of them, and my first act of subversion was to set alight my mother's aubergine colored rabbit fur as a teenager--but still I endeavored to dismiss the sight and enjoy the wine and music when it commenced. (I should add here that, after said hackles submerged, I indulged the thought I might be in the presence of the elusive Anastasia, that is until an Englishman in our group informed us in hushed tones that Duscha was shagging her protege senseless and the image distracted me.)
Unfortunately, as soon as the chap sat at the piano and struck the first four or five keys, his performance abruptly terminated. The hostess was summoned and was informed in an unmistakable accusatory tone that the piano was out of tune. (Later, I learned the instrument's primary function was to serve as an accent piece.) In a panic, she tore into the hallway and began to scan the local yellow pages frantically for a tuner. When she returned to her husband--now standing in our group near the first row of chairs-- she informed him a local man was on his way. None of this commotion seemed to affect Duscha, who, acting as patrons do, continued to sip and yak with various personalities including a chap from some NPR station.
After ten minutes, the piano tuner still hadn't arrived and four people left. A tall middle-aged woman in baggy jeans and holding a glass of wine exited the thicket of guests at the far side of the room. She walked up to the grand piano, leaned into its gleaming crook, bent over, and began to tinker with the bones and bowels of the thing. Occasionally, she instructed the now sulky pianist to press a key and he did obey to his credit.
"She knows pianos obviously," I said to the hostess.
Her husband and she traded surprised glances before they peered back at the woman's baggy rear again.
"What a pity she didn't offer a bit earlier," I added.
"I hope she does know something, but I'm not aware of her ever playing any instrument," said the host.
"She's a literary agent friend of mine," the hostess added.
After some further inspection and proddings, the agent erected herself, took a sip of her wine, and announced aloud, "People, I really don't think it'll take very long to tune so we should all stay." With that, she strode back toward the hors d'oeuvres table.
Finally the tuner arrived and, after the passage of fifty-five minutes or so, the concert commenced. The pianist was pretty good. After it ended, Duscha resumed her position exactly where motivated patrons do when the congratulations and praise are being dished out. Unfortunately, six months later, the pianist decided either he didn't need a patron, or he grew bored with Duscha, or perhaps a combination of both, because our English wag told us the chap cleared off to live with some violinist in Queens.
[technorati: New York City, Pianists, Queens, Greenwich village]
So this 'all major expenses paid' tour caused me for some unknown reason to think about patrons, especially patrons of musicians and artists, and I remembered my first encounter, albeit indirectly, with one such person a little while back. Larry and I had been invited by NYC friends to accompany them to a piano recital to be given by an up-and-coming Estonian (he might actually have been half-Latvian or Ukranian, I can't fully recall) at their acquaintances spacious apartment in the village. When we arrived the light-filled living room, which had a plantation house layout with high ceilings and pocket doors that were open in its middle, had the grand piano separating the front street-facing portion that was filled with eight rows of parlor chairs and the second half where guests milled guzzling wine and chomping on pretty canopies.
Duscha, a Russian with sparse, brassy blonde hair and a vulpine face rendered craggy by too many cigarettes, swooped in appropriately late and accompanied by her thirty-something pianist, a luxurious lynx fur coat clinging for dear life to her narrow shoulders. It was a benign early Fall evening and my European hackles instantly rose at the sight of the coat--yes indeed, I'm one of them, and my first act of subversion was to set alight my mother's aubergine colored rabbit fur as a teenager--but still I endeavored to dismiss the sight and enjoy the wine and music when it commenced. (I should add here that, after said hackles submerged, I indulged the thought I might be in the presence of the elusive Anastasia, that is until an Englishman in our group informed us in hushed tones that Duscha was shagging her protege senseless and the image distracted me.)
Unfortunately, as soon as the chap sat at the piano and struck the first four or five keys, his performance abruptly terminated. The hostess was summoned and was informed in an unmistakable accusatory tone that the piano was out of tune. (Later, I learned the instrument's primary function was to serve as an accent piece.) In a panic, she tore into the hallway and began to scan the local yellow pages frantically for a tuner. When she returned to her husband--now standing in our group near the first row of chairs-- she informed him a local man was on his way. None of this commotion seemed to affect Duscha, who, acting as patrons do, continued to sip and yak with various personalities including a chap from some NPR station.
After ten minutes, the piano tuner still hadn't arrived and four people left. A tall middle-aged woman in baggy jeans and holding a glass of wine exited the thicket of guests at the far side of the room. She walked up to the grand piano, leaned into its gleaming crook, bent over, and began to tinker with the bones and bowels of the thing. Occasionally, she instructed the now sulky pianist to press a key and he did obey to his credit.
"She knows pianos obviously," I said to the hostess.
Her husband and she traded surprised glances before they peered back at the woman's baggy rear again.
"What a pity she didn't offer a bit earlier," I added.
"I hope she does know something, but I'm not aware of her ever playing any instrument," said the host.
"She's a literary agent friend of mine," the hostess added.
After some further inspection and proddings, the agent erected herself, took a sip of her wine, and announced aloud, "People, I really don't think it'll take very long to tune so we should all stay." With that, she strode back toward the hors d'oeuvres table.
Finally the tuner arrived and, after the passage of fifty-five minutes or so, the concert commenced. The pianist was pretty good. After it ended, Duscha resumed her position exactly where motivated patrons do when the congratulations and praise are being dished out. Unfortunately, six months later, the pianist decided either he didn't need a patron, or he grew bored with Duscha, or perhaps a combination of both, because our English wag told us the chap cleared off to live with some violinist in Queens.
[technorati: New York City, Pianists, Queens, Greenwich village]
Thursday
Introducing the Book Review and Author Blarney
The first book I've had on my TBR pile is author and book blogger Debra Hamel's Trying Neaira,The True Story of a Courtesan's Scandalous Life in Ancient Greece which is a nonfiction. Let me also for the sake of disclosure that Hamel reviewed my novel some time ago and liked it, but that this in no way influenced my opinion of her book. It did, however, bring her work to my attention in the first place and succeeded in moving it up the pile because I am interested in all things appertaining to ancient Greece. (Also, as I am master of my blog and so long as my reviews are impartial and I bring you news of interesting books, I also figured you'd kindly indulge my various selection methods.) My fascination with ancient Greece stems from someone telling me in my childhood that my first name is associated in some manner with that culture, and I disliked all of the Latin meanings. I was told it means "Magican" or "Wise one" in ancient Greek and, as I feel wise currently, it must be true.
At the same time as I launch this review, I thought it would be a treat if I also posted a mini-interview with the author, whenever possible. I've entitled these interviews Author Blarney in deference to my Irish origins, naturally.
Anyway, here goes:
Trying Neaira
In Hamel's book (200 pages) I was never disappointed that I was not reading a fiction about Neaira (pronounced "neh-EYE-ruh"), though I shall add it will not be for everyone in that it is published by a university press (Yale University) and thus aimed at scholars of ancient Greece as well the casual reader. That said, casual readers of nonfiction need not be put off by the book's lineage in any way because her prose is breezy, accessible in that one won't require a dictionary as bed companion, and the unfolding narrative keeps the reader's attention.
A slave, Neaira was purchased as a child by the brothel-keeper Nikarete and plied her trade at her owner's brothel in Corinth. She was not a common harlot--known as pornai from which the word 'pornography' derives--and occupied a rung just below the status of high class prostitutes who were better known as 'female companions' and attended dinner parties with their clients. As the book progresses, we learn of Neaira's life as a prostitute, how she was eventually sold off to two Greek gentleman--former clients--after her youth was spent, the men making themselves responsible for her welfare in return for sexual favors until their eventual marriages (it is presumed). Ever resourceful, Neaira purchased her freedom and moved to another Greek province with Phrynion (a cad) who abused her and finally leaves for Athens with Stephanos with whom she lives as a spouse and, indeed, may possibly have had children by him. It is this thirty year cohabitation which forms the basis of Appollodoras's legal action against Stephanos wherein, in an attempt to get back at him for previous wrongs, he accuses Neaira of being an 'alien' and thus absolutely forbidden to be married to Stephanos, an Athenian citizen. Consequences were dire for losing parties; for Neaira it could have resulted in her being sold back into slavery, and for Stephanos, the loss of all rights and privileges associated with Athenian citizenship.
Most interesting are the unfurling revelations about ancient Greek culture: how revenue was collected, how the Athenian war fleet was financed, the relationship between citizens and foreigners, the confined circumstances of Athenian women--both prostitutes and well-born women--and the absolute importance of sons being introduced AND recognized by their phratries in order to give them status and citizenship. Hamel unveils the Athenian court system in a manner that is compelling and includes nuggets about the imposition of penalties on the loser of a lawsuit ( including radish insertion--not the common garden radish we know of from visits to the local supermarket, I hasten to add--for the offence of adultery,) how the prosecution and defense presented their cases (not to be compared with our modern system of jurisprudence), how juries numbering as little as 501 members were selected from the 10 Athenian tribes, and how the passing of time allocated to prosecution and defense was measured using an ingenious 'water clock.'
I would have loved to hear Neaira's voice, to see through her actual eyes, to learn how she felt about this attack on her freedom and wellbeing. But this was stirred only by my being a novelist at heart and had nothing to do with any oversight by the author whose objective quite rightly was to work from what actual record of the trial remains. I was left thinking how unfortunate and sad it is that there is no record--at least none that is known today--of Neaira's thoughts about her life. But such was the lot of women in that society, I think.
For anyone interested in the culture and institutions of ancient Greece, this book is a must read. Recommended.
-------
Author Blarney
Debra, thank you for taking the time to answer a few questions about your book and writing.
Thanks for the opportunity.
DMN: Trying Neaira deals with the culture and cast of characters involved in the trial of a prostitute in ancient Greece. What inspired you to write a book like this?
DH: Well, I'd studied ancient history in graduate school, and thus become familiar with the wealth of material we have that sheds light on the Athenian legal system. Of course, "wealth" here is relative: ancient historians don't enjoy the riches of sources material available to historians of later periods. But we do have about a hundred extant speeches that were composed for delivery in court trials. These speeches not only preserve information about the law but they also are a valuable source for social history. At any rate, I was familiar with the speech against Neaira, that is, the prosecution speech from Neaira's trial. It's on the long side--and thus packs a lot of information in--and it's rather salacious, so it's a popular text among classicists.
With that in my background, I had had it in mind that I would like to write a popular history--nonfiction for a general audience--but to the extent that I'd thought about doing such a thing I had despaired of it. Back to the sources: Greek historians don't have available to them the copious private letters and, in general, the information about individuals that often make for interesting histories. But one day I happened to notice a blurb on the back of a book I was reading, itself the story of a 17th-century woman accused of witchcraft. The blurb simply said something about trials being a rich source of micro-history, but when I saw the word "trial" there the idea of writing about Neaira came to me at once. My first step was to decide whether her story would sustain a book, and after reading the speech against her through again I decided it would, and I set to work.
DMN: The book is published by Yale University Press which indicates at first instance that the subject matter is scholarly, yet I found it was written in a breezy, highly accessible manner that draws in people like me who are interested in the culture and institutions of ancient Greece. Did you intend your book to serve a dual purpose and, if so, was it difficult to achieve this balance?
DH: I certainly wanted Trying Neaira to be accessible to laymen as well as solidly researched. It is not "scholarly" in the sense of introducing ground-breaking ideas based on original research--that wasn't my intention. But I wanted to get it right, and I wanted it to be informative. The audience I had in mind primarily when writing the book was the "educated general reader," but it can be read profitably also by students. It's been used in some college courses that I'm aware of.
As far as striking the right balance goes, I did of course make a conscious effort to explain any concept/historical background that wouldn't be familiar to non-classicists. And my writing in Neaira is certainly more breezy than it was in my first book (a monograph on the Athenian generalship). I wouldn't say that doing either--the explanations or the breeziness--was difficult, but it's true that I wasn't sure in the end whether my writing wasn't still too serious for the purpose. On the more practical side, there was the question of documentation. I've been accustomed to using copious footnotes, but in a book for a popular audience you have to tone that down a bit, or at least combine your notes into bigger parcels. Then everything winds up inconveniently at the end of the book, because the average reader is supposedly put off by footnotes.
DMN: Neaira was a slave sold into prostitution. How did these transactions come about? Who would have sold Neaira to the brothel owner? Can you speak a little about the lot of slaves, male and female, in ancient Greece?
DH: We don't know how Neaira wound up as a slave of the brothel owner Nikarete. She seems to have landed there when she was quite young. But generally speaking, one might become a slave in any number of ways. With a bit of bad luck, really, anyone could end up as a slave: if your city was razed by the enemy and you were taken as spoils, if you were a soldier captured in war, if pirates got their hands on you. In early Athenian history one could become a slave after falling into debt. Slaves were employed in all manner of occupations, including some surprising ones, some of them terrible and some certainly not as bad. Slaves were not only prostitutes and domestic servants, but the less fortunate worked under horrific conditions in Athens' mines. Some were employed by the state as a kind of police force, incredibly enough--the Scythian archers. Some slaves were shopkeepers. Interestingly, Neaira's prosecutor, Apollodorus, was the son of a former slave. His father Pasion had lived the ultimate success story. He had been the slave of bankers, had gained their trust, and eventually been granted his freedom. As a freedman he'd become very wealthy and had impressed the Athenians with his munificence. Finally the Athenians rewarded him with a grant of citizenship, which was very unusual.
In (at least) two ways slavery in Greece was a very different phenomenon from the American brand of the institution. (1) While the slaves employed in Greece tended to be from non-Greek speaking areas, they were not necessarily racially different from their masters. (2) They were not employed for the most part in large groups, as in the plantations of the American south. They were divided among households, living among families.
DMN: It seems to me as if well-bred Greek women were in a way 'slaves' within their own homes. Could you talk about that?
DH: Not slaves, but they are sometimes thought to have been confined to their homes as something like prisoners. It's true that they were segregated to an extent from men. They were expected to stay apart from men, excepting members of their own family, and so, for example, would remain in the women's quarters of their homes if unrelated males were in the house. Nor would a respectable woman have gone traipsing around with her husband to dinner parties, say. But I think it's wrong to imagine the life of a well bred woman as one of virtual imprisonment. Although they did not enjoy the same social and political rights as men, Athenian women had their own spheres within which they were active--friendships with other women, responsibilities and social/religious events that will have brought them out of the house. But it is true that a prostitute like Neaira, though a slave, enjoyed some freedoms that a respectable Athenian woman did not.
DMN: How long did it take you to write Trying Neaira and are you working on anything else?
DH: I wrote the book in something less than a year, but I had subsequently of course to make some revisions, both to respond to some very helpful suggestions made by my agent and in preparing the final manuscript for the publisher. Neaira was in book stores I believe a little less than three years after I began the project.
I am not working on any major project at the moment. I've been writing book reviews (for my web site, http://www.book-blog.com, and now for a print column) and the occasional article. I haven't decided yet what I'd like to devote a large chunk of time to.
DMN: Is there anything else you'd like to mention that I've omitted to ask?
DH: I should mention that a German translation of Trying Neaira (Der Fall Neaira) by Kai Brodersen was published in 2004 by Primus Verlag. And Kedros Publishers recently purchased the Greek rights to the book, so there should be a Greek translation available within a couple years.
[technorati: Trying Neaira, Ancient Greece, Yale University, Debra Hamel]
At the same time as I launch this review, I thought it would be a treat if I also posted a mini-interview with the author, whenever possible. I've entitled these interviews Author Blarney in deference to my Irish origins, naturally.
Anyway, here goes:
Trying Neaira In Hamel's book (200 pages) I was never disappointed that I was not reading a fiction about Neaira (pronounced "neh-EYE-ruh"), though I shall add it will not be for everyone in that it is published by a university press (Yale University) and thus aimed at scholars of ancient Greece as well the casual reader. That said, casual readers of nonfiction need not be put off by the book's lineage in any way because her prose is breezy, accessible in that one won't require a dictionary as bed companion, and the unfolding narrative keeps the reader's attention.
A slave, Neaira was purchased as a child by the brothel-keeper Nikarete and plied her trade at her owner's brothel in Corinth. She was not a common harlot--known as pornai from which the word 'pornography' derives--and occupied a rung just below the status of high class prostitutes who were better known as 'female companions' and attended dinner parties with their clients. As the book progresses, we learn of Neaira's life as a prostitute, how she was eventually sold off to two Greek gentleman--former clients--after her youth was spent, the men making themselves responsible for her welfare in return for sexual favors until their eventual marriages (it is presumed). Ever resourceful, Neaira purchased her freedom and moved to another Greek province with Phrynion (a cad) who abused her and finally leaves for Athens with Stephanos with whom she lives as a spouse and, indeed, may possibly have had children by him. It is this thirty year cohabitation which forms the basis of Appollodoras's legal action against Stephanos wherein, in an attempt to get back at him for previous wrongs, he accuses Neaira of being an 'alien' and thus absolutely forbidden to be married to Stephanos, an Athenian citizen. Consequences were dire for losing parties; for Neaira it could have resulted in her being sold back into slavery, and for Stephanos, the loss of all rights and privileges associated with Athenian citizenship.
Most interesting are the unfurling revelations about ancient Greek culture: how revenue was collected, how the Athenian war fleet was financed, the relationship between citizens and foreigners, the confined circumstances of Athenian women--both prostitutes and well-born women--and the absolute importance of sons being introduced AND recognized by their phratries in order to give them status and citizenship. Hamel unveils the Athenian court system in a manner that is compelling and includes nuggets about the imposition of penalties on the loser of a lawsuit ( including radish insertion--not the common garden radish we know of from visits to the local supermarket, I hasten to add--for the offence of adultery,) how the prosecution and defense presented their cases (not to be compared with our modern system of jurisprudence), how juries numbering as little as 501 members were selected from the 10 Athenian tribes, and how the passing of time allocated to prosecution and defense was measured using an ingenious 'water clock.'
I would have loved to hear Neaira's voice, to see through her actual eyes, to learn how she felt about this attack on her freedom and wellbeing. But this was stirred only by my being a novelist at heart and had nothing to do with any oversight by the author whose objective quite rightly was to work from what actual record of the trial remains. I was left thinking how unfortunate and sad it is that there is no record--at least none that is known today--of Neaira's thoughts about her life. But such was the lot of women in that society, I think.
For anyone interested in the culture and institutions of ancient Greece, this book is a must read. Recommended.
-------
Author Blarney
Debra, thank you for taking the time to answer a few questions about your book and writing.
Thanks for the opportunity.
DMN: Trying Neaira deals with the culture and cast of characters involved in the trial of a prostitute in ancient Greece. What inspired you to write a book like this?
DH: Well, I'd studied ancient history in graduate school, and thus become familiar with the wealth of material we have that sheds light on the Athenian legal system. Of course, "wealth" here is relative: ancient historians don't enjoy the riches of sources material available to historians of later periods. But we do have about a hundred extant speeches that were composed for delivery in court trials. These speeches not only preserve information about the law but they also are a valuable source for social history. At any rate, I was familiar with the speech against Neaira, that is, the prosecution speech from Neaira's trial. It's on the long side--and thus packs a lot of information in--and it's rather salacious, so it's a popular text among classicists.
With that in my background, I had had it in mind that I would like to write a popular history--nonfiction for a general audience--but to the extent that I'd thought about doing such a thing I had despaired of it. Back to the sources: Greek historians don't have available to them the copious private letters and, in general, the information about individuals that often make for interesting histories. But one day I happened to notice a blurb on the back of a book I was reading, itself the story of a 17th-century woman accused of witchcraft. The blurb simply said something about trials being a rich source of micro-history, but when I saw the word "trial" there the idea of writing about Neaira came to me at once. My first step was to decide whether her story would sustain a book, and after reading the speech against her through again I decided it would, and I set to work.
DMN: The book is published by Yale University Press which indicates at first instance that the subject matter is scholarly, yet I found it was written in a breezy, highly accessible manner that draws in people like me who are interested in the culture and institutions of ancient Greece. Did you intend your book to serve a dual purpose and, if so, was it difficult to achieve this balance?
DH: I certainly wanted Trying Neaira to be accessible to laymen as well as solidly researched. It is not "scholarly" in the sense of introducing ground-breaking ideas based on original research--that wasn't my intention. But I wanted to get it right, and I wanted it to be informative. The audience I had in mind primarily when writing the book was the "educated general reader," but it can be read profitably also by students. It's been used in some college courses that I'm aware of.
As far as striking the right balance goes, I did of course make a conscious effort to explain any concept/historical background that wouldn't be familiar to non-classicists. And my writing in Neaira is certainly more breezy than it was in my first book (a monograph on the Athenian generalship). I wouldn't say that doing either--the explanations or the breeziness--was difficult, but it's true that I wasn't sure in the end whether my writing wasn't still too serious for the purpose. On the more practical side, there was the question of documentation. I've been accustomed to using copious footnotes, but in a book for a popular audience you have to tone that down a bit, or at least combine your notes into bigger parcels. Then everything winds up inconveniently at the end of the book, because the average reader is supposedly put off by footnotes.
DMN: Neaira was a slave sold into prostitution. How did these transactions come about? Who would have sold Neaira to the brothel owner? Can you speak a little about the lot of slaves, male and female, in ancient Greece?
DH: We don't know how Neaira wound up as a slave of the brothel owner Nikarete. She seems to have landed there when she was quite young. But generally speaking, one might become a slave in any number of ways. With a bit of bad luck, really, anyone could end up as a slave: if your city was razed by the enemy and you were taken as spoils, if you were a soldier captured in war, if pirates got their hands on you. In early Athenian history one could become a slave after falling into debt. Slaves were employed in all manner of occupations, including some surprising ones, some of them terrible and some certainly not as bad. Slaves were not only prostitutes and domestic servants, but the less fortunate worked under horrific conditions in Athens' mines. Some were employed by the state as a kind of police force, incredibly enough--the Scythian archers. Some slaves were shopkeepers. Interestingly, Neaira's prosecutor, Apollodorus, was the son of a former slave. His father Pasion had lived the ultimate success story. He had been the slave of bankers, had gained their trust, and eventually been granted his freedom. As a freedman he'd become very wealthy and had impressed the Athenians with his munificence. Finally the Athenians rewarded him with a grant of citizenship, which was very unusual.
In (at least) two ways slavery in Greece was a very different phenomenon from the American brand of the institution. (1) While the slaves employed in Greece tended to be from non-Greek speaking areas, they were not necessarily racially different from their masters. (2) They were not employed for the most part in large groups, as in the plantations of the American south. They were divided among households, living among families.
DMN: It seems to me as if well-bred Greek women were in a way 'slaves' within their own homes. Could you talk about that?
DH: Not slaves, but they are sometimes thought to have been confined to their homes as something like prisoners. It's true that they were segregated to an extent from men. They were expected to stay apart from men, excepting members of their own family, and so, for example, would remain in the women's quarters of their homes if unrelated males were in the house. Nor would a respectable woman have gone traipsing around with her husband to dinner parties, say. But I think it's wrong to imagine the life of a well bred woman as one of virtual imprisonment. Although they did not enjoy the same social and political rights as men, Athenian women had their own spheres within which they were active--friendships with other women, responsibilities and social/religious events that will have brought them out of the house. But it is true that a prostitute like Neaira, though a slave, enjoyed some freedoms that a respectable Athenian woman did not.
DMN: How long did it take you to write Trying Neaira and are you working on anything else?
DH: I wrote the book in something less than a year, but I had subsequently of course to make some revisions, both to respond to some very helpful suggestions made by my agent and in preparing the final manuscript for the publisher. Neaira was in book stores I believe a little less than three years after I began the project.
I am not working on any major project at the moment. I've been writing book reviews (for my web site, http://www.book-blog.com, and now for a print column) and the occasional article. I haven't decided yet what I'd like to devote a large chunk of time to.
DMN: Is there anything else you'd like to mention that I've omitted to ask?
DH: I should mention that a German translation of Trying Neaira (Der Fall Neaira) by Kai Brodersen was published in 2004 by Primus Verlag. And Kedros Publishers recently purchased the Greek rights to the book, so there should be a Greek translation available within a couple years.
[technorati: Trying Neaira, Ancient Greece, Yale University, Debra Hamel]
Sunday
Some Book Expo afterthoughts
Well, Book Expo America is over and it was an educational experience. It was the first time I'd ever been to a major book show and, as I walked up and down the aisles of the main hall taking in the millions and millions of books on display, I felt extremely fortunate that my novel has not only released in paperback as from last Friday but that it even got published in the first place. There are just so many books being published and it took the enormity and cacophony of the show to bring this message home personally.
I would like to thank MJ Rose, author of The Halo Effect and other novels and books of nonfiction for inviting me to be part of this year's Emerging Voices line-up. She is truly an inspiring individual, a woman who not only writes but also gives freely of her time to help first novelists such as myself get exposure to a wider audience at a critical time in our careers. As I watched her chair the reading I couldn't help wonder where she gets the time and energy to do so much.
And I would also like to thank Jonathan Harper at the Lambda Literary Foundation because, through him, I came to the attention of some folks at TIME,Inc and have been invited to read from my novel and talk about the writing life at their glamorous corporate head office in NYC along with Alison Smith, Stacey dErasmo and Susan Stinson authors of Name all the Animals, A Seahorse Year and Venus of Chalk respectively. The group hosting the reading is called OUT and they are gay and lesbian employees who organize readings for their fellow co-workers at TIME. I am extremely excited to participate and, on Friday afternoon, I bumped into a very excited Alexandria (who's on the TIME group's steering committee) at my publisher's BEA booth and she informed me that so far over one hundred straight, gay and lesbian employees are attending the event.
Her news made my heart truly sing because this is how life should unfurl. I am sick of the Christian Right and conservatives with hatred in their hearts attempting to divide and supplant a version of America they feel should exist by wreaking havoc and destroying the lives of other decent Americans. Their attitudes and vision have nothing to do with the God I know and believe in, and is quite frankly an expression of evil in my judgment. So I tip my hat to Alexandria and her group at TIME and to the many, many other varied groups in the United States seeking to be positive and inclusive and build a better society for ALL Americans.
[technorati: Book Expo America, Time Magazine, Lambda Literary Foundation, MJ Rose]
I would like to thank MJ Rose, author of The Halo Effect and other novels and books of nonfiction for inviting me to be part of this year's Emerging Voices line-up. She is truly an inspiring individual, a woman who not only writes but also gives freely of her time to help first novelists such as myself get exposure to a wider audience at a critical time in our careers. As I watched her chair the reading I couldn't help wonder where she gets the time and energy to do so much.
And I would also like to thank Jonathan Harper at the Lambda Literary Foundation because, through him, I came to the attention of some folks at TIME,Inc and have been invited to read from my novel and talk about the writing life at their glamorous corporate head office in NYC along with Alison Smith, Stacey dErasmo and Susan Stinson authors of Name all the Animals, A Seahorse Year and Venus of Chalk respectively. The group hosting the reading is called OUT and they are gay and lesbian employees who organize readings for their fellow co-workers at TIME. I am extremely excited to participate and, on Friday afternoon, I bumped into a very excited Alexandria (who's on the TIME group's steering committee) at my publisher's BEA booth and she informed me that so far over one hundred straight, gay and lesbian employees are attending the event.
Her news made my heart truly sing because this is how life should unfurl. I am sick of the Christian Right and conservatives with hatred in their hearts attempting to divide and supplant a version of America they feel should exist by wreaking havoc and destroying the lives of other decent Americans. Their attitudes and vision have nothing to do with the God I know and believe in, and is quite frankly an expression of evil in my judgment. So I tip my hat to Alexandria and her group at TIME and to the many, many other varied groups in the United States seeking to be positive and inclusive and build a better society for ALL Americans.
[technorati: Book Expo America, Time Magazine, Lambda Literary Foundation, MJ Rose]
Wednesday
Book Expo America
Just back from four wonderful days spent with friends who've got a summer place at Rehobeth Beach in Delaware. The weather and seafood were excellent, and I didn't go online once. Not once. Nor did I feel compelled to check my emails. I've learned a valuable lesson this weekend and said so to Larry, who couldn't believe the remark came out of my mouth. I said, 'I didn't miss the computer.' (He thinks it controls my life.) I think we've all become a tad obsessed about being online almost all the time. It's as if our lives are controlled by the all-powerful, invisible web and we can't do without it, as if it too is oxygen. Well, this weekend proved that's just not true. It's easy to unplug for a few days and miss nothing earth-shattering; and even if we do, we can just resume where we left off.
This coming week is busy for me. Book Expo America is the largest national book show in the United States and takes place in NYC between June 3rd and June 6th and I'll be visiting it. Often, during those long nights when I was sitting at my computer 'beavering away' on my first cut-your-teeth novel--it's now bits and bytes on some floppy disk that I've got to copy into my hard disk and start to rewrite--I used to dream of a future agent (who'd read said massive, cut-your teeth novel in one sitting and fell madly in love with it) rushing into the BEA rights center with it in hand and flogging it to a publisher for millions of dollars. It wasn't the money I craved, though that would have been lovely; it was the recognition I was at last a 'real author.'
"Look Mum, your son's a real writer now...so no more, 'aha, but how's your real job going', please," I imagined saying this on visits to Ireland. I think every writer dreams of that wonderful day when a publisher takes on their project for publication--that's what it's called in the book business, a 'project.' One's beloved manuscript becomes a mere project.
Anyway, my literary career didn't start at all like that--no millions, no Moet, no mad rush through the BEA hall with a manuscript in hand--but this year I am going to feature at BEA and I am dead excited. This year, I have been asked to read with a few other writers as part of Book Expo America's Emerging Voices program. I get to read from A Son Called Gabriel for five whole minutes at the Javit's Center in NYC on Friday June 3rd, the very day the paperback releases.
Another author, Gayle Brandeis, who wrote the excellent The Book of Dead Birds which won Barbara Kingsolver's Bellwether Prize for fiction, assures me I shall have a wonderful time because she read there a few years ago. What's more, the previous evening I shall also be in NYC for the Lambda Literary Awards gala where 'Gabriel' is a finalist. And on top of all this, at BEA, the winners of ForeWord Magazine's Book of the Year Awards and Independent Publishers Book Awards will be announced, and 'Gabriel' has been nominated for those, too. Such a cornucopia!
Now I will say that winning one of the awards would be great, but it's by no means essential to my pleasure because I've enjoyed the process and I believe that's what is more important. One should have fun doing what one does and the rest is gravy.
[technorati: Book Expo America, IPPY awards, Lambda Literary Awards, ForeWord Magazine]
This coming week is busy for me. Book Expo America is the largest national book show in the United States and takes place in NYC between June 3rd and June 6th and I'll be visiting it. Often, during those long nights when I was sitting at my computer 'beavering away' on my first cut-your-teeth novel--it's now bits and bytes on some floppy disk that I've got to copy into my hard disk and start to rewrite--I used to dream of a future agent (who'd read said massive, cut-your teeth novel in one sitting and fell madly in love with it) rushing into the BEA rights center with it in hand and flogging it to a publisher for millions of dollars. It wasn't the money I craved, though that would have been lovely; it was the recognition I was at last a 'real author.'
"Look Mum, your son's a real writer now...so no more, 'aha, but how's your real job going', please," I imagined saying this on visits to Ireland. I think every writer dreams of that wonderful day when a publisher takes on their project for publication--that's what it's called in the book business, a 'project.' One's beloved manuscript becomes a mere project.
Anyway, my literary career didn't start at all like that--no millions, no Moet, no mad rush through the BEA hall with a manuscript in hand--but this year I am going to feature at BEA and I am dead excited. This year, I have been asked to read with a few other writers as part of Book Expo America's Emerging Voices program. I get to read from A Son Called Gabriel for five whole minutes at the Javit's Center in NYC on Friday June 3rd, the very day the paperback releases.
Another author, Gayle Brandeis, who wrote the excellent The Book of Dead Birds which won Barbara Kingsolver's Bellwether Prize for fiction, assures me I shall have a wonderful time because she read there a few years ago. What's more, the previous evening I shall also be in NYC for the Lambda Literary Awards gala where 'Gabriel' is a finalist. And on top of all this, at BEA, the winners of ForeWord Magazine's Book of the Year Awards and Independent Publishers Book Awards will be announced, and 'Gabriel' has been nominated for those, too. Such a cornucopia!
Now I will say that winning one of the awards would be great, but it's by no means essential to my pleasure because I've enjoyed the process and I believe that's what is more important. One should have fun doing what one does and the rest is gravy.
[technorati: Book Expo America, IPPY awards, Lambda Literary Awards, ForeWord Magazine]
Unsung heroes
Chris Steib, the editor-in-chief of a new web-based magazine entitled Void Magazine contacted me recently to tell me about it. The magazine's mission: a new literary endeavor that strives to support readers and writers who have been underserved by the mainstream, commercial publishing industry.
Chris' enthusiasm and the magazines mission caused me to reflect on the unwavering dedication of editors and others throughout the US and beyond who work at literary magazines, very often uncompensated or for a nominal salary at best. They are truly unsung heroes because they do their work quietly and out of pure passion for good writing whether it be prose or poetry. And authors are grateful because literary magazines provide the portal to getting published for many, many of us. Simply put, the existence of literary magazines is an essential element in any society that calls itself civilized.
Anyway, I read the inaugural edition of Void Magazine and liked it a lot and you can check it out yourself by going to my "Literary Mags" sidebar and clicking on the mag's title. Also listed on the sidebar are two other magazines I like: the Bucks County Writer Magazine (which is a subscription literary mag that published my short story Prayers for a Bully last year) and another free magazine out of Philadelphia called Philadelphia Stories.
Additionally, Philadelphia Stories hosts free readings in and around Philadelphia once a month and, on account of the Trade Paperback release of A Son Called Gabriel next week, they've invited me to read with two local poets, Scott Anderson and Penny Dickerson, on Monday, June 6th, 7.30 pm at Mugshots Coffeehouse, 21st & Fairmount Avenue Philadelphia, PA.
On another note, next week will see the posting of my first book review, which will be a nonfiction.
[technorati: Philadelphia, Bucks county, Literary magazines, ezines]
Chris' enthusiasm and the magazines mission caused me to reflect on the unwavering dedication of editors and others throughout the US and beyond who work at literary magazines, very often uncompensated or for a nominal salary at best. They are truly unsung heroes because they do their work quietly and out of pure passion for good writing whether it be prose or poetry. And authors are grateful because literary magazines provide the portal to getting published for many, many of us. Simply put, the existence of literary magazines is an essential element in any society that calls itself civilized.
Anyway, I read the inaugural edition of Void Magazine and liked it a lot and you can check it out yourself by going to my "Literary Mags" sidebar and clicking on the mag's title. Also listed on the sidebar are two other magazines I like: the Bucks County Writer Magazine (which is a subscription literary mag that published my short story Prayers for a Bully last year) and another free magazine out of Philadelphia called Philadelphia Stories.
Additionally, Philadelphia Stories hosts free readings in and around Philadelphia once a month and, on account of the Trade Paperback release of A Son Called Gabriel next week, they've invited me to read with two local poets, Scott Anderson and Penny Dickerson, on Monday, June 6th, 7.30 pm at Mugshots Coffeehouse, 21st & Fairmount Avenue Philadelphia, PA.
On another note, next week will see the posting of my first book review, which will be a nonfiction.
[technorati: Philadelphia, Bucks county, Literary magazines, ezines]
Monday
To nuke or not to nuke, that is the question
On NPR today, I heard that only 14% of the American population are deeply interested or understand the current debate about certain GOP senators objective--or more accurately, the Christian Right contingent of the Republican Party--to end judicial filibusters. Regardless as to one's party affiliation, one should be appalled at such indifference in a vibrant country like the United States. We should be shocked into extreme wariness, if not action, by such inertia. Have we become so jaded by politics that we can't muster the energy to recognize and do something about a very real threat to our democracy?
I am not interested in using this blog to launch political tirades, but I will speak out where I see an attack on the principle of democracy. I believe the Christian Right intend to make this land a land of intolerance and despair. Simply put, they are dangerous. They have no use for debate, have no use for dissent, and have no use for compromise. It must be their way (which they claim is also Jesus Christ's way) and there is no room for any other view which will dilute or interfere with the attaining of their goals.
How can I be so sure they are so relentlessly dogged? Well, I am born Christian--though some evangelicals view Roman Catholics in the same light they regard Jews and Arabs--and lived all my boyhood among these people. Northern Ireland is awash in the Christian Right. It is the reason there has been no compromise in that blighted province since it came into existence. And many, many of these evangelicals have obtained their diplomas from Christian colleges in the United States. So, by all standards, they are the very same people who now seek to control the US Senate. And the Northern Irish evangelicals have refused to give Roman Catholics--their fellow Christians it should be remembered--justice, equality and the right to self-determination. Moreover, when forced by Britain to share power with the minority, they have sought every opportunity to bring down (and have brought down) the Northern Irish parliament in the hope that Britain will eventually weaken its resolve, give up, and the clock can be turned back. And they have done this secure in their belief that Jesus Christ is on their side.
My fellow Americans, these are the caliber of people you are dealing with, and it is these people who want to introduce the nuclear option under the guise that one party is blocking an up or down vote with regard to judicial appointees. The fact is that 306 appointees have been confirmed since the Bush administration took power and only a handful of extreme right-wing judges have been blocked. It is one of the duties of the opposing party to block extremist, non-mainstream judges, especially since judgships are given for life. Americans do not like extremists from either the right or the left, and the system for protecting against extremism by the minority party is in the use of the filibuster.
And let us also be clear on an additional point: after the nuclear option is won with regard to judicial appointees, it will also be sought for use in debates about appointees for other government posts. Moreover, should anyone doubt the Right's coercive, bullying tactics, bear in mind their statement today wherein they warned all moderate Republicans that they will be held accountable and will pay the price if they don't vote as they require them to vote.
[technorati: nuclear option, Christian Right, Senate, filibuster]
I am not interested in using this blog to launch political tirades, but I will speak out where I see an attack on the principle of democracy. I believe the Christian Right intend to make this land a land of intolerance and despair. Simply put, they are dangerous. They have no use for debate, have no use for dissent, and have no use for compromise. It must be their way (which they claim is also Jesus Christ's way) and there is no room for any other view which will dilute or interfere with the attaining of their goals.
How can I be so sure they are so relentlessly dogged? Well, I am born Christian--though some evangelicals view Roman Catholics in the same light they regard Jews and Arabs--and lived all my boyhood among these people. Northern Ireland is awash in the Christian Right. It is the reason there has been no compromise in that blighted province since it came into existence. And many, many of these evangelicals have obtained their diplomas from Christian colleges in the United States. So, by all standards, they are the very same people who now seek to control the US Senate. And the Northern Irish evangelicals have refused to give Roman Catholics--their fellow Christians it should be remembered--justice, equality and the right to self-determination. Moreover, when forced by Britain to share power with the minority, they have sought every opportunity to bring down (and have brought down) the Northern Irish parliament in the hope that Britain will eventually weaken its resolve, give up, and the clock can be turned back. And they have done this secure in their belief that Jesus Christ is on their side.
My fellow Americans, these are the caliber of people you are dealing with, and it is these people who want to introduce the nuclear option under the guise that one party is blocking an up or down vote with regard to judicial appointees. The fact is that 306 appointees have been confirmed since the Bush administration took power and only a handful of extreme right-wing judges have been blocked. It is one of the duties of the opposing party to block extremist, non-mainstream judges, especially since judgships are given for life. Americans do not like extremists from either the right or the left, and the system for protecting against extremism by the minority party is in the use of the filibuster.
And let us also be clear on an additional point: after the nuclear option is won with regard to judicial appointees, it will also be sought for use in debates about appointees for other government posts. Moreover, should anyone doubt the Right's coercive, bullying tactics, bear in mind their statement today wherein they warned all moderate Republicans that they will be held accountable and will pay the price if they don't vote as they require them to vote.
[technorati: nuclear option, Christian Right, Senate, filibuster]
Thursday
An evening of pledges
I was invited some months ago to appear on WYBE Public Television serving the Greater Philadelphia area to assist them with their annual pledge drive on the lesbian/gay and Irish programming sections on account my novel is Irish and the protagonist deals with issues of sexual identity as part of the plot. (I'd appeared last year on their excellent program OutLoud hosted by Debra D'Alessandro whom I was pleased to discover had read my novel and was thus able to ask what I refer to now that I have some TV and Radio experience as 'beyond superficial' questions. In other words, her conversation was intelligent, interesting and useful to viewers.)
Last night was the first evening--the gay/lesbian programming section--and I arrived at the studio at seven o'clock nervous and wondering how the hell this was all going to play out. I'd watched presenters on other PBS shows and always wondered how they managed to smile, keep jabbering on about stuff, and get in the essential requests for pledges. Though I'm a pretty conversational person, I was quite sure I would not be able to do this gracefully and my words would flood like a raging brook and then abruptly stop, etc. As it turns out, I needn't have worried because Debra was there and I was paired with her (two others--the Philadelphia author Thom Nickels and restauranteur Reed Apaghian--were positioned at another spot within the studio with another WHYY host) and the pledge segments alternated between us throughout the three hours of programming.
Of course we were prepped in the green room as to how things would unfold and read a wealth of information about WYBE, the pledge objectives, and the gifts that would be offered at various dollar levels--my own novel A SON CALLED GABRIEL being one such offering. There seemed so much to learn in such a short space of time, though the staff including Jessica, April, Purna (an associate producer who's also a Cardiff University alum it turns out) made us all feel at ease. Tension built and my stomach knotted as soon as we were taken into the studio five minutes before going live and a storm of colored cards containing pledge info were held up and we were instructed that we should read from these when they were held up during the pledge drive, and the floor manager showed us the hand signals she used to indicated 30 second, 20 second and 15 second countdowns to 'Off-air'.
I was dead nervous for the first segment, seemed to stammer a little in the second, and then found my groove for the rest of the evening. At one point the floor manager flashed a tangerine 'SMILE' card in my direction. All in all the experience was highly interesting and I look forward to doing Tuesday's Irish programming drive where two actors are flying in from Dublin to assist. The entire experience reinforced one very important lesson, namely how absolutely vital it is to a community to have local public television around, and how it does need to be supported by people like me.
Commercial telly in the US is crap on the whole; aside from a few good dramas, it insults one's intelligence in the main, is boringly mediocre at best, is forgettable. It forms part of a trend in this country, whether intentionally or not, to de-intellectualize the citizenry--training us to accept sound bites for serious analysis of an issue is also a part of this process. It is not that our attention spans are diminishing. Not in the least. It's that we accept this to be so, that we accept this bogus gospel from the besuited apostles of commercial television and their sponsors.
PBS produces gritty original programming for ethnic and other minorities and for the mainstream. It contracts to buy programming from around the world that includes the BBC news, the only truly comprehensive, unbiased INTERNATIONAL news within the borders of these United States currently, in my opinion. I believe we must support public telly's membership drives and openly admit I was just as guilty as others in not pledging at one time. I have sat and gorged on their programming and then switched to commercial telly as soon as the pledges began, all without once thinking to take out my credit card. I freeloaded, and that is an unacceptable practice in this age of dangerous extremism. Without PBS, there would be a further erosion of democracy. That is why the right wing is keen to see its demise. They want it terminated, because they know PBS telly is the television of thinkers.
Another huge advantage to last night's drive--from Larry and my tummy's point of view--was that Reed had provided a highly delicious salad from his restaurant The Astral Plane and it was choc-a-bloc with huge shrimp, chicken and giant scallops for supper, after which hosts and guests alike tucked into a mound of gourmet desserts, including the most amazing pear and almond tart I have ever tasted outside Germany.
[technorati: Public Television, WYBE TV, Philadelphia, WHYY]
Last night was the first evening--the gay/lesbian programming section--and I arrived at the studio at seven o'clock nervous and wondering how the hell this was all going to play out. I'd watched presenters on other PBS shows and always wondered how they managed to smile, keep jabbering on about stuff, and get in the essential requests for pledges. Though I'm a pretty conversational person, I was quite sure I would not be able to do this gracefully and my words would flood like a raging brook and then abruptly stop, etc. As it turns out, I needn't have worried because Debra was there and I was paired with her (two others--the Philadelphia author Thom Nickels and restauranteur Reed Apaghian--were positioned at another spot within the studio with another WHYY host) and the pledge segments alternated between us throughout the three hours of programming.
Of course we were prepped in the green room as to how things would unfold and read a wealth of information about WYBE, the pledge objectives, and the gifts that would be offered at various dollar levels--my own novel A SON CALLED GABRIEL being one such offering. There seemed so much to learn in such a short space of time, though the staff including Jessica, April, Purna (an associate producer who's also a Cardiff University alum it turns out) made us all feel at ease. Tension built and my stomach knotted as soon as we were taken into the studio five minutes before going live and a storm of colored cards containing pledge info were held up and we were instructed that we should read from these when they were held up during the pledge drive, and the floor manager showed us the hand signals she used to indicated 30 second, 20 second and 15 second countdowns to 'Off-air'.
I was dead nervous for the first segment, seemed to stammer a little in the second, and then found my groove for the rest of the evening. At one point the floor manager flashed a tangerine 'SMILE' card in my direction. All in all the experience was highly interesting and I look forward to doing Tuesday's Irish programming drive where two actors are flying in from Dublin to assist. The entire experience reinforced one very important lesson, namely how absolutely vital it is to a community to have local public television around, and how it does need to be supported by people like me.
Commercial telly in the US is crap on the whole; aside from a few good dramas, it insults one's intelligence in the main, is boringly mediocre at best, is forgettable. It forms part of a trend in this country, whether intentionally or not, to de-intellectualize the citizenry--training us to accept sound bites for serious analysis of an issue is also a part of this process. It is not that our attention spans are diminishing. Not in the least. It's that we accept this to be so, that we accept this bogus gospel from the besuited apostles of commercial television and their sponsors.
PBS produces gritty original programming for ethnic and other minorities and for the mainstream. It contracts to buy programming from around the world that includes the BBC news, the only truly comprehensive, unbiased INTERNATIONAL news within the borders of these United States currently, in my opinion. I believe we must support public telly's membership drives and openly admit I was just as guilty as others in not pledging at one time. I have sat and gorged on their programming and then switched to commercial telly as soon as the pledges began, all without once thinking to take out my credit card. I freeloaded, and that is an unacceptable practice in this age of dangerous extremism. Without PBS, there would be a further erosion of democracy. That is why the right wing is keen to see its demise. They want it terminated, because they know PBS telly is the television of thinkers.
Another huge advantage to last night's drive--from Larry and my tummy's point of view--was that Reed had provided a highly delicious salad from his restaurant The Astral Plane and it was choc-a-bloc with huge shrimp, chicken and giant scallops for supper, after which hosts and guests alike tucked into a mound of gourmet desserts, including the most amazing pear and almond tart I have ever tasted outside Germany.
[technorati: Public Television, WYBE TV, Philadelphia, WHYY]
Tuesday
Right on the money
What did I say in a previous entry? John Paul II would be canonized pronto.
Already the race is on. 'Fast-tracking,' it's called. Dispense with the pesky five-year wait because he was always in the public eye and the people saw how he lived and how he thought and know he's a saint-in-waiting, for goodness sake. And the people were baying for his canonization at the funeral. Case closed. Rather, hunt for the miracles--which will be found. I think if they had them in the bag and there had been a precedent to canonize him during his funeral--at least beatify him--they'd have done it during the service.
And all I can wonder is, why didn't they fast-track the expulsion of pedophiles from their midst?
When I think back to the days when I was an altar boy and how I was brought up to believe that the Catholic Church was the only true faith, the only religion God cared about, that it was unshakeable, oak-like. Oak-like, and would never sway to the gales of public opinion or be influenced by any force other than the Great Almighty. How times have changed, though the Vatican powers clearly don't see it that way. Is this part of the rush to shore the church's dwindling numbers in the Western world, to add more spectacle like the Romans did toward the end of their empire? I don't know. All it proves to me is that the powers can change the rules when they decide it's expedient.
This changing of the rules made me think back to my childhood, specifically how as young boy I was told if the Russians were to ever invade Ireland and demand that I was to forswear my faith, I was to decline instantly and be happy to be shot to death. I was to laugh in the soldiers faces before starting to recite the rosary. We children were warned that every Irish Catholic would be doing the same if that terrible day ever came:our grandparents would be praying and laughing as they were lined up against a tree and shot, out mothers and fathers, our uncles, aunts, neighbors, a great cacophony of laughter and praying.
Sometimes I'd watch the Soviets ('Russians,' they were called in Ireland) on the telly as they goosestepped--a very graceful march especially in comparion to the dreary old British army steps, I thought also--in front of Red Square and wonder if they'd goosestep into Ireland when they invaded and I envisioned legions of them goosestepping along the motorway into Belfast.
[technorati: Soviet union, Popes, canonization, Vatican]
Already the race is on. 'Fast-tracking,' it's called. Dispense with the pesky five-year wait because he was always in the public eye and the people saw how he lived and how he thought and know he's a saint-in-waiting, for goodness sake. And the people were baying for his canonization at the funeral. Case closed. Rather, hunt for the miracles--which will be found. I think if they had them in the bag and there had been a precedent to canonize him during his funeral--at least beatify him--they'd have done it during the service.
And all I can wonder is, why didn't they fast-track the expulsion of pedophiles from their midst?
When I think back to the days when I was an altar boy and how I was brought up to believe that the Catholic Church was the only true faith, the only religion God cared about, that it was unshakeable, oak-like. Oak-like, and would never sway to the gales of public opinion or be influenced by any force other than the Great Almighty. How times have changed, though the Vatican powers clearly don't see it that way. Is this part of the rush to shore the church's dwindling numbers in the Western world, to add more spectacle like the Romans did toward the end of their empire? I don't know. All it proves to me is that the powers can change the rules when they decide it's expedient.
This changing of the rules made me think back to my childhood, specifically how as young boy I was told if the Russians were to ever invade Ireland and demand that I was to forswear my faith, I was to decline instantly and be happy to be shot to death. I was to laugh in the soldiers faces before starting to recite the rosary. We children were warned that every Irish Catholic would be doing the same if that terrible day ever came:our grandparents would be praying and laughing as they were lined up against a tree and shot, out mothers and fathers, our uncles, aunts, neighbors, a great cacophony of laughter and praying.
Sometimes I'd watch the Soviets ('Russians,' they were called in Ireland) on the telly as they goosestepped--a very graceful march especially in comparion to the dreary old British army steps, I thought also--in front of Red Square and wonder if they'd goosestep into Ireland when they invaded and I envisioned legions of them goosestepping along the motorway into Belfast.
[technorati: Soviet union, Popes, canonization, Vatican]
Friday
Voices of New York
Just a quick note to let you know that I'll be reading in NYC this coming Thursday, May 19th beginning 7:00pm as part of the Lambda Literary Awards finalists reception called 'Voices of New York.' Address is: LGBT Community Center, 208 13th St, NYC. (Subway- 1,2,3,9 to 14th St/7th ave or A,C,E to 14th St. at 8th ave.)
It'll be a fun event, is free to the public, and 10 writers will read from their work for 5 mins each--so you'll not be overwhelmed--and will include Gary Zebrun reading from his mystery, Someone You Know and Alison Smith will be reading from her brilliant memoir, Name all the Animals.
[technorati: Lambda Literary Awards, LGBT Community Center, NYC, Alison Smith]
It'll be a fun event, is free to the public, and 10 writers will read from their work for 5 mins each--so you'll not be overwhelmed--and will include Gary Zebrun reading from his mystery, Someone You Know and Alison Smith will be reading from her brilliant memoir, Name all the Animals.
[technorati: Lambda Literary Awards, LGBT Community Center, NYC, Alison Smith]
Thursday
Duty and its faces
On the telly recently I watched with a certain morbid fascination as the widow of a soldier killed in Iraq commented on his valor and husbandry while footage of his 'good-bye' video rolled. Apparently, he'd had a foreboding that he would not be coming home and had, therefore, made the tape. From what I could gather, the tape had been made in secret and this surprised me enormously. I was surprised he had not discussed his foreboding with her and wondered if he, indeed, owed her a duty to inform her about this as his spouse. Of course, I realize there is no right or wrong answer here, but feel it is worth considering whether one's sense of duty to one's country trumps one's duty to family, spouse, lover, children, etc.
As I pondered this question, another question popped into my head that was based in part on the caliber of the British Army soldiers who patrolled Northern Ireland in the seventies as I was growing up. I wondered how many young American servicemen and women sign up under the guise of duty to their country in order to extricate themselves from horrid domestic circumstances or such. For example, it's fact that the majority of recruits come from the less well off echelons of American society and, therefore, many sign up to take advantage of educational opportunities afforded by the armed services. My understanding is that Jessica Lynch was one such person. But, how many of these people are actually signing up or keen to return to duty so they can escape a bad marriage, a bad parental relationship, impoverished circumstances, or the monotony of life in bleak villages and towns? Maybe there are none; maybe there's only a handful. Either way, my gut-feel is that research would unearth interesting answers.
[technorati: Iraq, USA army, Jessica Lynch, Patriotism DC]
As I pondered this question, another question popped into my head that was based in part on the caliber of the British Army soldiers who patrolled Northern Ireland in the seventies as I was growing up. I wondered how many young American servicemen and women sign up under the guise of duty to their country in order to extricate themselves from horrid domestic circumstances or such. For example, it's fact that the majority of recruits come from the less well off echelons of American society and, therefore, many sign up to take advantage of educational opportunities afforded by the armed services. My understanding is that Jessica Lynch was one such person. But, how many of these people are actually signing up or keen to return to duty so they can escape a bad marriage, a bad parental relationship, impoverished circumstances, or the monotony of life in bleak villages and towns? Maybe there are none; maybe there's only a handful. Either way, my gut-feel is that research would unearth interesting answers.
[technorati: Iraq, USA army, Jessica Lynch, Patriotism DC]
Tuesday
Goethe memories
The readings at the Goethe Institut were relaxed and great fun. As each author read from their books--limited to five minutes--I found myself immersed in different and exciting worlds I wouldn't have encountered ever in my life. In the space of an hour, I was transported from a park somewhere near Providence Rhode Island by Gary Zebrun in his mystery novel Someone You Know to a gondola in Venice by Colm Toibin in The Master. As I listened, I thought to myself that perhaps bookstore readings would be more enriching for an audience if two or three authors appeared together and read short sections from their works. Of course, I realize that's not going to happen anytime soon, given the logistics involved and that fact that the store's objective is to sell books.
One thing I love about the Goethe Institut--and I think this is perhaps an exclusively German language school concept--is that they have a gallery incorporated into their premises. After the reading, authors and the public repaired to the gallery and sipped wine or strolled about the place taking in an exhibition about the city of Berlin, many of the places I instantly recognized because I'd lived there.
Being at the Goethe brought back memories of people I'd studied with over in Germany. There was the infamous Isabel aus Paris (Isabel from Paris). Isabel was eighteen and the archetypical French woman seen in many movies--long, raven black hair, curvaceous, and outrageously flirty with the teacher. She drove around town in an old Citroen Diane--many students drive these in Europe--and was forever tardy, always entering the classroom twenty minutes after it had begun with profuse apologies delivered in grammatically terrible German, though rendered entirely acceptable because of her purring French accent. She considered herself Parisian--which she pronounced emphatically as 'Parii' and categorically refused to add the 's' at the end to accommodate the correct German pronunciation--not French and was at great pains to tell us and the teacher this everytime the conversation swung to our countries of origin. There were also the two Chinese gentlemen, very high up in the Chinese Embassy--who had terrible phonetic difficulties and could not say one German word correctly. And we European, Canadian and American students would burst into peals of laughter (Isabel braying the loudest) as they tried to say "Ich bin" and it would come out "Eeshey bin" until the German teacher ordered us to stop. And not to forget the girl from Brooklyn (I've forgotten her name but she was very bright and interesting) who was an artist and did pot; she'd stroll into the classroom quite late with her dangerous covered in multi-colored paint and simply announce, "Sorry I'm late but I was up late last night painting Berlin scenes" in what I now know is a Brooklyn accent. At the time, I just loved the accent because it sounded like Rhoda from The Mary Tyler Moore Show. I wonder if she's painting in a studio in Brooklyn now--probably is represented by a gallery now. Wish I could remember her name.
[technorati: The MAry Tyler Moore Show, Brooklyn, Goethe Institut, Washington DC]
One thing I love about the Goethe Institut--and I think this is perhaps an exclusively German language school concept--is that they have a gallery incorporated into their premises. After the reading, authors and the public repaired to the gallery and sipped wine or strolled about the place taking in an exhibition about the city of Berlin, many of the places I instantly recognized because I'd lived there.
Being at the Goethe brought back memories of people I'd studied with over in Germany. There was the infamous Isabel aus Paris (Isabel from Paris). Isabel was eighteen and the archetypical French woman seen in many movies--long, raven black hair, curvaceous, and outrageously flirty with the teacher. She drove around town in an old Citroen Diane--many students drive these in Europe--and was forever tardy, always entering the classroom twenty minutes after it had begun with profuse apologies delivered in grammatically terrible German, though rendered entirely acceptable because of her purring French accent. She considered herself Parisian--which she pronounced emphatically as 'Parii' and categorically refused to add the 's' at the end to accommodate the correct German pronunciation--not French and was at great pains to tell us and the teacher this everytime the conversation swung to our countries of origin. There were also the two Chinese gentlemen, very high up in the Chinese Embassy--who had terrible phonetic difficulties and could not say one German word correctly. And we European, Canadian and American students would burst into peals of laughter (Isabel braying the loudest) as they tried to say "Ich bin" and it would come out "Eeshey bin" until the German teacher ordered us to stop. And not to forget the girl from Brooklyn (I've forgotten her name but she was very bright and interesting) who was an artist and did pot; she'd stroll into the classroom quite late with her dangerous covered in multi-colored paint and simply announce, "Sorry I'm late but I was up late last night painting Berlin scenes" in what I now know is a Brooklyn accent. At the time, I just loved the accent because it sounded like Rhoda from The Mary Tyler Moore Show. I wonder if she's painting in a studio in Brooklyn now--probably is represented by a gallery now. Wish I could remember her name.
[technorati: The MAry Tyler Moore Show, Brooklyn, Goethe Institut, Washington DC]
Thursday
Zipping off to DC
A SON CALLED GABRIEL is a finalist in the Lambda Literary Awards and I'm just about to leave for DC to read this evening at their Voices of Washington DC finalist reading. The event is free to everyone and begins 6:30 pm at the Goethe Institut located at 812 Seventh Street NW for any of you that live in DC and want to come along. There'll be nine writers reading from their work--five minutes each, so you won't get bored!--followed by a wine reception afterwards. Hope they'll feature some nice chardonnay!!
I graduated with a Mittel-Stufe diploma in German from the Berlin Goethe Institut yonks ago--when Berlin was still divided into East and West--and haven't been inside a Goethe Institut since I did a refresher course in London a few years later. So it should be a lot of fun though I promise not to get pissed (that's what we call inebriated on the other side of the pond) and start reading from 'Gabriel' in Deutsch. One thing I am looking forward to is that fellow Irishman Colm Toibin will be there reading from his award winning novel, THE MASTER.
[technorati: Lambda Literary Awards, Colm Toibin, Goethe Institut, Washington DC]
I graduated with a Mittel-Stufe diploma in German from the Berlin Goethe Institut yonks ago--when Berlin was still divided into East and West--and haven't been inside a Goethe Institut since I did a refresher course in London a few years later. So it should be a lot of fun though I promise not to get pissed (that's what we call inebriated on the other side of the pond) and start reading from 'Gabriel' in Deutsch. One thing I am looking forward to is that fellow Irishman Colm Toibin will be there reading from his award winning novel, THE MASTER.
[technorati: Lambda Literary Awards, Colm Toibin, Goethe Institut, Washington DC]
Monday
Spring greetings from the dog groomer
One bi-annual ritual is taking my dog Spice to the grooming parlor. Spice, as you can see in the photograph, has hair as wooly and soft as a sheep. In fact, sometimes I think I should have him cloned many times so I can have a flock because I'd probably earn far more money flogging his wool than writing novels. (Don't email, I'm only kidding.)
Spice is sixteen, has arthritis in his hindquarters and is partially blind and deaf, but still very much alive. He's been taken to the same parlor since he was a puppy and I like the set up a lot; they have a large white Cockatoo in a cage whose only vocabulary is 'ello, ello' and 'goodbye,' and I'm always compelled to say 'hello' back, regardless of whether it understands the greeting or not, and the proprietor, a very pleasant woman, always greets the doggies before her paying customers. She's also a brilliant groomer and, after the first ever cut Spice had, when she did him like a toy poodle and presented him to Larry with mauve ribbons dripping from his ears and he took one look at him and told her to, "Get him back inside and shear him tight and lose the ribbons," she's been very consistent.
Her only mildly disturbing quality is that she could be more diplomatic in her greeting of older animals in my opinion. For the last two years, she's been greeting Spice with, "And you're still around, are you?" consider those words carefully and ask how am I, as his owner, supposed to respond to this? Always, I smile sunnily and mutter, "Yes...Yes he's still here," and think simultaneously of the countless precautions taken throughout the harsh, dark winter to make sure he stays in the 'here'.
This winter I had a particularly bad scare because he woke me up at three o'clock one horridly rainy morning and I let him out into our back yard which slopes down to the woods. Ten minutes later, he hadn't returned so I went outside and my heart almost burst from my chest because I couldn't see him. I shouted to Larry to come out and then ran like some chased victim in a gothic horror flick about the woods calling out his name. What was worse, some neighbors had told us a few weeks prior that they'd heard there was a coyote in the area. To cut the story short, after much whippings in the face by wild roses and trips by Larry about the neighborhood in the truck, we did one last reconnoiter of the house, heard whimpering, and found him inside a basement window well. He'd fallen in, though sustained no injury.
So you can imagine the things running through my mind as I respond to the groomer. Of course, I realize she's not thinking and just trying to make polite conversation, to reestablish a kinship of sorts after the winter has passed. But, as the English would say in preposterous situations like this, "I mean, really!"
[technorati: Dogs, English, Dog groomers, Cockerpoo]
Spice is sixteen, has arthritis in his hindquarters and is partially blind and deaf, but still very much alive. He's been taken to the same parlor since he was a puppy and I like the set up a lot; they have a large white Cockatoo in a cage whose only vocabulary is 'ello, ello' and 'goodbye,' and I'm always compelled to say 'hello' back, regardless of whether it understands the greeting or not, and the proprietor, a very pleasant woman, always greets the doggies before her paying customers. She's also a brilliant groomer and, after the first ever cut Spice had, when she did him like a toy poodle and presented him to Larry with mauve ribbons dripping from his ears and he took one look at him and told her to, "Get him back inside and shear him tight and lose the ribbons," she's been very consistent.
Her only mildly disturbing quality is that she could be more diplomatic in her greeting of older animals in my opinion. For the last two years, she's been greeting Spice with, "And you're still around, are you?" consider those words carefully and ask how am I, as his owner, supposed to respond to this? Always, I smile sunnily and mutter, "Yes...Yes he's still here," and think simultaneously of the countless precautions taken throughout the harsh, dark winter to make sure he stays in the 'here'.
This winter I had a particularly bad scare because he woke me up at three o'clock one horridly rainy morning and I let him out into our back yard which slopes down to the woods. Ten minutes later, he hadn't returned so I went outside and my heart almost burst from my chest because I couldn't see him. I shouted to Larry to come out and then ran like some chased victim in a gothic horror flick about the woods calling out his name. What was worse, some neighbors had told us a few weeks prior that they'd heard there was a coyote in the area. To cut the story short, after much whippings in the face by wild roses and trips by Larry about the neighborhood in the truck, we did one last reconnoiter of the house, heard whimpering, and found him inside a basement window well. He'd fallen in, though sustained no injury.
So you can imagine the things running through my mind as I respond to the groomer. Of course, I realize she's not thinking and just trying to make polite conversation, to reestablish a kinship of sorts after the winter has passed. But, as the English would say in preposterous situations like this, "I mean, really!"
[technorati: Dogs, English, Dog groomers, Cockerpoo]
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