Book Club

I'm starting one. At the Bethesda library (knock on wood). The rub? It won't start until January 2007.

I know.

See, here's the thing. I had this idea that it would be cool to run a "classics" book group that would take four 19th century authors -- for instance, Jane Austen, Wilkie Collins, George Eliot, and Thomas Hardy -- and read their first (or, in the case of Collins, "firstish") book, a middle work, and then their last book (or, again, in the case of Collins, "lastish").

I picked those four authors partly because they're among my favorites, but also because they're a pretty good cross section of the literary influences on that century.

I've also created a blog to go with this new endeavor. You can find it here. There won't be a lot of posting or updating going on until the group starts meeting. Then, the site will carry synopses of the books we're reading as well as meeting reminders and recaps of the discussions themselves.

If it's a success, this idea, I'd like to try this same set-up with American authors -- some Edith Wharton, Henry James, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and ... I don't know. I don't know my own country's lit as well as some others.

I also want to try a year of Tolstoy, where we'd take 6 months to read War & Peace, 3 months to read Anna Karenina, and then finish out with Resurrection, The Kreutzer Sonata, and Hadji Murad. And heck, a year of Dickens would be kinda cool, too. I mean, cool in a completely geeked out way.

But really: what did you expect from a guy who calls himself a British Adventuress?

A Postscript

While Clyde Roper is, and shall always be, dead to me -- Steve O'Shea is not. I enjoyed a lovely email exchange with Mr. O'Shea.

In the future, just know that Steve O'Shea is reponsible for all goodness and light in the world. He's the reason your skin's a little softer, your hair's a little shinier, and you always smell, just faintly, of baked goods.

He's that good.

The Internet is Weird

So, once upon a time Clyde Roper was Dead to Me and I wrote about it here. In doing so, I also wrote the following about fellow cephalopod researcher Steve O'Shea:

Also, at the time, there was this cocky young upstart on the Giant Squid scene named Steve O'Shea who was trying to push Clyde out of the way with his fancy new science and his New Zealand accent and I wanted to show Clyde that when the revolution came, I had his back.

Some background that'll be helpful in a minute. I've never met Steve O'Shea, who sounds lovely and Irish even though he lives in New Zealand -- which doesn't mean he can't still be Irish but if you're like me and you hear, say, an O'Something, you've got a brogue running through your head and if you hear Steve O'Shea speak you won't necessarily hear one because again: New Zealand. Furthermore, he will not show you where he keeps his Lucky Charms.

I learned about Steve O'Shea sort of accidentally back in 2002 when I first wrote my fan letter to Clyde Roper, who is Dead to Me. While I'm not obsessed enough about giant squid to jump in a submersible and make fish noises to lure one close, I am fascinated by the idea that, for a long time, there were these giant creatures that we knew existed but had never seen alive. It tickled that Monster in the Closet part of me. So, while looking for Clyde Roper's email address, and looking for more information on Architeuthis (that's scientific for "giant squid"), I learned about this "cocky young upstart" -- and actually, there seemed to be more Google hits on Steve O'Shea than on Clyde Roper, who is now Dead to Me.

"They're trying to freeze Clyde out," I said; "They" being the nefarious and mysterious Giant Squid Cartel; and calling him Clyde without the surname because even though we hadn't yet met, and at the time he wasn't Dead to Me, I just knew he and I would be fast friends. 'Course, I had only seen Clyde Roper on one Discovery Channel special -- but I was immediately charmed by the man with the mutton chops who sounded like a mix of the guy who shilled for Pepperidge Farm brand cookies ("Pep'ridge fahm remembahs!") and Jen's grandmother on Dawson's Creek ("Oh, Jennifah").

But I digress.

In retrospect, of course, it's odd how fiercely protective I became of a man who would eventually be Dead to Me. If I knew then what I knew now-- but who has time for that kind of past-living, right? Anyway, I wrote the entry that I already linked to that details my encounter with Clyde Roper and in doing so I wrote a bit about Steve O'Shea, and because the Internet is huge and because the Internet is weird, Steve O'Shea commented on my LiveJournal post. Here.

"Also, at the time, there was this cocky young upstart on the Giant Squid scene named Steve O'Shea who was trying to push Clyde out of the way with his fancy new science and his New Zealand accent and I wanted to show Clyde that when the revolution came, I had his back"

Hmmmm. Steve here - no joke! I'm not that cocky you know, and I'm certainly not an upstart.

What a strange post you made; I must admit that I had a good laugh at some of the things said therein.

Sometimes you do get 20-30 messages a day, especially when a documentary airs; following the release of a new documentary you can receive several hundred messages daily. In Clyde's defence it is not always possible to respond to each and every one, especially if you are away for a week (or longer, as is often the case given we work in the field).

I'm easy to track down online; perhaps you should drop a line and see if I respond. I'd hate to be referred to as "Steve O'Shea, who is dead to me"

I freaked out last night for about 20 minutes.

First off, I'm surprised when anyone I don't know finds my writing online. The Internet is so huge and I'm just some guy in Rockville with a shoddy modem (thanks, Comcast!) and a chair from which to write. But then sometimes weird things happen on the Internet, and sometimes you send Gregory Maguire an email which he treats as hate mail (all I said was, "Are you kidding me? A musical? Out of Wicked? I know you're gay; I'm gay; we're both gay -- but do you have to be that gay?" And he got all snotty with the reply: "I'm sure you can find any number of other things to do when Wicked is playing in a town near you.") and sometimes Steve O'Shea reads your LiveJournal and finds out that you've used both the words "cocky" and "upstart."

I'll send Steve an email. I'll apologize for the "cocky" and the "upstart" and the "new science" -- and explain that it was mostly in service of the joke. But I wanted to write about it here because (a) it was pretty awesome once I calmed down and realized that not only did Steve O'Shea read my journal, but he also said it was pretty funny. (My most attractive traits? Low self-esteem and a need for constant praise). 'Course, he did start that section off by saying, "What a strange post you made." Still: I'll take self-worth from anyone who wants to hint at it. And (b) maybe now Lior Ashkenazi might, you know, stop by. For a visit. Some time when Zach's not home.

I'm just saying.

Him/Her

I don't know where this is going, or I kinda know where this is going. I guess what I don't know is what I'm trying to accomplish with it. It's not done. But here's the beginning of a dialogue I started writing yesterday.

Before we get to it, though, here's the thing: Almost everything I write starts out as a dialogue. I'm not especially skilled with the expository stuff, and I even feel bogged down by adding in the he said and the then she replied stuff. But I don't think of the things I write as plays, even though when you sit down and look at it -- like, when you finally get a chance to look at today's offering -- you'll say to yourself, "You know, Mike, this looks an awful lot like a play."

Maybe stories that are told completely in dialogue will instead be my thing. At least for now. Like, how Picasso went through his blue period, or John Ford and his westerns. Folks will one day see a piece of mine and be able to recognize it simply because it takes the following shape.

Or, it's early on a Sunday and I'm feeling a little too big for my britches.

Anyway, the piece:

Her: "Oh."

Him: "Hi."

"You're—-"

"Yes. I know. 'In the flesh'."

"Yeah."

"Surprised?"

"A little. Actually, a lot."

"I get that all the time."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"What?"

"It's just."

"Yeah?"

"I thought you'd be...”

"Thinner?"

"Um, yeah? I mean, is that terrible? I feel terrible."

"It’s not my favorite thing to hear."

"In the, you know—- in the paintings and in church. You look. Uh. Trim? –mer?"

"Well, I was a lot younger then. Metabolism. You can't keep eating the way you ate at 33, you know, with all the bread, and—-"

"Of course."

"So, yeah. I'm biking though. Now. Places. I bike places, and cutting down on the carbs is making a huge difference. Or it will."

"That's what I hear."

"I mean, I'm not religious about it or anything. I'm not going to skip out on pasta just to make some kind of dietary point, you know? What do you do?"

"Do? You mean, like, for fitness?"

"Well, you've got a –- I mean, I don't want this to get weird -– but you've got a great little body there. Really tight."

"Thanks."

"I mean it. You're what? 30? 31?"

"34."

"You'd never know it. I missed most of my 30s. By most, I mean 'the rest of' my 30s."

"Right."

"And when I see someone with a pretty nice body, fit, I like to ask, you know? You run? Cross-train? I hear cross-training's great."

"I guess I walk, mostly. There's a gym here, in my building, but I rarely go."

"It sounds so convenient."

"I know. But there’re a lot of old people, and they turn the TV up really loudly."

"I hate that."

"Right? I mean, God bless 'em for getting out there and moving—-"

"'But you're 95 years old, and there's no getting around that.'"

"And 'Good Morning America' really isn't news, you know? It's the General Foods International Coffee of news. It's that nasty Irish Cream creamer that doesn't need to be refrigerated."

"The hazelnut's not so bad."

"Are you kidding me?"

"I mean, not all the time of course. That stuff's gotta be bad for you. But if I want a hint of flavor, something to get rid of that coffee taste, the hazelnut's not so bad. Or the French vanilla. You drink it black?"

"Maybe a splash of milk, maybe. But yeah, for the most part, I just take it plain from the pot. And by the time I’ve had my morning coffee, I’d really just like to get down to the gym and get it done, only I can't because Dorothy, Rose, and Blanche have to watch Diane Sawyer talk about the dangers of hip replacement. At 200 decibels."

"And finally, you're just all 'Die already!'"

"..."

"..."

"..."

"That was awkward, right? You can tell me."

"It's not what I’d necessarily expect from you."

"I was just in the moment, you know. We seemed to have a rhythm going there, with the repartee, and—- yeah. That was mostly just--"

"Awkward."

"But a little funny. Right?"

Dear Modern Library Classics,

I've never read [redacted]. In fact, there's a lot of Dickens that I never bothered to read. While browsing for a copy of Oliver Twist, I instead picked up your edition of [redacted]. I liked the cover. I liked the heft. I liked it for all the wrong reasons, really. Still, I bought it and I started it yesterday and it's fantastic and why did you guys think it would be okay to spoil the whole book in the second footnote?

Sorry. I meant to build up to indignation.

But yeah. I'm reading along, loving the book, and thought, "Hm. There doesn't appear to be any end notes." I'm not a Dickens scholar. I like a good endnote. I checked the back and saw that there were endnotes, just no notation of them in the text. "I guess I just wait until I feel confused," I thought, "and then I flip to the back and hope >crosses fingers< that my question will be answered."

I skimmed over the notes that I missed, and that's how I found out the [redacted] of [redacted] dies. In a footnote. The second footnote.

Why you gotta be that way, Modern Library Classics?

I was already a little annoyed that Jonathan Lethem was writing the introduction. It's not your fault he sucks; but you did choose him, and y'all'd done such a great job when you picked Mona Simpson to write the introduction to Anna Karenina (seriously: it's my favorite introductory essay ever, because Simpson seems to have actually read the book, and actually loved the book, and it's like a beautiful love letter from one reader to another). And then, I was a little annoyed that there weren't any notations for end notes. And then (and now I sound insufferable, don't I?), I'm told that [redacted] dies.

You could argue, of course, that Dickens tells us that [redacted] dies when he writes, "in which my little friend and I parted company," in the introduction. But if you're a first-time reader of [redacted], like I am, then it may not necessarily be clear who the "little friend" could mean. It could mean [redacted], sure, but the book's eleventy million pages long and who knows who Dickens may have befriended while writing?

I already treat all the Introductions of classic novels as Afterwards, since invariably they'll write something like-- (I was going to give an example of a spoiled novel, like reveal the plot of The Woman in White or East Lynne, but I've decided to be the better person in this correspondence just in case maybe you haven't read The Woman in White or East Lynne)-- they'll write something that spoils the whole book by revealing the ending or a key plot twist because people who write Introductions, apparently, are sort of bastards who want to show how well-read they are.

But that's not my point. My point is, I should not know in the second footnote that someone -- like, someone in the title of the novel -- dies. I don't know if you can make that a policy or something. But it sure would make reading a more comfortable experience.

Regards,

Michael Bevel
Book Lover
British Adventuress

Bombing

There was a point last night, at the end of the first paragraph of "The Beginning of Everything," where I realized I had nine more pages to read aloud in front of a group of people clearly not interested in the short story form.

That moment lasted 19 years.

In trying to find other open mic venues at which to perform, I stumbled upon one that was happening yesterday at the Golden Flame Restaurant & Lounge in Silver Spring.

A mini-scene:

MIKE: Um, yeah. Hi. I'm here for the-- is this where the Open Mic night is?

WAITER: Mike?

MIKE: Yes.

WAITER: [speaks Spanish to another waiter using words like donde and maybe the word for idiot; other waiter answers; turns to me] There's no Mike here.

MIKE: Are you? No: not Mike, like, "My name is Mike." I mean Open Mic?

WAITER: No. No Mike here. Maybe tomorrow.

MIKE: Right. It's just-- what I. I have this paper, and it says that there's an open mic night here, tonight.

WAITER: May I see this paper?

MIKE: Sure. See, right there: "Open Mic."

WAITER: Would you like to see a menu?

As far as why I bombed like Nixon with the flop-sweats -- there are a lot of reasons. For one, I haven't really practiced reading this one aloud. In fact, I think Zach's the only one who has heard any of it. For another, it runs right around 12 minutes. Time being relative, turns out 12 minutes is actually two lifetimes when you're in the corner of a lounge reading a piece you haven't really practiced to a group of people who aren't responding at all.

I mean, at all.

It's not exactly a laugh-out-loud piece, "The Beginning of Everything." But there are some funny moments. The only part that got a chuckle? Cat poop. The stuff about the cats and the suppositories, that made them laugh. Well, chuckle. Actually, someone may have sneezed and I'm choosing to count that as a laugh because I am desperate for people to like me.

I wish there was a way to give you the entire experience. How I never looked up once from the paper. How the microphone made my voice sound completely other -- like David Sedaris with a headcold. And normally I get compliments on my speaking voice. But my throat felt tight the entire time, and I wasn't breathing, or rather, I did breathe, but never at the right time, and I couldn't stop feeling dizzy and my right knee literally began knocking in and out of joint and wow I mean Wow you know WOW.

Awful.

Oh, and the most awesome part of all? This exchange with a cute/geeky attorney while waiting to be called to go up to read:

MIKE: Did you bring anything to read?

CUTE/GEEKY ATTORNEY: What? No. No. I don't read.

MIKE: You're illiterate? And still passed the bar? That explains so much about our legal system.

CUTE/GEEKY ATTORNEY: Nice. No: I mean, I don't read stuff in front of people. My stuff isn't really "read aloud" stuff.

MIKE: Gotcha.

CUTE/GEEKY ATTORNEY: And it's so painful, sometimes, to hear someone reading who clearly shouldn't be.

MIKE: I know. Just because you're a good writer, or you've written a good piece, doesn't mean you can actually read what you've written.

CUTE/GEEKY ATTORNEY: What are you reading?

MIKE: This short story I wrote.

CUTE/GEEKY ATTORNEY: I'm really looking forward to it.

Ah, unintentional irony: I've found thy sting.

Watch Me Read

In the Washington D.C. area? Wanna hear a live reading of "The Beginning of Everything"? I'll be reading at the Bethesda Writer's Center on Sunday, June 25. Or maybe you've got something you want to read out loud to an audience of mostly mentally ill poets? Sign-up's at 1:30PM, the reading itself starts at 2:00PM, and the Crazy Cat Lady will no doubt be there for the whole thing. Her Serial Killer Man Servant? Who can tell.

...um...

For those that pay attention to such things, I'm a Libran -- which is supposed to herald the fact that I like balance and order in my life. (If you're like me, and hold no truck with this astrology shit, it really just means I was born in late September, and I got to spend my birthdays surrounded by classmates who couldn't care less that I was the birthday boy that day.) My mom tells stories of watching me cry in the mornings after she had laid a whole outfit's-worth of clothes and I wouldn't know where to start. Or how I would cry when presented with a dinner with more than two things on my plate; again, because I wouldn't know where to start. Or how coloring books and crayons made me anxious; it was too exhausting trying to make sure all colors were used evenly and fairly. This might have been easier had I only had one of those slim, 8-color boxes. Mom, however, felt she had to overcompensate both for the divorce and the fact that I couldn't have a pony by buying the 64-color box with colors like "burnt sage" or "melba."

One year she got me the 96-color box, after she told me my dog Sunshine had to go live on a farm, and that was the worst year ever.

But crayons aren't the point here. Or not specifically the point. It's been something like 17 years since my last post -- which wasn't a post at all, really, it was a cut and paste of part of a story that I'd been working on. Nothing of substance. And, even though I don't believe in astrology, if it gives me a way out, I'll take it.

I'm not good at time management. If you're a former or current employer reading this then yes, I lied. I lied out my ass. I even lied out your ass: that's how much lying was going on. I don't multi-task. I don't time manage. And I also don't always work well as part of a team, appreciate a challenge, or honestly see myself going far in any profession. I'll stay at any given job as long as there are snacks and not too much is expected of me. Also: showing up on a regular basis? Might be considered "too much expected of me."

So, I'm not good at time management, and I've had some things going on. One of them being that story that I shared in dribs and drabs. For those of you who've read the two excerpts (a) thanks, as well as thanks for the notes and comments and plugs; (b) I've finally finished it, but I can't post the whole thing here, apparently, if I want it to get published elsewhere, so end-say e-may an email-ay (email-ay?) and I'll end-say ou-yay the ory-stay; (c) I've made a few changes, so the whole is different from its parts.

Writing the one story encouraged me to write some other stories, and I've been devoting a lot of time and thought to that. But apparently I can't write in a journal and write stories at the same time so well. And then, if you were to hand me a stick of gum in the middle of all that?

I also went through a 21st-century lit phase. The last 4.01 books I've read have all been written within the last 6 years -- which is something from a guy who pretty much only reads books with bustles and cads. I started off with Never Let Me Go, moved on to Oryx & Crake, barely finished White Teeth, actually finished When We Were Orphans, and finished by continuing my "I hate all Umberto Eco novels save The Name of the Rose and Foucault's Pendulum" by hating and not getting past page 30 of The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana -- a novel I knew was going to be trouble when I could never remember the title. I either called it The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane or The Beauty Queen of Leenane.

And finally, the biggest reason for not writing was I couldn't think of much to write. I was going to comment on a comment I received, where a man named Jim said of me: "Michael, you've gotta be the biggest idiot I've ever run into surfing the internet. Pompous, bitter, opinionated and downright moronic." I decided against it because I'm afraid someone will find someone even more of an idiot than I am on the internet -- and then yet another title will be stripped from me too soon.

We'll see what tomorrow brings, though.