Currently, we have two dear friends staying with us. They arrived unexpectedly. They live in New Orleans.
When news of Hurricane Katrina and the devastation she would reek on the gulf coast flooded the airwaves, we became hugely concerned, our concern compounded after we tried to contact them on a number of occasions and they didn't call back. It turned out they were on vacation in Russia and arrived at JFK on Sunday morning. They didn't contact us because they were traveling with friends and one of them became very ill and they had to get him to a doctor and look after his upset wife. They've since flown off to stay with a daughter in Atlanta and our friends then called and asked if they could stay because they had no way of getting back to their beautiful home in the French Quarter.
They were once our neighbors in Bucks County and have been together for fifty-one years. About ten years ago the maintenance of the lawns and farmhouse they owned became too much, so they decided they to pack up and move to New Orleans where Bob's best friend and his wife (the chap who got sick) live. Of course, over the years, Larry and I have visited them and our trips have always been happiness-laden experiences.
I fell in love with the French Quarter from the moment I set foot on its uneven, cobbled streets. The gorgeous shabbiness of the rambling homes, the live oaks sprawling chaotically toward the heavens, the competing aromas wafting from the myriad of restaurants (many of which I've tried because I love my food), the lazy Mississippi river, the shops laden with exotic wares, all of these sights conspired to make me feel I was in an old European city. Of course, there are more prestigious areas of the city, the Garden District for example, but their palatial houses and the fancy European cars parked under their porticos can be found in any city. Nothing state-side can compare with the Quarter and its carefree inhabitants.
So like our friends and other countless Americans, it's with profound shock that we watch the disintegration of that great city. Exacerbating the shock of the city's newfound circumstances and threatening to push it toward grief is my recently learning just how important New Orleans is to the United States in general, with its nearby refineries that I knew about, but also with its business of shipping grain and other commodities throughout our land. In my ignorance and, undoubtedly because I was always there on vacation, I'd always thought of New Orleans as solely a 'party town'.
As I watch the breakdown of law and order in that city, I am reminded of just how fragile our democracy and way of life is today. We assume we are the mighty United States, that we are the natural provider of democracy and aid throughout the world, that foreigners look to us to shine justice's lantern in the world's dark corners. There can be no excuse for looting or unlawful activity in our society. What we are witnessing on CNN and other broadcasting outlets is stultifying. It is difficult to believe this widespread illegality is occurring in the United States.
And yet, our New Orleans friends are not surprised. Of course, they are deeply shocked. The flooding has not reached the part of the French Quarter where their home is situated, yet they cannot relax because the house may be looted and/or destroyed by these people. Already, their tenant had to leave his apartment out of fear: on the only night he chose to remain, the streets were in pitch darkness and awash with bands of roaming strangers. People are being approached aggressively for money, etc.
For years, our friends have told us that outside of the affluent areas, New Orleans is within a hair's breath of being a 'third-world city'. Just outside the French Quarter, hordes and hordes of the city's population live in housing that is best truly described as 'shotgun shacks.' I have seen these houses and the abject poverty with my own eyes, would not have believed it could exist in the United States otherwise. The education system in these parts of the South is in shambles and churning out thousands and thousands of kids who can't read or write. What hope do these people have? Should we really be shocked when they seize the opportunity and turn predator?
I ask you whether these conditions should be allowed to exist in the United States. Why are we not using our tax dollars to improve the lives of all our citizens, the impoverished blacks and whites as well as the well-off? A country can only be truly great when ALL of its citizens are energetically pursuing happiness. Why can our lawmakers not realize this? Why can they not focus and apply themselves truly toward the betterment of our America. Why can they not stop squandering our resources? May true enlightenment come out of the floods and misery in New Orleans and the gulf. This, I fervently hope and pray.
[technorati: New Orleans, Hurricane Katrina, French Quarter, looters]
Wednesday
Princess, the update
Apparently, it was a most interesting evening at the parental home last night.
Mum decided it best to tell the truth and waited for an opportune moment to announce the fish's demise. After the telling, which took place out of Ryan's earshot, everyone went to Siobhan's house--it adjoins my parents--but still my mother could not see Princess. My sister found her. She was staring at them open-mouthed and belly-up from one of the turrets uppermost windows.
The party removed back soon thereafter to my mother's house while Michael, my sister's husband, fished Princess out of her bowl, told Ryan who was naturally very sad, and the two disposed of the body in the garden
After a few hours, my sister came back in to Mum who began to apologize further as she is prone to do, though she informed me she also took great care to re-emphasize it was not anything she had done. Apparently, my sister stood and left the room leaving my mother as open-mouthed as her last vision of Princess. She heard Siobhan shut the back door quite hard before she returned to the parlor and proceeded to tell her she'd just gone out to check Ryan wasn't about and eavesdropping (he's a very intelligent child) and she wasn't to fret anymore about the fish.
It turns out it wasn't Princess who'd died. Princess had in fact died months ago, as had another subsequent fish, and Siobhan had replaced these fishes with very similar ones on two occasions. She hadn't told Mum about them in case she'd inadvertently tell Ryan. In fact, Siobhan admitted to being so tired of the fickle fishes that Michael and she decided to tell Ryan that Princess had indeed died. And moreover, my sister informed Mother that, after the last remaining one departs, there will be no pets of any description forming part of the Florida-James/McNicholl household.
[technorati: goldfish, mothers and daughters, family, pets]
Mum decided it best to tell the truth and waited for an opportune moment to announce the fish's demise. After the telling, which took place out of Ryan's earshot, everyone went to Siobhan's house--it adjoins my parents--but still my mother could not see Princess. My sister found her. She was staring at them open-mouthed and belly-up from one of the turrets uppermost windows.
The party removed back soon thereafter to my mother's house while Michael, my sister's husband, fished Princess out of her bowl, told Ryan who was naturally very sad, and the two disposed of the body in the garden
After a few hours, my sister came back in to Mum who began to apologize further as she is prone to do, though she informed me she also took great care to re-emphasize it was not anything she had done. Apparently, my sister stood and left the room leaving my mother as open-mouthed as her last vision of Princess. She heard Siobhan shut the back door quite hard before she returned to the parlor and proceeded to tell her she'd just gone out to check Ryan wasn't about and eavesdropping (he's a very intelligent child) and she wasn't to fret anymore about the fish.
It turns out it wasn't Princess who'd died. Princess had in fact died months ago, as had another subsequent fish, and Siobhan had replaced these fishes with very similar ones on two occasions. She hadn't told Mum about them in case she'd inadvertently tell Ryan. In fact, Siobhan admitted to being so tired of the fickle fishes that Michael and she decided to tell Ryan that Princess had indeed died. And moreover, my sister informed Mother that, after the last remaining one departs, there will be no pets of any description forming part of the Florida-James/McNicholl household.
[technorati: goldfish, mothers and daughters, family, pets]
Monday
Princess, the goldfish
Mum rang to share her crisis last night. My sister Siobhan and her family went to Spain on vacation last week, are due back tomorrow, and left her in charge of my eight-year-old nephew's two goldfish. These goldfish are so beloved in my sister's household that one has already been taken to the vet a few months ago because it was swimming listlessly. This news of my sister's love for fish was all the more astonishing in that she would under no circumstances allow neither David (my other nephew) nor Ryan a puppy nor kitten when they wanted one on a number of occasions a few years ago. Dogs and cats were decreed disruptive of her home's tranquility, which I read to mean they shed far too much hair and thus much additional household vacuuming would be required. (My suspicions were confirmed subsequently when my mother remonstrated she was not prepared to look after any four-legged animal--they live beside one another--when my sister, her hubby and the kids went off to work and school respectively.
It now appears Mum has failed to look after a finned animal as well because one of the fish, Princess, the largest and sleekest to boot, has departed. And exacerbating the issue is the fact that my sister asked about the fish on a call last night. Apparantly, Mum noticed the now deceased fish was looking "a bit pale around the gills" a few weeks ago and, moreover, that it had developed some white spots around its mouth, but she said nothing to Siobhan and now wishes she had made her observation public...certainly before they left for Spain. Apparently, the tank has a submerged castle replete with an open door, mirrors and high turrets within and the fish has gone inside and cannot be coaxed out with neither pencil, fork nor my father's plump index finger.
"Are you sure it's dead, Mum?" I asked.
"It's dead."
"Perhaps the pencil jabbings or Dad did it in?"
"That's not funny." She coughs.
"They normally go belly up."
"It can't. There's not enough room."
"What about the other fish?"
"I don't think it knows. They can't sense these things."
"No, what's it doing?"
"God, I hope it doesn't die, or if it plans to, that it'll wait until tomorrow evening."
The obvious answer--which I, of course, tendered promptly--is to go to a pet store and purchase another healthy fish of the same proportion (and my mother did admit there is one of similar size in another pet shop about two hours drive from her home). However, she feels very conflicted. She thinks it would be deceitful, and she should just tell them the truth on their return because it was not her fault. I said that would be tricky and asked whether she'd do it before they give her her gifts or after.
After a pregnant pause, she informed me that Dad was helping to decorate my brother Dermot's home, the home where I and my siblings had been raised, and complained his wife had had the kitchen cupboards removed on a whim, only to be told subsequently by a craftsman that she'd made a mistake because they were made of some of the best wood he'd ever seem.
"As if I'd have sub-par cabinets in any home I ever lived in, Damian," she said.
Now, my sister-in-law has decided she wants them put back again but a few of the doors have been damaged, which will cost her greatly to have them repaired. The vindication in Mum's voice sizzled through the phone line, and then it darkened again when she returned to her goldfish dilemma.
Anyway, tomorrow will tell which solution she opts for, though I suspect it'll involve a few toilet flushings and Dad being rapidly dispatched to the distant pet shop.
[technorati: goldfish, mothers, family, pets]
It now appears Mum has failed to look after a finned animal as well because one of the fish, Princess, the largest and sleekest to boot, has departed. And exacerbating the issue is the fact that my sister asked about the fish on a call last night. Apparantly, Mum noticed the now deceased fish was looking "a bit pale around the gills" a few weeks ago and, moreover, that it had developed some white spots around its mouth, but she said nothing to Siobhan and now wishes she had made her observation public...certainly before they left for Spain. Apparently, the tank has a submerged castle replete with an open door, mirrors and high turrets within and the fish has gone inside and cannot be coaxed out with neither pencil, fork nor my father's plump index finger.
"Are you sure it's dead, Mum?" I asked.
"It's dead."
"Perhaps the pencil jabbings or Dad did it in?"
"That's not funny." She coughs.
"They normally go belly up."
"It can't. There's not enough room."
"What about the other fish?"
"I don't think it knows. They can't sense these things."
"No, what's it doing?"
"God, I hope it doesn't die, or if it plans to, that it'll wait until tomorrow evening."
The obvious answer--which I, of course, tendered promptly--is to go to a pet store and purchase another healthy fish of the same proportion (and my mother did admit there is one of similar size in another pet shop about two hours drive from her home). However, she feels very conflicted. She thinks it would be deceitful, and she should just tell them the truth on their return because it was not her fault. I said that would be tricky and asked whether she'd do it before they give her her gifts or after.
After a pregnant pause, she informed me that Dad was helping to decorate my brother Dermot's home, the home where I and my siblings had been raised, and complained his wife had had the kitchen cupboards removed on a whim, only to be told subsequently by a craftsman that she'd made a mistake because they were made of some of the best wood he'd ever seem.
"As if I'd have sub-par cabinets in any home I ever lived in, Damian," she said.
Now, my sister-in-law has decided she wants them put back again but a few of the doors have been damaged, which will cost her greatly to have them repaired. The vindication in Mum's voice sizzled through the phone line, and then it darkened again when she returned to her goldfish dilemma.
Anyway, tomorrow will tell which solution she opts for, though I suspect it'll involve a few toilet flushings and Dad being rapidly dispatched to the distant pet shop.
[technorati: goldfish, mothers, family, pets]
Thursday
False apologies
Pat Robertson's outrageous call for the United States to reactivate the Doctrine of Assassination and murder a foreign head of state offended me on many levels. It offended my Roman Catholic upbringing, my sense of decency, my understanding of the American way of life and my understanding of civilized behavior. I should say, I do not pretend to have a firm grip on the state of Venezuelan politics but I understand Chavez is an avowed anti-globalist as are many people in Europe and the United States, that his country's government was awash in corruption before he came to power, that he has little time for organized religion and sees them as hypocrites, and that he enjoys the support of the majority of impoverished Venezuelans who happen to have brown skin but has little or no support among the ruling class who're descended from European ancestry. Moreover, I do find it quite odd that President Chavez has a penchant for wearing military uniforms in public, likes to associate with Fidel Castro and has a spotty record of success but, as the head of a foreign power, he is entitled to absolute respect regardless as to whether his rule and government is deemed repugnant by other westernised countries.
What is not okay is for a self-appointed man of God, the leader of a large Christian evangelical group to call for that country's leader's assassination. Under no circumstances can a Christian sanction killing and Mr. Robertson has overstepped his boundaries, widely. Nor is this the first time he has done so. And, as before, he has predictably issued a meaningless apology wrapped up in the skin of a further admonishment, an apology that is intended solely to restore his status-quo as a practicing Christian and prominent American. It seems to me the members of his religious community would be better served if they replaced this aging patriarch with someone less incendiary, with someone who would practice fully the edicts of Christianity. In calling for President Chavez's assassination, Mr. Robertson has in my view placed himself squarely in the barren terrain of fanatical Islamists, jihadists and others who will brook no vision of the world but theirs. By his redundant apology, he is not redeemed, but rather exacerbates a tendency toward wanton dangerousness.
[technorati: Pat Robertson, Hugo Chavez, Venezuela, The 700 Club]
What is not okay is for a self-appointed man of God, the leader of a large Christian evangelical group to call for that country's leader's assassination. Under no circumstances can a Christian sanction killing and Mr. Robertson has overstepped his boundaries, widely. Nor is this the first time he has done so. And, as before, he has predictably issued a meaningless apology wrapped up in the skin of a further admonishment, an apology that is intended solely to restore his status-quo as a practicing Christian and prominent American. It seems to me the members of his religious community would be better served if they replaced this aging patriarch with someone less incendiary, with someone who would practice fully the edicts of Christianity. In calling for President Chavez's assassination, Mr. Robertson has in my view placed himself squarely in the barren terrain of fanatical Islamists, jihadists and others who will brook no vision of the world but theirs. By his redundant apology, he is not redeemed, but rather exacerbates a tendency toward wanton dangerousness.
[technorati: Pat Robertson, Hugo Chavez, Venezuela, The 700 Club]
Wednesday
Helen Boyd's interview
At the Lambda Literary Award readings, I was most fortunate to meet and strike up a conversation with Helen Boyd whose book My Husband Betty published by Thunder's Mouth Press was a finalist in the transgender category. Helen is a fascinating woman, is married to a man who happens to crossdress, and her book explores the relations of these straight men and their female partners or wives.
Anyway, Helen read A Son Called Gabriel and liked it very much, said she didn't see the ending coming, and invited me to answer a few questions she had for her Five Questions with series.
[technorati: My Husband Betty, Helen Boyd, Transgender issues, LGBT]
Anyway, Helen read A Son Called Gabriel and liked it very much, said she didn't see the ending coming, and invited me to answer a few questions she had for her Five Questions with series.
[technorati: My Husband Betty, Helen Boyd, Transgender issues, LGBT]
Sunday
Goodbye, Mo
Last Friday, the world lost a highly colorful, eccentric, charismatic character as Marjorie (Mo) Mowlam died in a hospice in Kent, England at age 55. She died of a brain tumor that first appeared in 1997. In her tenure as the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland--a job no British government cabinet member ever wants, she being no exception, because it is viewed as a second-rate position, a position of exile--she was both hated and loved by both the nationalists and extremely conservative Unionists. However, they will never forget her because she was straight-forward, chewed gum, put her feet up on the highly polished table during meetings if she felt like it, swore at politicians, poked fun at them, and, once even, took off her wig to help diffuse tension during a very important meeting. Though she did not want to be sent to Northern Ireland, once she became the SoS, she settled into her role with unmitigated dedication and enthusiasm, grew to love the province, and was one of the key players instrumental in bringing Sinn Fein to the negotiating table and helped bring about the Good Friday Agreement.
Though a huge public persona, Mo was an intensely private individual and few were privy to her most intimate thoughts. Her youth was spent in difficult circumstances--her father descending into the grip of alcoholism--and she experienced much personal tragedy in her life, which included the loss of a boyfriend by drowning whom she loved intensely. Moreover, Mo made her presence felt on our side of the pond because she spent six years here, studying for a Ph.D at the University of Iowa and teaching in Florida where she was stalked and assaulted (before managing to escape) by a stranger who broke into her apartment. She maintained vociferously that her stalker was Ted Bundy who killed two young women at a nearby campus.
On her return to Britain, she did what had to be done to rise up Labour's ranks, won a seat in Westminster eventually, and moved up the rungs of government. In fact, her popularity became so great, she obtained a huge ovation at the 1998 Labour Party Conference, one so huge it outlasted Tony Blair's ovation, and she was convinced he never forgave her for that.
Though long gone from Northern Ireland when Mo took her position there, I recognized from afar that elusive blend of charisma, determination and irreverence that defined her public persona, that set people like her apart, and loved her for it. Though retired from public life due to the illness, she will be missed by her peers, enemies and all who admired her. The world is a darker place for her departure. God speed, Mo.
[technorati: Mo Mowlam, Tony Blair, British Cabinet, Ted Bundy]
Though a huge public persona, Mo was an intensely private individual and few were privy to her most intimate thoughts. Her youth was spent in difficult circumstances--her father descending into the grip of alcoholism--and she experienced much personal tragedy in her life, which included the loss of a boyfriend by drowning whom she loved intensely. Moreover, Mo made her presence felt on our side of the pond because she spent six years here, studying for a Ph.D at the University of Iowa and teaching in Florida where she was stalked and assaulted (before managing to escape) by a stranger who broke into her apartment. She maintained vociferously that her stalker was Ted Bundy who killed two young women at a nearby campus.
On her return to Britain, she did what had to be done to rise up Labour's ranks, won a seat in Westminster eventually, and moved up the rungs of government. In fact, her popularity became so great, she obtained a huge ovation at the 1998 Labour Party Conference, one so huge it outlasted Tony Blair's ovation, and she was convinced he never forgave her for that.
Though long gone from Northern Ireland when Mo took her position there, I recognized from afar that elusive blend of charisma, determination and irreverence that defined her public persona, that set people like her apart, and loved her for it. Though retired from public life due to the illness, she will be missed by her peers, enemies and all who admired her. The world is a darker place for her departure. God speed, Mo.
[technorati: Mo Mowlam, Tony Blair, British Cabinet, Ted Bundy]
Thursday
Why I write
As an author, I hope that my writings will educate as well as entertain, that they will reach and move people in ways that perhaps even I cannot anticipate. Of course, I realize that not all of my future novels will meet this kind of self-imposed 'test' if you will, but nevertheless, this is something I am conscious of when I write certain books. For example, my next novel which will soon go out on submission to publishers and whose working title is Unusual Steps is really a dark comedy, and was written with no particular lesson or objective in mind. In other words, its goal is to entertain.
Not so with A Son Called Gabriel. With this novel, I was as determined to educate readers about what it's like for a young boy who discovers to his horror that he's growing up gay in a very conservative culture as I was to entertain them with humor and wit. Some lofty-minded authors will undoubtedly scoff and say the author should have no such goal in mind, that he or she should care only about the goal of creating high art. That, too, is also fine, a worthy objective. But, frankly, I don't give a damn if they think this is the only goal in writing quality fiction. I care passionately only that my work is accessible to people who love to read, that they can relate to the story, and where possible, that they can learn something no matter how small in the process of reading it.
I am very happy to report that I appear to have been successful in this mission with 'Gabriel.' Many people have said at readings or they've emailed to say how glad they are that I have written about this complex subject within the context of a novel. Such conversations and emails brighten my day, make me so very joyful that this was my first novel to get published.
Recently, I received an email from a woman who wrote to express her feelings after she'd read 'Gabriel.' I was very moved by her words and wish to share them with you. After I'd read the email, I closed my eyes and said to myself, "This is why I wrote this book."
Here it is:
Hello.
My name is Rita-Anne. I just finished reading "A Son Called Gabriel". I purchased the book, only having read the inside page and being drawn to it because it is set in Northern Ireland.
By about pages 8/9, I realized that he was gay. That's when I read the reviews on the back cover!
While I have many friends who are either gay, lesbian or transgendered, I found this book gave me a greater understanding of the internal turmoil they experienced as children/young adults.
Having been to Northern Ireland too many times to count (my best friend lives in Belfast), I completely understood the social elements, the familial conflicts and the time frame in which the book is set. And while I laughed a number of times throughout the book, I must confess I cried shamelessly when Gabriel hits his breaking point.
That said, I am sorry the book is finished because I now feel a sense of loss. In addition, I am sorry I didn't get a chance to meet you while you did the signings in the North Wales and Philadelphia areas last month.
Thank you, Mr McNicholl, for writing such a tender, wonderful and insightful novel.
All the best,
Rita-Anne Provenzano
-----
It's me who thanks you, Rita-Anne.
[technorati: Northern Ireland, fiction writing, Belfast, writers]
Not so with A Son Called Gabriel. With this novel, I was as determined to educate readers about what it's like for a young boy who discovers to his horror that he's growing up gay in a very conservative culture as I was to entertain them with humor and wit. Some lofty-minded authors will undoubtedly scoff and say the author should have no such goal in mind, that he or she should care only about the goal of creating high art. That, too, is also fine, a worthy objective. But, frankly, I don't give a damn if they think this is the only goal in writing quality fiction. I care passionately only that my work is accessible to people who love to read, that they can relate to the story, and where possible, that they can learn something no matter how small in the process of reading it.
I am very happy to report that I appear to have been successful in this mission with 'Gabriel.' Many people have said at readings or they've emailed to say how glad they are that I have written about this complex subject within the context of a novel. Such conversations and emails brighten my day, make me so very joyful that this was my first novel to get published.
Recently, I received an email from a woman who wrote to express her feelings after she'd read 'Gabriel.' I was very moved by her words and wish to share them with you. After I'd read the email, I closed my eyes and said to myself, "This is why I wrote this book."
Here it is:
Hello.
My name is Rita-Anne. I just finished reading "A Son Called Gabriel". I purchased the book, only having read the inside page and being drawn to it because it is set in Northern Ireland.
By about pages 8/9, I realized that he was gay. That's when I read the reviews on the back cover!
While I have many friends who are either gay, lesbian or transgendered, I found this book gave me a greater understanding of the internal turmoil they experienced as children/young adults.
Having been to Northern Ireland too many times to count (my best friend lives in Belfast), I completely understood the social elements, the familial conflicts and the time frame in which the book is set. And while I laughed a number of times throughout the book, I must confess I cried shamelessly when Gabriel hits his breaking point.
That said, I am sorry the book is finished because I now feel a sense of loss. In addition, I am sorry I didn't get a chance to meet you while you did the signings in the North Wales and Philadelphia areas last month.
Thank you, Mr McNicholl, for writing such a tender, wonderful and insightful novel.
All the best,
Rita-Anne Provenzano
-----
It's me who thanks you, Rita-Anne.
[technorati: Northern Ireland, fiction writing, Belfast, writers]
Monday
Sky Power
God, what superb power filled the skies last night. There's nothing as marvelous, as spectacular, as thrilling as a Pennsylvania summer lightning storm.
Our house is situate on a knoll and set within a circle of mature trees--stretching elms, graceful sassafras and sturdy ashes in the main--and last night was the most beautiful lightning I've ever beheld in my entire life. Every crack and hole within the tree canopy, every gap between the black tree trunks filled instantly and often with gloriously blue electric that threatened with every thuderous boom to advance farther and come uninvited into the bedroom. And what angry roars...so earsplitting I felt the stucco walls shake as if in terror, and I imagined the cedar shingle roofing rise and curl before its blue power. Spice, our seventeen-year-old dog now currently having trouble with his back legs, and practically deaf, slept right through the wild symphony.
The last time I could recall such massive thunder and lightning was on the evening my parents had arrived to spend a fortnight's vacation with Larry and me. Mum is terrified of lightning, is heedless to the fact that fork lightning is a rare occurrence in any part of Ireland. I remember how paralyzed she used to get when we were children and there was an early evening storm replete with ferocious boomers that rolled across the sky as if God and the devil were locked in a game of bowls. As soon as the first pang of sheet lightning flashed across our eyes, she'd scream like a banshee and freeze like she were a hare caught in a car's headlights. Between the first and second boom rolls of thunder, she'd charge to a nearby closet, or the darkest room in the house, and would refuse to re-emerge until we came and told it the storm had passed, which we never did of course until we'd raided the cookie cupboard and gorged ourselves.
On her first night in Pennsylvania a fork lightning storm erupted right over the house. Bone-tired from her long flight, she'd already retired for the night and in between lightning flashes and the thunder, so violent I could hear the window panes shudder, I heard massive hysterical screams overhead. Next instant, furious footsteps came down the stairwell and mother crashed through the French doors leading to the living room in her bright pink nightie. Always proper and reserved in the presence of company, and especially in front of Larry whom she was just getting to know, Mother hadn't even bothered to bring her robe, so intense was her terror. Naturally, it was great fodder with which to pull her leg throughout the duration of the vacation, and she also saw the funny side.
And wouldn't you know it? On the day of their departure, Murphy's Law came into play and a violent thunder storm broke out in the afternoon which brought down a middling-sized tree on our driveway. By then though, Mother was utterly calm, almost oblivious; by then, she'd taken a second or third pill from her Valium stash because she's also terrified of flying.
[technorati: thunder, sheet lightning, pennsylvania]
Our house is situate on a knoll and set within a circle of mature trees--stretching elms, graceful sassafras and sturdy ashes in the main--and last night was the most beautiful lightning I've ever beheld in my entire life. Every crack and hole within the tree canopy, every gap between the black tree trunks filled instantly and often with gloriously blue electric that threatened with every thuderous boom to advance farther and come uninvited into the bedroom. And what angry roars...so earsplitting I felt the stucco walls shake as if in terror, and I imagined the cedar shingle roofing rise and curl before its blue power. Spice, our seventeen-year-old dog now currently having trouble with his back legs, and practically deaf, slept right through the wild symphony.
The last time I could recall such massive thunder and lightning was on the evening my parents had arrived to spend a fortnight's vacation with Larry and me. Mum is terrified of lightning, is heedless to the fact that fork lightning is a rare occurrence in any part of Ireland. I remember how paralyzed she used to get when we were children and there was an early evening storm replete with ferocious boomers that rolled across the sky as if God and the devil were locked in a game of bowls. As soon as the first pang of sheet lightning flashed across our eyes, she'd scream like a banshee and freeze like she were a hare caught in a car's headlights. Between the first and second boom rolls of thunder, she'd charge to a nearby closet, or the darkest room in the house, and would refuse to re-emerge until we came and told it the storm had passed, which we never did of course until we'd raided the cookie cupboard and gorged ourselves.
On her first night in Pennsylvania a fork lightning storm erupted right over the house. Bone-tired from her long flight, she'd already retired for the night and in between lightning flashes and the thunder, so violent I could hear the window panes shudder, I heard massive hysterical screams overhead. Next instant, furious footsteps came down the stairwell and mother crashed through the French doors leading to the living room in her bright pink nightie. Always proper and reserved in the presence of company, and especially in front of Larry whom she was just getting to know, Mother hadn't even bothered to bring her robe, so intense was her terror. Naturally, it was great fodder with which to pull her leg throughout the duration of the vacation, and she also saw the funny side.
And wouldn't you know it? On the day of their departure, Murphy's Law came into play and a violent thunder storm broke out in the afternoon which brought down a middling-sized tree on our driveway. By then though, Mother was utterly calm, almost oblivious; by then, she'd taken a second or third pill from her Valium stash because she's also terrified of flying.
[technorati: thunder, sheet lightning, pennsylvania]
Friday
Connie Martinson Talks Books
When I was out in LA recently, I was invited to discuss A Son Called Gabriel with Connie Martinson on her infamous book show. Well, for those of you living in the LA area, that show will air on Monday, August 15th, at 3 PM and again at 11.30 PM PST on LA CITYVIEW -CH 35.
It also airs in SF and NYC and some other major cities, but I don't know the time.
[technorati: Connie Martinson Talks Books, Connie Martinson, Los Angeles]
It also airs in SF and NYC and some other major cities, but I don't know the time.
[technorati: Connie Martinson Talks Books, Connie Martinson, Los Angeles]
Thursday
It's official!; I'm a Mac man now
I've ended my procrastination and took possession of a G4 Mac Powerbook. I'm now the owner of a sleek, metallic 17-inch laptop (which fits into my briefcase--a non-negotiable requirement)and am now learning how to use the thing.
I didn't buy it new. I decided to be uncharacteristically frugal. You see, my neighbors Scott and Jessica both have laptops and Scott is a Mac man, knows everything about Macs that there is to know. So when I mentioned a while ago that I was thinking of moving to Apple, he helped me research the internet and I bounced tons of questions off him. Then things got busy with the paperback release of 'Gabriel' and I put the whole thing on the sideburner. Anyway, he called me recently and said he was getting a new more powerful Mac--he does lots of CAD design work--and asked if I was interested in buying his old one (only around two years old approx) for a good price. I took him up on his offer.
Most people don't like to buy second-hand ('pre-owned' is the American euphemism, I know) but I was comfortable and Scott has spent two hours setting my systems up and answering my questions as I used the thing. He was also dead nice in that he wanted me to have a 'first time Mac buyers experience.' So, he put the Powerbook (along with its cables and manuals) I was buying into the same pretty box his new laptop arrived in and let me open it as if I'd just taken delivery of a brand new machine. It was a really neat idea because, as soon as I opened it and took out the incredibly slim, silver oblong and felt its weight in my hands, I fell in love with it as I've never fallen in love with a computer before. The only other laptop I owned was an Hitachi that I was very fond of, but it was stolen from my hotel room in London--an inside job, the police said--about five years ago.
Already, I've learned a lot--there isn't a great amount of difference really--and its much faster zipping through the 'net' than my old one. One thing I'm missing is the PC mouse with its double click to do 'cut and paste', though I've been told I can buy any mouse that's USB compatible and it'll work. But the Mac shortcuts more than make up for this shortcoming in the interim. Another learning curve issue is adjusting to the notebook keyboard and I'm touching one button that makes everything uppercase.
I've also splurged and got a 'router' so I can access the web from any part of the house and bought a 'cruzer' which backs up all my stuff into its key ring sized storage device that's 1.0GB. Next on the agenda is the acquisition of a new laser printer because my old one does not run on the Mac operating system, but they've become a lot cheaper. Currently I have a Brother 630 that cost bout $550 when I bought it seven years ago and it's archaic, prints only 6 pages a minute.
I'm hoping for great things from my Powerbook! Not least, I'm hoping it'll inspire me to complete my latest novel which I haven't worked on in yonks--more about that in another post. And my old faithful PC will retire from its writerly duties (just as soon as I email myself my manuscripts), but its hard disc will churn and resound onward for all within earshot to hear because it's become Larry's toy.
So all in all, I'm pleased as punch (should a writer worth his salt resort to cliche ever, I wonder?) and am happy to have great neighbors who are also friends. Now onward with that new novel...
[technorati: Mac, laptop, PC, Apple,Powerbook]
I didn't buy it new. I decided to be uncharacteristically frugal. You see, my neighbors Scott and Jessica both have laptops and Scott is a Mac man, knows everything about Macs that there is to know. So when I mentioned a while ago that I was thinking of moving to Apple, he helped me research the internet and I bounced tons of questions off him. Then things got busy with the paperback release of 'Gabriel' and I put the whole thing on the sideburner. Anyway, he called me recently and said he was getting a new more powerful Mac--he does lots of CAD design work--and asked if I was interested in buying his old one (only around two years old approx) for a good price. I took him up on his offer.
Most people don't like to buy second-hand ('pre-owned' is the American euphemism, I know) but I was comfortable and Scott has spent two hours setting my systems up and answering my questions as I used the thing. He was also dead nice in that he wanted me to have a 'first time Mac buyers experience.' So, he put the Powerbook (along with its cables and manuals) I was buying into the same pretty box his new laptop arrived in and let me open it as if I'd just taken delivery of a brand new machine. It was a really neat idea because, as soon as I opened it and took out the incredibly slim, silver oblong and felt its weight in my hands, I fell in love with it as I've never fallen in love with a computer before. The only other laptop I owned was an Hitachi that I was very fond of, but it was stolen from my hotel room in London--an inside job, the police said--about five years ago.
Already, I've learned a lot--there isn't a great amount of difference really--and its much faster zipping through the 'net' than my old one. One thing I'm missing is the PC mouse with its double click to do 'cut and paste', though I've been told I can buy any mouse that's USB compatible and it'll work. But the Mac shortcuts more than make up for this shortcoming in the interim. Another learning curve issue is adjusting to the notebook keyboard and I'm touching one button that makes everything uppercase.
I've also splurged and got a 'router' so I can access the web from any part of the house and bought a 'cruzer' which backs up all my stuff into its key ring sized storage device that's 1.0GB. Next on the agenda is the acquisition of a new laser printer because my old one does not run on the Mac operating system, but they've become a lot cheaper. Currently I have a Brother 630 that cost bout $550 when I bought it seven years ago and it's archaic, prints only 6 pages a minute.
I'm hoping for great things from my Powerbook! Not least, I'm hoping it'll inspire me to complete my latest novel which I haven't worked on in yonks--more about that in another post. And my old faithful PC will retire from its writerly duties (just as soon as I email myself my manuscripts), but its hard disc will churn and resound onward for all within earshot to hear because it's become Larry's toy.
So all in all, I'm pleased as punch (should a writer worth his salt resort to cliche ever, I wonder?) and am happy to have great neighbors who are also friends. Now onward with that new novel...
[technorati: Mac, laptop, PC, Apple,Powerbook]
Monday
A self-imposed abstinence of sorts
I had a very interesting experience this past weekend. My friend, Lee, of L&L (they of the evening of the infamous 'psychiatrist game') had a birthday party--a pool party on account of the excellent weather--and I was most disappointed not to be able to down some large and excellent looking Margaritas on account of the fact I had a reading at a local BN at 6.00 pm. At 5.00 pm, just as the food--I'm a voracious lover of good food--was about to be served, I duly left the party in sad spirits, doubly so because I was going to miss a game of softball that was to take part afterward, and drove to the reading. During the ride, I indulged a thought that the deities of the universe would undoubtedly be most benign this evening because of my heap of deprivations and would pull out all the stops and deliver me an alert audience of at least thirty bodies, all solvent, all anxious for a bit of Northern Irish culture.
The first signal that something was amiss was that there were no copies of my novel in the window. As I pushed open the double doors leading into the beautiful air-conditioning--it was wretchedly humid outside--the second clue became apparent because of its absence. The stand announcing an author event was also missing. Immediately, I went to the information desk, asked for the crm as I scanned the BN events leaflet, and was told she was not working that day.
After I explained myself, the bookseller contacted the manager who came out crimson-faced and very apologetic. The poor crm had made a mistake (when she'd contacted me about the reading she was only one week into the position) and put me down for a September date instead of August. I've just spoken to her now on the phone and we've settled on a September date, though she was still mortified about the mix-up.
It was all rather amusing really, particularly so since I hadn't really wanted to do the reading that evening, either. In hindsight, the fact that it was to take place on a Sat evening should have been a red flag. I should have mentioned at the time we were arranging the thing that it seemed to be an odd evening for an author event. In fact, I'd almost take a bet that John Grisham would not pull a big audience on a hot summer evening.
Anyway, back I went to the birthday party and, as I was coming up the driveway, I saw a bunch of people huddled in a circle on the front lawn. I got out of the car and went over. Poor Lee had injured her ankle in the softball game and was writhing in pain as someone applied ice to reduce the swelling. Not a nice way to celebrate one's birthday. However, no serious damage was done and I went back to the car, absolutely determined now that nothing was going to prevent me ending my Margarita abstinence.
At this time I'd also like to add, because Lee is a voracious reader and she's currently reading a book I've been interested to review on the blog, I've invited her to do the review. I won't give the title just yet, but it'll post in early September.
[technorati: Barnes & Noble, book reviews, John Grisham,softball]
The first signal that something was amiss was that there were no copies of my novel in the window. As I pushed open the double doors leading into the beautiful air-conditioning--it was wretchedly humid outside--the second clue became apparent because of its absence. The stand announcing an author event was also missing. Immediately, I went to the information desk, asked for the crm as I scanned the BN events leaflet, and was told she was not working that day.
After I explained myself, the bookseller contacted the manager who came out crimson-faced and very apologetic. The poor crm had made a mistake (when she'd contacted me about the reading she was only one week into the position) and put me down for a September date instead of August. I've just spoken to her now on the phone and we've settled on a September date, though she was still mortified about the mix-up.
It was all rather amusing really, particularly so since I hadn't really wanted to do the reading that evening, either. In hindsight, the fact that it was to take place on a Sat evening should have been a red flag. I should have mentioned at the time we were arranging the thing that it seemed to be an odd evening for an author event. In fact, I'd almost take a bet that John Grisham would not pull a big audience on a hot summer evening.
Anyway, back I went to the birthday party and, as I was coming up the driveway, I saw a bunch of people huddled in a circle on the front lawn. I got out of the car and went over. Poor Lee had injured her ankle in the softball game and was writhing in pain as someone applied ice to reduce the swelling. Not a nice way to celebrate one's birthday. However, no serious damage was done and I went back to the car, absolutely determined now that nothing was going to prevent me ending my Margarita abstinence.
At this time I'd also like to add, because Lee is a voracious reader and she's currently reading a book I've been interested to review on the blog, I've invited her to do the review. I won't give the title just yet, but it'll post in early September.
[technorati: Barnes & Noble, book reviews, John Grisham,softball]
Friday
Paula and Love in Action--no, it's not a band name
I guess you've probably surmised I would not be a Lou Dobbs fan, but now Paula's starting to come across as a hack. Now Bill's gone from American Morning, the only one left to like is Soledad, and I think she should get her tail back to the networks or PBS.
Anyway, here's a copy of the e-mail I sent to Paula Zahn and her "producers" about...well, it speaks for itself, really.
It's unlikely I'll get a response because my experience with conglomerates (in my case, MCI and American Express) is that they ignore letters of complaint in hopes the pest will go away and they can then continue with their corp. objective of making tons and tons of money. However, in the event CNN responds, I'll be sure to share.
------------
Dear Paula, et al
My name is Damian McNicholl and I'm the author of A SON CALLED GABRIEL, which is a semi-autobiographical novel and deals in large part with a young boy struggling with his sexuality in a very conservative environment.
It's taken me until today to decide to write about a recent episode of 'Paula Zahn Now', an episode in which you presented the case of two youths being sent to a camp called Love in Action for 'curing.' The reason for my delay was the unexpected onset of a temporary emotional hangover.
Why a temporary emotional hangover, you might ask? Well, it came into being when I noted how carelessly you reported on this painful subject. I feel you abdicated your responsibility as a journalist in this instance, and I have admired your work greatly. However, this piece was poorly reseached, if at all researched, and you completely disregarded both the opinion of the AMA and APA in your zeal to present a spurious organization claiming to 'cure' its charges of the affliction of homosexuality.
As a seasoned and responsible reporter, it is your duty to present all sides of an issue, and you and CNN have failed terribly. Where is the empirical data from this institution claiming successful conversions? I am not talking of one case or two. I am asking, what is the statistically meaningful number of persons they have 'cured', and where is their data?
Where is the presentation of AMA and APA opinions that there is no problem, that there is nothing to 'fix' or 'cure' when someone is homosexual. Where are the counterbalancing viewpoints from people such as me, people who have grown up in conservative homes and communities, who have struggled with our sexuality, and who are now well-adjusted, successful and happy the Supreme Being or God chose to make us homosexual?
Without posing these vital questions and presenting a balance, your presentation came across as amateurish at best. May I suggest you go to the library and obtain a copy of my novel, and also check out other works like it, and do meticulous research, and then redeem yourself by presenting a fair and balanced program on this subject. I would also like you to take some time out and reflect on the great pain and anguish you will have caused the young people whose parents, as a result of your inaccurate reporting, will now doom their child to spend time in this camp. That experience will endure far longer in their lives than my emotional hangover, of that you can be certain.
Sincerely
Damian McNicholl
[technorati: Paula Zahn, CNN, Soledad O'Brien,Love in Action]
Anyway, here's a copy of the e-mail I sent to Paula Zahn and her "producers" about...well, it speaks for itself, really.
It's unlikely I'll get a response because my experience with conglomerates (in my case, MCI and American Express) is that they ignore letters of complaint in hopes the pest will go away and they can then continue with their corp. objective of making tons and tons of money. However, in the event CNN responds, I'll be sure to share.
------------
Dear Paula, et al
My name is Damian McNicholl and I'm the author of A SON CALLED GABRIEL, which is a semi-autobiographical novel and deals in large part with a young boy struggling with his sexuality in a very conservative environment.
It's taken me until today to decide to write about a recent episode of 'Paula Zahn Now', an episode in which you presented the case of two youths being sent to a camp called Love in Action for 'curing.' The reason for my delay was the unexpected onset of a temporary emotional hangover.
Why a temporary emotional hangover, you might ask? Well, it came into being when I noted how carelessly you reported on this painful subject. I feel you abdicated your responsibility as a journalist in this instance, and I have admired your work greatly. However, this piece was poorly reseached, if at all researched, and you completely disregarded both the opinion of the AMA and APA in your zeal to present a spurious organization claiming to 'cure' its charges of the affliction of homosexuality.
As a seasoned and responsible reporter, it is your duty to present all sides of an issue, and you and CNN have failed terribly. Where is the empirical data from this institution claiming successful conversions? I am not talking of one case or two. I am asking, what is the statistically meaningful number of persons they have 'cured', and where is their data?
Where is the presentation of AMA and APA opinions that there is no problem, that there is nothing to 'fix' or 'cure' when someone is homosexual. Where are the counterbalancing viewpoints from people such as me, people who have grown up in conservative homes and communities, who have struggled with our sexuality, and who are now well-adjusted, successful and happy the Supreme Being or God chose to make us homosexual?
Without posing these vital questions and presenting a balance, your presentation came across as amateurish at best. May I suggest you go to the library and obtain a copy of my novel, and also check out other works like it, and do meticulous research, and then redeem yourself by presenting a fair and balanced program on this subject. I would also like you to take some time out and reflect on the great pain and anguish you will have caused the young people whose parents, as a result of your inaccurate reporting, will now doom their child to spend time in this camp. That experience will endure far longer in their lives than my emotional hangover, of that you can be certain.
Sincerely
Damian McNicholl
[technorati: Paula Zahn, CNN, Soledad O'Brien,Love in Action]
Wednesday
WBAI Pacifica Radio, NYC--99.5FM
For those blog readers living in and around NYC, this coming Monday, August 8th, beginning at 11.00 am, I'll be interviewed about A Son Called Gabriel on Pacifica Radio's Out/FM program by host Peter Jonas. The interview will be live from their offices overlooking the Hudson at the end of Wall St. Looking forward to it as I'm a big Pacifica radio fan. I don't know if it'll be archived but I'll find out, and if it is, I'll post an update.
[technorati: New York, WBAI, Pacifica Radio,out/FM]
[technorati: New York, WBAI, Pacifica Radio,out/FM]
Monday
Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits review and some Author Blarney
Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits Having read with others at the Book Expo America's Emerging Writers series last June, I heard Laila Lalami read an excerpt from her forthcoming book--link is provided for you to gain additional information--which will be published by Algonquin Books in October 2005. Intrigued by its Moroccan setting, I raced to the back of the room after the reading and helped myself to an ARC (Advanced Reading Copy) and decided on a whim to take it with me on my recent book tour to Los Angeles. Her book, a collection of stories, written in straightforward prose, transports the reader into a mint tea suffused part of the world where many of the citizens work yet still live in what I think of as unmenacing poverty, though some, aspiring to better their lot, are ferociously attracted to the 'greener grass' of Spain. Utilising the framework of a perilious journey to be undergone in a rubber boat across the Straits of Gibraltar--a framework which works because it unites each characters dual stories (a 'before' story in Part One and an 'after' story in Part Two)--Lalami introduces us initially to her 'actors' through the eyes of Murad, a man who has paid much for his passage.
Among his fellow travellers is Faten, a devout Muslim--befriended by the sophisticated and wealthy Noura, a girl who takes up wearing the hijab much to her westernized parents horror--who will make it to Spain and a life of prostitution; Halima, a wife whose drive is to escape and divorce her abusive husband; and Aziz who leaves behind a pragmatic wife and dreams of making enough money in Spain to return and found a viable business in his homeland.
After I'd finished her book, the thought occurred that, while I read pretty extensively, I read the work of British, Irish and North American writers in the main. While Lalami is born and raised in Morocco and her book is not translated, nevertheless, the book's setting prompted me to consider what I'm missing by not actively seeking out literature that has been translated into English. In any event, I consider myself fortunate to have come across this book of colorful stories. On a few occasions, I will say I found myself so intrigued by a major secondary character that I found the story's conclusion a tad abrupt because of my need to know more, but such is the author's prerogative as the creator of her characters. The power of these stories lies in their universality:they show us that humanity has the same needs and problems, no matter whether we are rich or poor, or whether we stem from the sophisticated West or the sunwashed medinas of Morocco, and that the crossing of treacherous straits in pursuit of our dreams does not inevitably meet with success or happiness.
Author Blarney
Laila, thanks for taking the time to stop by my blog and
answer a few questions about your first book.
Thanks for having me.
DMN: Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits examines the lives of four Moroccans who decide to flee their homeland in search of a better life in Spain. What served as your inspiration for these stories and how did you set about doing research?
LL:I don't think my characters' decision is so much a question of flight as it is a quest to improve their lot. There's something of that in all of us, I think, but few of us have had to contend with the particular circumstances that compel my characters to decide to leave. The first time I heard about the boat trips across the Mediterranean was in the 90s, and I thought it would be interesting to write a story about one such trip. But then I realized that writing about the trip itself was a little like trying to look at a painting with my nose up against it. I had to step back and think about the characters's lives before and after. So that's how the book came about.
DMN: Of the various characters in the book, I found myself most drawn to Faten because of her curious blend of assuredness and desire to please, particularly her
desire to please her flatmate in the final part of her tale. Is there one character in the stories with whom you feel a particular affinity and, if so, could you elucidate?
LL: I'm fond of all my characters, even the boat captain (an earlier version of the book had more back story about him and how he ended up in the business of smuggling people.) But I suppose if I had to pick one, it would be Murad. He was the first character I came up with, and the one who stuck around the longest.
DMN: I found that you seasoned your prose with just the right amount of Moroccan to give the stories great texture and vibrancy without interrupting the 'fictional dream' or pace. As a writer from a foreign country too, I also had the similar task
of conveying to the reader the feel of the native language and culture without bogging down the narrative. Was it difficult for you to decide on how much idiom or Moroccan to include in order to reach a necessary or correct balance?
LL: I tried to follow my instincts, to represent the internal thoughts and dialogue of my characters as best as I could. Sometimes, there were words that simply wouldn't work in translation, so I used Arabic. Other times, I chose to use the vernacular to make a point.
DMN: What do you hope people will take away from your book when they reflect?
LL: First, I would hope that they enjoy reading the book. And of course I hope it engages readers. I've been told that my book is political, which sort of surprised me, as this wasn't my goal at all when I wrote it. I was mostly interested in the characters. But I suppose we live in an age when class is so rarely addressed seriously than when it is, it becomes a political statement. Anyway, I have no illusions about changing anyone's mind about anything. I just hope that people get to see the world through my characters' eyes, for a little while.
DMN: Algonquin Books is the publisher of your first book. How did this come about?
LL: In the most traditional of ways, I suppose. I found a literary agent (Stephanie Abou of Global Literary Management) and she sent out my book to several
publishers, including Algonquin. We had some serious interest from several of them, but Algonquin was the most enthusiastic.
DMN: Is it fair to say Morocco is comprised equal part Christians and Arabs and that the cultures live harmoniously? What is the economic situation in Morocco now? Do people still attempt to cross the Straits illegally?
LL: Ethnically speaking, the vast majority of the Moroccan population is a mix of Arab and Berber. The dominant religion is Islam, with small Jewish and Christian
minorities. As far as illegal crossings, yes, they still happen, despite all the drownings. In fact, the majority of would-be migrants these days are non-Moroccans, who travel hundreds of miles through the desert from sub-Saharan Africa, on foot, in order to get to Tangier. They live in hiding or get odd jobs until they can cross. Until people have something better to live for in their own countries, they will
continue to try their luck elsewhere.
DMN: I read that you attended university in England at one point. Where and what did you study, and how did you find student life in the British Isles?
LL: I studied at University College London, for a degree in Linguistics. I was very bookish and somewhat of a loner, but I enjoyed London tremendously.
DMN: You have now begun work on a novel. What differences or unexpected challenges, if any, have you encountered between writing 'Hope' and your new work?
LL: It's tough, man. I'm working on a very difficult chapter now, so it's been excruciatingly slow. With short stories, I found getting the first draft down
somewhat easier, though I revised fastidiously.
Laila also runs the literary blog Moorish Girl.
[technorati: Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits, Laila Lalami, Morocco, Algonquin books,Moorish Girl]
Thursday
Surviving an "on-the-air" attack
Last night was a very special evening because I was invited to discuss my novel with a book club who'd selected it as their July choice. The club comprised eight women--all of them teachers, educators and mothers--and one man who loves being the thorn among roses. How refreshing it was to spend nearly two hours answering questions about the writing process and 'Gabriel'. Over glasses of wine and snacks and with great enthusiasm, they discussed issues raised by the novel, namely family life and relationships, bullying, homosexuality, the Irish political situation, class prejudice and bigotry and intolerance. Their stimulating conversation made me think at one point, "This is why I wrote this novel and had it published in the United States. This is why I write."
Not so the interview I had this morning with a Rehoboth Beach shock jock, which I thought I'd share with you. First though, it requires me to fill you in on some pertinent background information.
When the hardcover of 'Gabriel' released last June, my publicist--a woman called Joan Schweighardt who first discovered my book and whom I now consider a great friend--was appointed by my publisher, and she did a stellar job finding me radio and telly spots to talk about my work. As I was to do a book tour of DC and Virginia last July, I decided to spend the weekend at our friends flat at Rehoboth Beach and do a reading at a bookstore which happened to be Lambda Rising, the gay one. Joan organized for me to do a 'phoner' with a radio station the day before my arrival in town and the talk show's producer asked her to send info about me and the book, which she duly did.
It will be clear to many of you by now that my novel deals with, among other important issues, Gabriel's sexual confusion as he enters puberty. To his horror, the protagonist finds himself attracted to other boys and, being a good Catholic child, he makes a valiant attempt to counter and expunge these feelings by dating a succession of girls, including the very wealthy, upper-middle class and Protestant, Fiona. It is also clear that my novel examines Gabriel's terror of becoming gay and his inability to tell his parents of his terror because of their rigid Catholicism and the pitiful, conservative environment in which he is growing up.
Unbeknownst to me, the host of this radio show had made a decision to skewer me. His second question was quite aggressive, but I put it down to the fact some radio personalities try to blindside a guest in order to get the listeners interested, if not highly excited. But this chap was relentless. He ignored an entire raft of issues, and kept asking inflammatory and silly questions--think Howard Stern here. For example, "Why did you make Gabriel gay?" and "I don't understand why Gabriel likes adult men." The questions and comments flummoxed me because I didn't know Gabriel liked adult men, either. You can guess the agenda; basically the questions bore no relevance to the novel's content and I was, in effect, being hi-jacked on the air. What was most despicable was that the questions had a marked anti-gay bias and seemed aimed only at expressing the host's abject bigotry and intolerance of gays, in addition to inciting the intolerance and even hatred of sections of his listenership. He was not in the least interested to examine the fear, pain and isolation the young protagonist felt, but rather wanted to extract lurid details as to why Gabriel would want to sleep with men, etc and whether I was Gabriel, etc. (I have never hidden that the book has a semi-autobiographical element--is in fact fiction rooted in experience.) As I saw immediately what was happening, I tried to steer the conversation back toward the literary, to discuss other important issues, but was consistently thwarted. Admittedly, I was a novice on the radio then, so I did my best and soldiered on without losing my temper or hanging up the phone.
A year later, the paperback's out, and I'm going to Rehoboth this weekend and Joan booked me on a radio show to coincide with my signing at Browseaboutbooks on Sunday. I could not remember the name of the host who'd tried to make a fool out of me and, after researching it, Joan was pretty sure the host wanting me on this time was not the same chappie. Early this morning I did the 'phoner', and guess what? Yes, you're absolutely right.
The first clue was his boyish voice. The next was his allusion to the fact he'd interviewed me before. My heart sank. I became instantly more alert. My first inclination was to slam down the receiver and go back to bed. And then I thought, it's people like me who, given an opportunity to do interviews such as these, can help diminish, if not actually extinguish, mindless bigotry. Of course, by now I've become a pretty seasoned veteran of radio and telly, so that aided my resolution...gave me the courage to continue with the interview, if you will.
And sure enough, the chap's segue was very sugary:he raved about the glowing reviews of my novel and the fact it was a finalist in a number of awards. In hindsight, this was aimed at buttering and softening me up for quick consumption. The first missile launched came in the form of a statement. He couldn't understand Gabriel wanting to be gay. I said, he was sexually confused and trying to fight being gay. He ignored the response and said again that he couldn't understand Gabriel wanting to be gay.
Immediately, I knew the barren path we were headed down, so I asked him a question.
I said, "What do you not understand?" Out came the flood of bile, his allusions to homosexuality and how he didn't understand it and then he dredged up pieces of our last interview. So I nipped it in the bud and addressed his audience directly, informing them how the host had shown disdain for my book and misrepresented it during the previous interview, how it had sold well in hardcover throughout the US to merit a paperback edition coming out now, that I wanted only to discuss the full content of the book and not discuss aspects of homosexuality that were not included within its covers, and last but not least, how I wrote the book to overcome bigotry, intolerance and downright animosity of children growing up different.
For a few delicious seconds, there was only dead air and I could hear the wheels in my host's brain make the connection. Next he asked, "Exactly what do you think the book will teach adolescents?"--and he referred to the review from a columnist for a parenting magazine and tried to quote her out of context. Again, I would not allow it. I said simply that it would teach kids to take action against bullies, because they are the first to see it happen in the playground, and it would teach them tolerance and compassion for any of their peers who're growing up different and struggling with it.
A little upset, he accused me of trying to manipulate the interview, and I expected him to terminate the conversation. But, clearly mindful of my allusion to bigoted and intolerant people, he switched tack and began to discuss the novel's other pertinent issues, such as the conservative community Gabriel lived in and the state of Irish politics. So all in all, I believe the interview was effective because some people called in to ask questions, and the host's closing questions were about my new novel
and touring in general.
Something very important was reinforced within my core today. We must all take a stand against bigotry, hatred and intolerance, no matter how inconsequential that stand may seem. We must avail of every opportunity to state clearly what we believe to be right and just, to speak out against what we know in our hearts is wrong, to educate people living in ignorance or hatred. We may not succeed at first. We may not succeed ever with those determined to hate or show intolerance. Even in those cases, we can take satisfaction in knowing we did the right thing. It is always easier to poke fun and ridicule minorities and those who are different. It is harder to love than hate, yet love we must.
[technorati: Rehoboth Beach, bigotry, Talk Shows,homosexuality]
Not so the interview I had this morning with a Rehoboth Beach shock jock, which I thought I'd share with you. First though, it requires me to fill you in on some pertinent background information.
When the hardcover of 'Gabriel' released last June, my publicist--a woman called Joan Schweighardt who first discovered my book and whom I now consider a great friend--was appointed by my publisher, and she did a stellar job finding me radio and telly spots to talk about my work. As I was to do a book tour of DC and Virginia last July, I decided to spend the weekend at our friends flat at Rehoboth Beach and do a reading at a bookstore which happened to be Lambda Rising, the gay one. Joan organized for me to do a 'phoner' with a radio station the day before my arrival in town and the talk show's producer asked her to send info about me and the book, which she duly did.
It will be clear to many of you by now that my novel deals with, among other important issues, Gabriel's sexual confusion as he enters puberty. To his horror, the protagonist finds himself attracted to other boys and, being a good Catholic child, he makes a valiant attempt to counter and expunge these feelings by dating a succession of girls, including the very wealthy, upper-middle class and Protestant, Fiona. It is also clear that my novel examines Gabriel's terror of becoming gay and his inability to tell his parents of his terror because of their rigid Catholicism and the pitiful, conservative environment in which he is growing up.
Unbeknownst to me, the host of this radio show had made a decision to skewer me. His second question was quite aggressive, but I put it down to the fact some radio personalities try to blindside a guest in order to get the listeners interested, if not highly excited. But this chap was relentless. He ignored an entire raft of issues, and kept asking inflammatory and silly questions--think Howard Stern here. For example, "Why did you make Gabriel gay?" and "I don't understand why Gabriel likes adult men." The questions and comments flummoxed me because I didn't know Gabriel liked adult men, either. You can guess the agenda; basically the questions bore no relevance to the novel's content and I was, in effect, being hi-jacked on the air. What was most despicable was that the questions had a marked anti-gay bias and seemed aimed only at expressing the host's abject bigotry and intolerance of gays, in addition to inciting the intolerance and even hatred of sections of his listenership. He was not in the least interested to examine the fear, pain and isolation the young protagonist felt, but rather wanted to extract lurid details as to why Gabriel would want to sleep with men, etc and whether I was Gabriel, etc. (I have never hidden that the book has a semi-autobiographical element--is in fact fiction rooted in experience.) As I saw immediately what was happening, I tried to steer the conversation back toward the literary, to discuss other important issues, but was consistently thwarted. Admittedly, I was a novice on the radio then, so I did my best and soldiered on without losing my temper or hanging up the phone.
A year later, the paperback's out, and I'm going to Rehoboth this weekend and Joan booked me on a radio show to coincide with my signing at Browseaboutbooks on Sunday. I could not remember the name of the host who'd tried to make a fool out of me and, after researching it, Joan was pretty sure the host wanting me on this time was not the same chappie. Early this morning I did the 'phoner', and guess what? Yes, you're absolutely right.
The first clue was his boyish voice. The next was his allusion to the fact he'd interviewed me before. My heart sank. I became instantly more alert. My first inclination was to slam down the receiver and go back to bed. And then I thought, it's people like me who, given an opportunity to do interviews such as these, can help diminish, if not actually extinguish, mindless bigotry. Of course, by now I've become a pretty seasoned veteran of radio and telly, so that aided my resolution...gave me the courage to continue with the interview, if you will.
And sure enough, the chap's segue was very sugary:he raved about the glowing reviews of my novel and the fact it was a finalist in a number of awards. In hindsight, this was aimed at buttering and softening me up for quick consumption. The first missile launched came in the form of a statement. He couldn't understand Gabriel wanting to be gay. I said, he was sexually confused and trying to fight being gay. He ignored the response and said again that he couldn't understand Gabriel wanting to be gay.
Immediately, I knew the barren path we were headed down, so I asked him a question.
I said, "What do you not understand?" Out came the flood of bile, his allusions to homosexuality and how he didn't understand it and then he dredged up pieces of our last interview. So I nipped it in the bud and addressed his audience directly, informing them how the host had shown disdain for my book and misrepresented it during the previous interview, how it had sold well in hardcover throughout the US to merit a paperback edition coming out now, that I wanted only to discuss the full content of the book and not discuss aspects of homosexuality that were not included within its covers, and last but not least, how I wrote the book to overcome bigotry, intolerance and downright animosity of children growing up different.
For a few delicious seconds, there was only dead air and I could hear the wheels in my host's brain make the connection. Next he asked, "Exactly what do you think the book will teach adolescents?"--and he referred to the review from a columnist for a parenting magazine and tried to quote her out of context. Again, I would not allow it. I said simply that it would teach kids to take action against bullies, because they are the first to see it happen in the playground, and it would teach them tolerance and compassion for any of their peers who're growing up different and struggling with it.
A little upset, he accused me of trying to manipulate the interview, and I expected him to terminate the conversation. But, clearly mindful of my allusion to bigoted and intolerant people, he switched tack and began to discuss the novel's other pertinent issues, such as the conservative community Gabriel lived in and the state of Irish politics. So all in all, I believe the interview was effective because some people called in to ask questions, and the host's closing questions were about my new novel
and touring in general.
Something very important was reinforced within my core today. We must all take a stand against bigotry, hatred and intolerance, no matter how inconsequential that stand may seem. We must avail of every opportunity to state clearly what we believe to be right and just, to speak out against what we know in our hearts is wrong, to educate people living in ignorance or hatred. We may not succeed at first. We may not succeed ever with those determined to hate or show intolerance. Even in those cases, we can take satisfaction in knowing we did the right thing. It is always easier to poke fun and ridicule minorities and those who are different. It is harder to love than hate, yet love we must.
[technorati: Rehoboth Beach, bigotry, Talk Shows,homosexuality]
Monday
Link to Los Angeles Pacifica Radio interview
I decided to try this experiment because my IMRU interview on Pacifica Radio (KPFK 90.7FM) will play in Los Angeles tonight, 7 pm PST. As it's streamed over the internet, anyone who would like to listen to it over the computer may do so by linking to their site tonight (07/25) at 10.00 pm EST:
Their url is:
Pacifica Radio IMRU
Otherwise, it'll be on their archives.
[technorati: Los Angeles, Hollywood, Pacifica Radio,IMRU]
Their url is:
Pacifica Radio IMRU
Otherwise, it'll be on their archives.
[technorati: Los Angeles, Hollywood, Pacifica Radio,IMRU]
Los Angeles Jaunt:Part Two
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]
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]
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