Should the zombies come . . .

Surfing the web the other day, I saw this:



So I looked to my left and saw this:



Yeah, the bucket's gonna come in REAL handy.

Ought to take one or two of them with me anyway.

On Infamy and Marketing

Of all the strange details to come from the recent Amy Bishop case, including that she "accidentally" shot and killed her brother back in the eighties and was suspected in a mail bombing, perhaps the strangest (and what should rightly send a chill up the spines of our own friends and colleagues) was that she was also an "aspiring novelist."

My writer friends of course won't be surprised to hear this, but to those of you in our circles, be warned. We're nuts. Certifiably so.

But imagine if she had, before her killing spree, actually published her novel, reported to be a wishful thinking semi-autobiographical tale about a . . . wait for it . . . professor struggling to get tenure, and the forces arrayed against her. Do any of us doubt that it wouldn't be rocketing up the charts as we speak?

Recall what happened when Scooter Libby, Vice President Dick Cheney's Chief of Staff, was indicted for obstruction of justice. His novel (written years before and based upon his time in Japan) began selling like hotcakes!

And there was Michael Peterson, ultimately convicted of pushing his wife down the stairs (after tragically losing his first wife the same way). Does anyone doubt that his own infamy led to an increase in sales?

So is it any wonder that I too am now wondering what infamy I might participate in to, you know, get my name out there?

I don't have the stomach for murder, so that's out. Though I sometimes write all graphic and bloody, I actually avert my eyes when confronted with such things, literally raising my hands over my eyes when the Neda video or the Zapruder film is shown.

And the thought of jail gives me the willies as well. Having heard the "clang" of a cell door swing shut on me once in my life was quite enough, thank you very much. So it would have to be something more prankish and harmless than something truly hurtful.

Streaking at the Super Bowl or the World Series or something like that is probably more my style.

But if you folks have any thoughts or suggestions, I'm all ears.

I do have this one idea, where I build a balloon in my backyard and pretend that it gets accidentally released with my son on board.

But nobody would ever really buy something like that, would they?

Fear the Blobfish

From the LA Times:

"Because as scary as the Asian carp may be, the carp are gigantic bony creatures with large scales. They could never squeeze through your tap.

But the blobfish is boneless. It's a blob.

So, theoretically, it might squeeze through all the protective filters and screens, and then, with a grunt, pop right out of your stylish Swedish designer faucet, its ugly face first.

Or perhaps out of your toilet bowl when you're at your most vulnerable, sleepy in the middle of the night.

Or what about your pulsating-massage shower head? Just imagine the beast squeezing from the shower head, hurtling at your face, or worse, into your open mouth, your muffled screams unheard by your loved ones."

With Most Sincere Apologies to the St. Petersburg Police

It was about 6:30 this morning and still dark out when I began to hear the pounding on the door.

Now, I live on the second floor, the entryway is shared by two other apartments, and seeing as how I don't know a single soul in this town, the knock certainly wasn't for me.

The only other time someone pounded on the door like that was in the afternoon on Thanksgiving Day. On that occasion, after the pounding had gone on a while, I did pop my head out, went down the stairs, and asked the women what she wanted.

She, of course, was looking for someone I did not know (have I mentioned I know not a soul in this town, with the exception of my landlady and the maintenance guys, who have keys anyway, and if they wanted to get up to see me, they could?)

Anyhoo, this morning's knocker was certainly tenacious, but after a while, the pounding stopped.

But only a few minutes later, I heard voices down below and then footsteps coming up the stairs, followed by a knock on my door.

I approached the door tentatively and said, "Hello?"

My landlady's voice came from the other side.

"Yes, Mr. Myers, the police are here and they have a few questions for you."

Heart pounding, I went to the door, opened it, and there on the landing was my landlady, looking like she'd just been woken up, and yes, a uniformed police officer. My landlady went on.

"They need you to go down to the station for a few minutes."

She let me stand there a moment, looking stunned or faint or however the hell I looked, before she said, "They need you to move your car. There's a road race today and they need to clear that side of the street."

It took a few moments for my befuddled mind to process this information.

It had indeed been a police officer pounding on my door, looking for me, and not being able to contact me, they phoned the landlady, whose phone number is posted on the door.

And they knew it was my car from the parking permit on the back, or maybe the license plate (funny to think of computers humming somewhere looking up my address . . .)

So when I finally did process all of this, I looked at the officer and said, "Man, I am so sorry. I mean . . . I heard the knocking, but I don't know anybody in this town . . . and figured it couldn't be for me . . ."

He continued to stare at me like I was a suspicious character. And, considering all the facts, I suppose I was.

Anyway, still shouting my apologies, my landlady and the officer turned and left. I threw on some jeans and moved my car to the other side of the street.

But most sincere thanks (and continued apologies) to the St. Petersburg police and the officer in question. You went out of your way, and I certainly appreciate it.

And yet another reason to like St. Pete: Where I come from, they woulda just towed the car.

So, now that I have a few hours distance, and can look back and even smile about it, I have a message for my landlady (who is a hot shit, by the way):

Payback's a bitch.

10 Unforgettable Books of the Decade

The news business is jumping the gun on the end of the decade (which, of course, ends next year), and so we are greeted daily with "Top Ten" lists of this and that. My hometown paper, the Boston Globe, has produced their own "10 Unforgettable Books" list of the past decade.

I thought it might be helpful to provide my own quick take on the list (full disclosure: Juggle around these answers, and they are my standard response to most any "Top Ten Books" list):

1. Didn't read it

2. Didn't read it

3. Didn't read it, but tell people I did

4. Didn't read it, but loved the cover

5. Didn't read it, but probably should

6. A murder mystery narrated by a tree? Didn't read it.

7. Didn't read it

8. Didn't read it

9. Didn't read it

10. Didn't read it

I hope you found this helpful.

Catch 22

So apparently, the attempted terrorist attack yesterday in the skies over Detroit was thwarted in part by a brave passenger who leaped over seats to subdue the terrorist's attempt to light his incendiary device.

So what's the kneejerk reaction? According to the Associated Press, it is as follows:

WASHINGTON—Some airlines were telling passengers on Saturday that new government security regulations prohibit them from leaving their seats beginning an hour before landing.

Joseph Heller could not have written something more hilarious.

Fake AP Stylebook

I'm not a Twitter person, but apparently some news industry folks have launched a new Twitter feed titled Fake AP Stylebook. Among the gems found:

"When embedded in a military unit, give precise locations so worried mothers at home know their children are safe."

"STAR WARS Episodes IV-VI are to be referred to as "The Original Trilogy." Episodes I-III are not to be referred to at all."

". . . it's "an STD," not "a STD," and you should get that checked out right away."

"When composing a story about strange murders, always refuse to believe the kids until it's too late."

""Buggy jockey" is an insulting term to the Amish and should only be used in the online edition."

The always superb Dan Kennedy has a Guardian column on it here.

And of course -- you guessed it! -- rumor has it a book deal is in the works.

The Serial Killer Next Door

After "Roger & Me," but before he became (depending on your point of view) an either much-beloved or much-reviled icon of the American left, Michael Moore had a television show called "TV Nation."

You may recall one of its more famous stunts, sending a mob of Colonial-era clad women over to Kenneth Starr's house (the Clinton impeachment prosecutor) to underscore Moore's belief that he was engaging in a witch hunt.

Anyway, after seeing the below on television when it first aired and telling all my friends about it, if you've never seen it before, I give you one of the funniest things I ever saw: The Serial Killer Next Door.

My Personal Vision of Hell

From today's Boston Globe:

For nearly a century, the ornate library with the chandelier, fireplace, and wood-paneled walls has drawn students to its prized collection of classics, thousands of dust-covered tomes from Cicero to Twain.

The students who have long cherished the small library inside Dunster House, Harvard’s oldest dormitory, discovered a new feature there this week:



two brass bars stretching across nearly every shelf, making the books impossible to peruse.

Link to full article here.

When Everybody Hates Your Book

I've never read Brad Meltzer. But after seeing this, I might.

Plumbing Advice

Having not learned my lesson a few years ago (when the EXACT same thing happened when I attempted to fix the downstairs toilet) I offer the following advice:

When fixing the innards of a toilet, you can't simply replace the one thing that's broken (this time it was the ballcock. Last time it was the plunger.) The wear and tear that broke that one thing (be it the ballcock, the flusher, or the plunger) has also taken its toll on the other components.

So don't do what I did, to wit: go to the hardware store, buy a ballcock, attempt to take out the old ballcock, break the feed where the water comes in, go to the hardware store, buy a new feed where the water comes it, break the existing plunger while trying to get out the old ballcock, go to the hardware store, buy a new plunger, etc.

Next time, truly, I'll know better.

Or I'll just call a plumber.

But . . . it's a chicken

Stopped by a local pub recently located next to an art supply / stenciling store that keeps chickens in the backyard. Like I usually do, I stopped to watch a while, and recalled suddenly a story I heard told years ago by Calvin Trillin on the Tonight show.

Though I probably won't do it justice, this is what I remember:

Trillin lived in New York, but had a large circle of friends from all over the country and from all walks of life. All were welcome to stop by his home to eat or stay a while.

Every chance he got, in a kind of ongoing experiment in human nature, he would take his visitor for a walk, stopping at a place that had a Tic-tac-toe playing chicken. For a buck or two, you could play against the chicken. If the chicken won, he kept your money. If you beat the chicken, the guy paid you double.

Trillin would say, "Hey! This looks like fun. Why don't you play against the chicken?" And his guest, sheepishly at first, but later with more vigor, would plunk down a buck or two and play a game.

The chicken always won.

Trillin would prod his guest to play again, though sometimes they'd do it on their own, and it wasn't long before Trillin's guest was pulling more dollars out of his wallet and, with furrowed brow, perhaps using a new strategy every now and then, trying to beat the chicken.

The chicken always won.

After a few more games (and this happened every time, Trillin reports) the guest would turn a frustrated glance his way and say, in all seriousness, "It's not fair. The chicken gets to go first."

Trillin would turn to his guest and say:

"But it's a chicken."

The visitor invariably did not process this important information.

After losing a few more games, the even more frustrated visitor would turn to Trillin and say, "But it's not fair! The chicken plays every day."

And Trillin would reply . . .

"But . . . it's a chicken . . . and you're a human being . . . far more advanced on the evolutionary scale . . ."

And I am absolutely certain, had I ever been a guest at Mr. Trillin's home and been taken (unbeknownst to myself) down to the Village to participate in his little experiment, I would have reacted exactly the same way.

As always, it seems okay to me . . .

Winner of this year's Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest for purple prose:

"Folks say that if you listen real close at the height of the full moon, when the wind is blowin' off Nantucket Sound from the nor' east and the dogs are howlin' for no earthly reason, you can hear the awful screams of the crew of the "Ellie May," a sturdy whaler Captained by John McTavish; for it was on just such a night when the rum was flowin' and, Davey Jones be damned, big John brought his men on deck for the first of several screaming contests."

More info and runner-ups here.

What to do if your child has superpowers

Wonderful and timely article in yesterday's Boston Globe confronting head-on an issue with which many parents struggle in silence.

Among the questions answered:

Q. My child can control the weather and summon tornadoes at a moment’s notice. This makes discipline a challenge.

Q. My child wants to choose a crime-fighting pseudonym that I do not approve of. How should I handle this?

And, of course, every parent's worst nightmare:

Q. My child shows a strong interest in villainy. Should I be concerned?

Kudos to the Globe for having the courage to take this issue out of the shadows and deal with it openly and honestly.

Oddest Book Title of the Year

Ran across a humorous article in the New York Times about the Diagram Prize for the oddest book titles of the year.

Sponsored by Bookseller Magazine, this year's prize goes to:

“The 2009-2014 World Outlook for 60-Milligram Containers of Fromage Frais.”

Previous winners include: “Curbside Consultation of the Colon,” “Reusing Old Graves,” and “How to Avoid Huge Ships.”

Maybe my own titles don't suck as bad as I think they do!

Gatsby Redux

There was an interesting article recently in The Wall Street Journal asking if this current financial crisis might lead to the creation of a masterwork similar to The Great Gatsby, which captures the spirit of these times in the same way that great American novel did its own.

I have a feeling that if Gatsby were written today, things might go something like this:

Dear Mr. Fitzgerald,

Thank you for your interest in Famous Literary Agency, however I'm afraid your story just isn't right for us.

As I'm sure you're aware, a 50,000-word story hardly qualifies as a novel. In addition, I'm afraid the market is currently saturated with stories of self-involved young people.

Have you considered making Gatsby a vampire? It would make the work far more saleable and not require much of a rewrite on your part, because in addition to his shadowy past, he does mostly come out at night.

I confess as well to being perplexed by the title. Perhaps in an alternate universe, schoolchildren write essays about what makes him so "great," but I'm afraid our business takes place in the real world.

Regards, 

Famous Literary Agent

PS: Lose the billboard.