Banana nut. That's a good muffin.

You never know when banana bread is going to be part of your life.  It's out there, waiting for you to leave your bananas out too long, then you notice there's a little too much black on the peel.  A few more days they'll be completely unappetizing but a few degrees shy of disgusting, and it'll be banana bread time.  

I'd forgotten that the perfect banana bread recipe requires three bananas rather than the two I had.  We have more bananas for smoothies but they're entirely too yellow.  Because you can't will a banana to rot (what an awesome super-power - ripening), I immediately switched gears into muffin land.

I don't want to think about how much seeing the video above played into this decision.  Do I make my own decisions, or do I just react to stimuli?  Let's just admit that Adaptation is one of the most brilliant movies of all time and move on.  

This is a rare real-time post.  I can smell the muffins as I type.  I woke up at five am, thought about my writing-work-dinner-wedding prep  agenda for the day, and looked at the bananas in their now-or-never ripeness.  My upbringing won over my longing to write.  Wasting minutes I could've spent writing is intangible; throwing two perfectly usable bananas into the trash is real waste.


My posts have thinned out lately, and I expect them to get thinner.  If you look over the proceeding, you can imagine why.  I'm a bookseller.  Unless you're Cory, there's not a lot of drama in the day-to-day.  Well, maybe for those of us in the business.  But Indie vs. A-Word, paper vs. ebook, dying industry vs. renaissance of the story - those posts can only go so far.  I want to write about anything and everything.

The downside is that I sometimes end up writing about nothing.

I flatter myself that my thoughts on books, movies, parenting, relationships, food, and life are worth sharing.  Still, I like to polish these thoughts up a bit before I share them.  More importantly, especially for things I've started to write for reasons I'm not aware of, I want these posts to have some meaning.  This sometimes means opening the same file dozens of times, revising, rearranging, looking for a point.  Since Sweet with Fall and Fish doesn't have a unifying theme (apart from being the Official Blog of Aaron John Curtis), it's important to me that the individual posts try to have a point.

I have thoughts about Borders closing, and Amy Winehouse dying, and mass killings in Norway, but by the time I decide how I really feel and the best way to express it, those feelings are years out of date.  Witness the post I've been working on about The Dark Knight and Tropic Thunder, movies which came out in 2008.  Not because I just got them on Netflix, but because I wasn't sure how to express my feelings about Heath Ledger's death.  After all that microscopic consideration, the challenge becomes making someone care.  But I suppose that's always the challenge.

Did you know I saw Patti Smith at the Miami Book Fair International days after Just Kids won the National Book Award?  As part of letting the standing room only crowd know about the upcoming (at the time) OMiami! poetry festival, I was one of dozens who helped P. Scott Cunningham perform Arthur Rimbuad's Vowels, a random act of culture about which Smith said, "I've never seen anything like that."

I've mentioned Hilldawg from time to time?  That's her holding the sign.

Did you know Patti Smith performed three songs during the reading, and that the last one became a sing-along?  Did you know I loved Just Kids?  Did you know I met Patti Smith?  Of course you didn't.  I worried too much about capturing the magic on the page, I procrastinated starting, then so many months had passed that it seemed silly to try and remember how I'd felt at all.  There have been many nights like this I've passed over, but I offer this as an extreme example.

There's a lot of pressure in my life right now.

I'm getting married in 32 days.  The marriage doesn't stress me at all, but there's a lot of prep involved in the event which marks the beginning, especially since this is DIY wedding.

Also, I know in this economy I should be pleased to have a job, but the work load I'm saddled with lately is ridiculous.  Our week's run Thursday to Wednesday, and I'm over 32 hours for the week.  These thoughts occurred while I was baking and I wanted to share, so I'm pushing back biking in to get this posted.  I'll probably take Wednesday off to be with Dylan - Becky and I are taking turns watching him this summer since we can't afford camp or daycare - but I can't be sure.  I could live in my office and work there every waking minute and it would take half a year to get on top of things, and even then I probably wouldn't be on top of things because they'd find even more for me to do.  Grawr.

Finally, I've had a setback in my writing life.  The mighty Carl Lennertz has left Harper Collins to become CEO of the North American branch of World Book Night.  This is excellent news for the world of books which is semi-devestating to me personally.

As I've written my stories and taken time polishing my novels, it's always been in the back of my mind that my first published essay was a given (I've had pieces published online and in print, so I guess I mean published by the Big 6).  I know I acted like it wasn't, but I was fooling myself.  I'm glad I chose not to shout State by State from the roof tops, but I no longer have that foot in the door, that significant set of eyes which has looked at my work and deemed it worthy and which invites prospective agents and magazine editors to do the same.  I'm back to square one.

In some ways, it's good.  It gives my morning writing time more focus.  With the help of my writers group, I am polishing four or five of my best stories until they will knock a magazine editor on her ass, so that she'll share the story with her readers, and I'll have a nugget of something to put in my cover letter to an agent, something more substantial than hopes and dreams.  I need a credit.  As Laura Munson writes in This is Not the Story You Think it Is, "You can't put good rejection letters on a resume."

What this doesn't bode well for is Sweet.

Of course this comes as my gradually-increasing readership reached its zenith in July.  I should be writing more to keep you guys coming back, but something's got to give.  I'll try to take a day to myself (if I can find it) and automatically schedule a bunch of stuff I've been tinkering with so it looks like I'm active while I take a break (or maybe it will be like today's post: write it, look for glaring errors and hope I didn't miss any, then publish post).  Just because I don't see the point doesn't mean you won't, right?  Reading is a relationship, and finding a piece's moral and sharpening it to a point is just me trying to bully your reaction.  Of course, you might just get nothing but this for a while.  We'll see.

Meanwhile, WLRN's Under the Sun released a CD of the last Lip Service event.

"What's this?  A CD of a live Lip Service event recorded for broadcast by Under the Sun?"

"And who is that at #5?  Why, it's me.  Remember when I freaked out over the edits...
Wait, I never blogged about this, either?  Fuck me."

As I sat in Books & Books cafe, reeling from the realization that Carl Lennertz left Harper Collins before he could publish me, a favorite customer approached and told me he enjoyed hearing me on NPR.  Co-workers told me they'd heard and enjoyed me on the way in to work.  It's the only thing that kept me from a meltdown that day.

Since then, strangers have come to the bookstore looking for me.  One asked, "Which one of you is Aaron?" while I happened to be there.  She didn't shop, but just stopped off on her drive home to tell me how much she enjoyed the piece (thankfully, I wasn't in the buying office at the time).  Customers have congratulated Becky on her upcoming nuptials (which I mentioned in the Q&A after the reading).  Apparently, I also "sound cute" on the radio.  I feel like my writing career is foundering, but more people are aware of me than ever.  It's fairly surreal.

So take heart.  Even if you don't see much of me here in the coming weeks as I prepare for my nuptials, you may hear me on the radio.


And the muffins?  They smelled better than they taste, but they are solid, moist, and they put two rotten bananas to good use.  Here's to a morning well spent.

A Rare Sports Reference*

         I was never any good at sports, but I once saw how people can be.  During a neighborhood football game, the QB singled me out in the huddle.  Normally my reaction is panic, wondering whether I’ll catch the ball, and what will happen next if I do.  This one time, just this once in all the downs I’ve played in my life, I saw it all.  I’d line up, I’d hook right, I’d catch the ball, I’d pivot upfield and score.  It was done before we clapped our hands and broke the huddle.  

I lined up and waited for the snap.  I wasn’t even nervous, because it had already happened in my mind.  I ran a short hook right, caught the pass like it was the most natural thing in the world, pivoted left, and scored a touchdown.

I must have felt that way a time or two in my life, but only once comes to mind.  Standing on a corner in Coral Gables, waiting for the light to change, carrying Dylan in my left arm, holding Becky in my right, both of them holding me tight. 

I saw our family; I saw home.

* I'm offering this post now because the next few posts are rough.  

Face-to-Face vs. Facebook

Facebook might help you connect with the people in your life, but it’s also a huge party with a bunch of people that lasts forever.  There's the nervousness over how you present and what people will think of you.  There are background folks you barely notice, the person who won’t stop talking your ear off, the klatch of recent marrieds and recent parents, the people you really want to talk to but hook up with all too briefly.

There's also Becky's father.  Becky's sister set his profile up for him.  When Papa Q discovered Facebook took actual time, he said no way.  This gives him a certain mystique in the virtual world.  A profile people can approach for friendship that will never answer, because the password is a distant memory.  He is the Garbo of Facebook, discussed on my blog, bandied about on updates, tagged in our pictures, but never glimpsed directly.

This approach could work for me.  

Virtual identity is supposed to be great for a writer because you can use your strongest asset to present yourself.  Little did I know, no matter the distance between what I write and who's reading it, the distance from myself to myself is the same; all the insecurities and social awkwardness I feel in life follow me online.

I see the future, the distance from neighbors and family, the little cocoons built around individual lives, or couples or families, the growing suspicion of the Other.  We make friends safely online and forget how to interact in person.  The mechanism between mind and verbal communication which creates charm will atrophy.  Face-to-face interactions will become stilted, uncomfortable, borderline creepy.  A smile from a stranger will become a thing of suspicion, greetings something to ridicule.  

Given how crazy the world can be, some people see this as self-preservation.  Given how lovely the world can be, I think Stranger Danger should never overshadow the Kindness of Strangers.

Anyway, why not find me on Facebook and friend me?  When publishers are trying to decide whether to take a chance on this unknown writer, I'll need body count.  

Getting Dumber All the Time

In books and stories, characters are always trying to remember someone’s name.  I’ve used it myself.  It adds that dose of realism, and it’s an instantly recognizable situation.  What’s her name? the narrator wonders.  Donna?  Diana?  Turns out to be Deena.  So close.

Truthfully, in real life it happens more like that Seinfeld episode.  

Jerry: What was her husband's name, again?  Chip?  Kip?  Skip?

Elaine: Todd.

Jerry: Oh, right.

I'm going to go ahead and blame Todd.  Todd is Chip or Skip because Todd is boring.  It’s especially confusing in a room full of people you’re meeting for the first time, all the names and faces blend together.  Shouldn't Todd help you out by distinguishing himself in some way?  

It’s not just me.  No one remembers anyone’s name.  I refuse to believe we’re too self-centered to learn a new name and face.  No, it’s something else.  

I work with women in their fifties and sixties at Books & Books who count out the cash drawers from memory.  They struggle with all the computer stuff the teens and twenty-somethings pick up like breathing, but they count change and bills without moving their lips.  Meanwhile, take away a twenty-something’s pen, paper, and calculator while she counts a drawer and watch calamity ensue.

I think the Big Bang was a mass of everything, not just matter but all the intelligence, creativity, and abstract thought that would ever be, from the beginning of everything until the end of the whole mess.  With each progressive generation, it gets diluted.  Want proof?  Read a book from just thirty years ago.  There’s a command of language, a manner of expression which even our most lauded young writers lack. 

Some would argue that’s the modern style, stripped down, bare bones, minimal prose.  They’ll tell you that all the fancy words and flowery sentences in the world don’t necessarily translate to emotional power.  To which I say. . . Billy Madison.  Black Eyed Peas.  Governor Schwarzenegger.  The Da Vinci Code, train wreck television, and Hot Chicks with Douche Bags.  

As long as the right people keep making money off of stupidity and ignorance, our culture will continue to manufacture idiocy.  As long as we have cell phone coverage, cars, internet access, and televisions, no one will care.  Devices will keep us entertained every second of every day.  We will eliminate boredom and original thought.

But don’t worry about it.  We’ll be too busy watching YouTube videos of celebrity meltdowns on our IPhones to care.

Books & Books: A For Profit Business

Customers really don't understand the book business at all (given the upheavals it has gone through in just a few years, and continues to go through, some of us working here don't get it either).  As a customer, I don't really need to know the behind-the-scenes machinations which bring me an espresso to enjoy a caffeine jolt.  Still, I know every time Aaron buys espresso at Starbucks, and Dick buys latte at Seattle's Best, and Harry buys  whole bean at Dunkin' Donuts, there's not a big mountain of coffee somewhere with an office on top of it, gathering the funds and redistributing them to the coffee business as a whole. 

Because I understand these businesses are in competition, I'd never go to a tasting at Pasion del Cielo with a pound of Starbucks, or sit down to read at Cafe Demitrio with a mug of Anniversary Blend.  Who would?  People who believe there is a Book Fairy orbiting the globe, gathering book money wherever it's spent and sprinkling it over booksellers everywhere, that's who.

Before I tell this galling story, I'd like to acknowledge that I've used the words "business" and "competition."  I'm saving posts about the skewed playing field the A-word enjoys for a later date, so let's set all that aside to talk about the Book Fairy.

There isn't one.

One thing Books & Books has always wanted, and has been asked to start a time or two, is a reading group for young adults.  With YA the one part of the bookselling world which is still exploding, this wish / request seems more important than ever.  So when we were approached to host a YA book club, we said yowza.  

After a month of preparation, including a lot of back-and-forth with the Igirl running the club (and the Igirl mom) during our hectic book fair season, we were ready.  The turn out was excellent.  The decorate-your-own cupcakes portion of the proceedings was a huge success.  They chose one of the three recommended titles to discuss for next month's meeting.  You could cut the book excitement with a knife.     

Then our children's manager watched in horror as Igirl told the group they could check the book out at the library, or buy it on Amazon.

Are you kidding me?  Have you been calling or emailing Amazon four times a week for the last month about this event?  Did Amazon suggest the titles you were choosing from?  Did Amazon spend an hour-and-a-half making the bookmarks you snatched up?  Did Amazon get up at eight in the morning (on a Sunday) to bake the cupcakes you wolfed down?  Did Amazon clean up the mess you left?  You know what, Igrrrlz, if you love Amazon so much, have Amazon a clear one of their rooms and set up chairs for your next meeting.  Oh, that's right - YOU CAN'T.

Guess what?  The money you spend on Amazon doesn't go to the Book Fairy and then back to Books & Books, it goes to Seattle.  Meanwhile,  your community in general and Books & Books in particular both languish.  You've used us to play host, cost us time and money, and used our store to advertise on online retailer which really doesn't need the extra exposure.

Don't be surprised to find us less hospitable in the future.    

Do Not Enter Room 1408

I went to the Southern Independent Bookseller’s Association conference in Daytona last month. Growing up, I remember Daytona as an iconic party destination, a place I’d go when I was old enough for Spring Break and underwent a personality transplant. Today it’s like the city time forgot. If you want to film an 80s period piece, you could do it in Daytona by moving the cars.


Thankfully, Daytona’s time-capsule surreality is virtually undetectable at night, when we checked in. I’m thankful, because The Plaza gave us room 1408.




If you’re unfamiliar with the Stephen King short story or the John Cusack movie, 1408 is really on the thirteenth floor, but relabeled the 14th for superstitious guests. Both stories are about a man who spends his nights in haunted hotels and writes about them. The hotel manager loses a lengthy court battle and is forced to rent the room to the haunted writer. In both versions, 1408 adds up to 13.


If you’re unfamiliar with Becky and I, we drove four hours and paid (well, she paid) top dollar for a one-night-only Q & A with Stephen King in Sarasota for a book we already owned, read, and loved.


When the clerk handed us the room keys, 1408 rang a vague bell. I’ve read the story twice and I own the movie, but thinking about the Reading Group Panel I would be on first thing in the morning distracted me.


On the elevator, I got a kick out the fact that the floor numbers skipped from twelve to fourteen.


In the hallway, walking toward our room, I finally made the connection.


I stopped and turned to Becky with realization.


“Room 1408,” I said, “1408.”


“I know, right? Ocean view!”


“No, don’t you see? It’s from that Stephen King story.”


By her terrified expression and the sudden tears in her eyes, I saw that Becky did indeed see.


“What? Why, why would you- What do we- No, no-”


Imagining the headlines had me spooked; SIBA Booksellers Check In to 1408 But Never Check Out. Real-Life Stephen King Story in the Town that Time Forgot. Booksellers Gone Wild at Daytona. But seeing how freaked out she was, I immediately backtracked.


“It’s fine, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”


“That’s what stupid people in horror movies always say before they get it.”


We stood there for a while like 6’3” halfbreed Hansel and 5'1" Cuban Gretel, lost on horrific carpeting instead of in the woods. Ultimately, the lure of an ocean view was too strong. She realized that in the stories, electronic card keys don’t work in room 1408. If the card worked, we’d be fine. It did, and we were.

It's The Dolphin Hotel in both versions, and this was the sign outside our door.  Yeesh.

What horrors lurk inside room 1408? Itchy towels, a dearth of glassware, and too much trashy reality TV.


Sorry to spoil the ending.

F. P. & L. is Scandalous

Florida Power and Light requires a deposit to turn on your electricity. On their website, FPL explains that unlike most businesses which are cash upon liking (I paraphrase of course, but any excuse to use the phrase “cash upon liking”), poor old FPL gives their product away for a month before asking for payment. Since they run on a three-week billing cycle, that’s seven weeks of service before they see a dime. If you’re assessed as a high-risk client, they look at the average bill for two months service at your address, then they require you to fork it over.

In our case, that was $400 to have our lights turned on. Remember when I said who gives a shit about my credit rating? Well, this is a fine example of why it’s a good idea to have decent credit. I was wrong, and my words taste bitter.

So wait, aren’t we paying in advance for something we haven’t used? Multi-billion dollar monopoly FPL whines about the equation in reverse, but if I want to store food and not die of heat stroke, I’ve got no choice but to shut up and pay.

I’m sure FPL has been burned. So what? They always manage to turn a profit, even when people go for weeks without power in the wake of various hurricanes. Their rates remain high while they promise that second power plant which will reduce our bills once and for all.

It’s not ironic that the segment of the population least-equipped to pay is the one hardest hit by these deposits, it’s increasingly typical of American culture. Google “Florida Power and Light” with “deposit” and you’ll bring up FPL’s website and a couple thousand complaints about the practice, which is no surprise. However, the backlash in the comments section of these articles and posts is disturbing. Even allowing for trolls, there’s a prevailing sentiment of “you’re a deadbeat who fucked up your credit; quit whining.” Maybe I’m reading too much into these websites. The internets are filled with crazed morons.

Not us, of course.

I’m debt-free. I got in credit card trouble a long while back but I took care of it, and without declaring bankruptcy. I’ve been a renter for eighteen years in three states and I’ve never defaulted on a lease, skipped out on a utility charge, or left a bill unpaid. And apparently, my credit sucks.

FPL is just being cautious (and getting capital for investments, of course). They pay the deposit back if you ask them nicely after twenty-three months of consecutive, timely payment, so why am I whining about being labeled a deadbeat?

Well, if you pay late, they hold the deposit indefinitely. Glory of glories, they also hit you with more deposit fees for being late. Suppose I need to wait for a paycheck to pay my bill because I didn’t have the funds. Even though my service was not actually interrupted, I’ll have to pay an additional “deposit” in the neighborhood of $60-$80 (not to mention a 1.5% late fee) on top of the monthly service bill. That should make it easier to pay.

I was shocked to find out about this practice. So is everyone I’ve told. The question I hear every time is, “Can they do that?” Of course they can, and they are.

It’s not like you can choose the other power company down the street.

Sweet and the Heat

I find it odd that The Heat Lightning invites readers to visit Sweet, and here I am inviting Sweet readers back to The Heat Lightning.

Worlds are colliding, creating a virtual vortex which threatens to engulf all casual readers into its maw.

On the plus side, I get to post another fun book picture.

Quality Over Quantity?

Sorry to have anemic posts this week, folks. I just returned from a trip to Orlando with Dylan and Becky to celebrate a five-year-old about to turn six. Fun with Becky’s sister, free food at the Club Level of the Hard Rock Hotel, and free passes to Universal Studios. I was dropped off at Books & Books just in time to switch my Bibliovore t-shirt from Unshelved for a sweaty, crumpled guayabera from my luggage - the saving grace of said guayabera being its lack of smoothie wiped from Dylan’s crusted lips – splash some water on my face, and join the fun of Algonquin Night.

To sum last week up…

My closet began leaking again, but I caught it early enough to save my clothes. The landlord had re-tarred the roof by the time I returned.

The pool at the Hard Rock has speakers which let you hear music underwater, pool-side food and beverage service, a volleyball court, two hot tubs, gazebos, a fake beach area, and a 240-foot waterslide. The lowlight of the stay was seeing a Poison video, but I had their cassette tape so I can’t complain too vehemently. I rate the hotel 5 power chords out of 5, plus a glory note for the free wine bottle and birthday cake.

Becky’s sister just bought a house, and we stayed there as well. I used an allen-wrench drill bit to assemble her dining room set and shattered a chair leg. In response, Becky’s sister made me coffee and eggs. Enough said.

Not only were both Universal Studios and Islands of Adventure deserted because everyone was at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, but the Hard Rock room key also acts as a fast past. The Hulk, Dueling Dragons, Spiderman, Revenge of the Mummy, Jaws, Men in Black - it’s all a lot more fun when the ride lasts so much longer than the wait to climb on board. Love the world of Seuss Landing. Love the heroes of Marvel Superhero Island.

Half the people at the park at any given time were crammed into the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Trying to navigate the mass of bodies was like trying to push your way through a house party to reach the keg, only this keg was all over the place. There were lines for the gift shop, for Christ’s sake. Seeing Hogsmeade, with Hogwarts looming above, is priceless. But once you’ve seen the view, don’t go through the entrance, because Universal blew it; The Wizarding World should have been its own separate park. Instead, it’s a festival of waiting.

We caught Mat Hoffman's jaw-dropping Aggro Circus at Universal. Mat Hoffman was only part of the show on video, but we ended up seeing him at breakfast the next morning, two tables away. First Watch, delicious, delicious First Watch, when are you coming to Miami?

Tuesday: Angel Face
One thing about the birthday celebration; the cool little kid we brought to Orlando to have fun with on Tuesday was replaced with a spoiled brat on Wednesday who none of us could stand.
Wednesday: Snurt Face
Becky seemed worried that I’d have doubts about us moving in now that I’ve seen the Dylan’s dark side. Really, it means he’s more comfortable around me, and he’s testing his boundaries. Or so I’m telling myself.

After one good day and one bad day, Thursday was a tug of war. At First Watch, Dylan kept hitting my arm. I asked him why, and he hit me some more. I told him if he wanted to express affection, there were much better ways of doing it. He stopped hitting me, thought about it, then stood up and gave me a big hug around the neck.

The good stuff is so worth the bad.

Please, Not in Front of the Queen

Books & Books hosted Julie Andrews a couple weeks back for The Very Fairy Princess and someone had the gall to get belligerent when we cut the line off.

The event was originally supposed to happen in May. Due to time constraints, we could only sell 200 tickets to the event. In this case, “ticket” meant buying the book from Books & Books and getting a ticket to have Julie Andrews sign it; there was no extra ticket charge. The event was sold out for two months. We advertised it as a sold out event, but Mrs. Andrews had signed stock in her hotel room the day before. You could show up and buy a book, but you had no reasonable expectation of meeting the author.

Of course, the world is filled with unreasonable people.

Julie Andrews had a plane to catch at 4pm, so we cut the line off when we had to. Apparently when he saw how long the line was, Mr. Entitlement got a bite in our café. Reasonable enough. But when he waited too long and found the line roped off, he got in Carroll’s face about it, yelling obscenities, questioning our booksellers’ parentage, suggesting uncomfortable places Books & Books’ employees could store extra copies of The Very Fairy Princess, and accusing us of engaging in salacious acts with our mothers.

This was the last guy trying to get in line. He didn’t have a ticket. If he chose to say, “Excuse me, Miss, but I seem to have taken over-long with my lunch. Would you mind if I just snuck past this rope?” our Carroll would have let him through with a wink and a smile. But cursing in front of children? Abusing the people from whom you seek a favor? Not the best course of action.

When he didn’t get what he wanted out of Carroll, Mr. Entitlement asked to speak with the person in charge. Event coordinator Cristina had overheard his diatribe (well, the entire west side of the store heard it) and explained that everyone else had waited in line, Mrs. Andrews had a plane to catch, and the event had been sold out for two months. Mr. Entitlement didn’t care. Cristina offered a refund. Mr. Entitlement refused. Cristina offered a signed copy. Mr. Entitlement started swearing again. Then he pushed her.

Well, depending on who tells the story. Some reports have Cristina backed into a wall while spittle flew from Mr. Entitlement’s raving mouth, his face inches from hers. Others maintain the push was an angry finger, poked into her chest. Others say it was a push.

I wish I could tell you definitively what happened, but I stayed home. I know, I missed the Queen Clarisse Renaldi of Genovia and Queen of Far, Far Away in one shot, but I don’t work Sundays.

I wish I could tell you what happened to Mr. Entitlement, but there’s no statute of limitations on. . . what happens when you tangle with booksellers. I don't want to get anyone arrested.

What can I say? We’re close to the edge, man. People have been pronouncing our vocation dead for about a century, but lately these reports of doom have sounded particularly dire. We’re glad to have your business, but for your own sake – tread lightly.

Anyway, we’ve had security at many events. Any time celebrities are involved, it draws a few people who can’t control themselves. But if any household name would seem safe to host without a uniformed presence, it would be Julie Andrews.

Some people just can’t handle their Poppins.

Even in Movies, Mean People Suck

Netflix created another odd double-bill for me, the Lindsay Lohan vehicle Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen and the Oliver Stone opus (where’s the sarcasm font?) Alexander, two very different movies which suck for the same reason: the protagonists are assholes.

You’re probably wondering why I’m talking about two movies that are so old (actually, you’re probably wondering why I’m watching Lindsay Lohan movies, but that’s not important right now).  Well, I rarely have a vested interest in seeing movies immediately.  When a movie piques my interest, rather than brave crying babies, hordes of teeny-bop-texters, talkers, and ten-dollar popcorn, I toss the movie in my Netflix queue.

I hate to brag, but my queue is very long. Hence, the delay.


In Confessions of Teenage Drama Queen, Lindsay-as-Lola moves from New York City to New Jersey.   She trashes her new best friend’s life in various ways, giving nothing more to the “friendship” than her company.  The antagonist is a rich, evil, Machiavellian bitch, and Lola robs her of everything that matters in her life.  Classmate love.  Boy attention.  The lead in the school play.  Lola out-dances the antagonist in Dance Dance Revolution, for God’s sake.  Such an insignificant thing to have mastered, but Lola can’t let her have even that.  I was supposed to hate Miss Popular Machiavelli, but I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

Of course Lola isn’t vicious; she can’t help it if she’s better at everything she does than everyone else. No, her flaw is making up wild stories.  When her classmates learn she’s a liar, she makes a transformation which is nothing of the sort; she’s still a selfish taker who will say anything to get people to like her.

This…is our hero.


Cut to Colin Farrell as Alexander the Great, a power-hungry prick who conquers and names “barbaric” provinces after himself until he’s got two million miles of land under his rule.  Supposedly, Alexander respects the tribes who lived thousands of years before “civilization” found their land, he just wants to free them from slavery to warring kings.  He does so by killing mighty bunches of them, then enslaving the survivors to feed the war machine.

Alexander wins Babylon but spends three years hunting the powerless king Darius in the mountains. The parallels between George Bush and Osama Bin Laden are obvious, except the exiled lords give Darius up hoping to call Colin / Alexander off.

Guess what? Doesn’t work.  More war, more slow-motion death, and the putting down of a mutiny.

Colin exudes no charisma* and no leadership qualities as Alexander, making it impossible to believe he won the love of his troops.  He fights beside his troops, sharing every hardship of their nine-year conquering spree, but so what?  His soldiers just want to go home to their families.

Only after suffering a near-fatal wound does Alexander finally turn back, not as a changed man, but a guy who was afraid to die.

That these two movies portray selfish egomaniacs as heroes makes me worry for societal trends.  That they failed in my modest expectation of a couple of hours of mindless entertainment makes me worry for the state of the movie business.  That all I have for a blog is complaining about two bad movies no one saw when they came out years ago makes me worry for Sweet with Fall and Fish.

But if I save one person from wasting time or money on these cinematic suckfests, it will have been worth it.


* - While in town filming the movie version of Miami Vice, Colin Farrell came in to Books & Books.  Two members of the staff invited him across the street to John Martin's to tip a few back, and tip they did.  The female staff member vibrates when she tells the story.  The male staff member has never been with a man, but would have let Farrell violate his body six ways to Sunday.  I’m not sure why this obvious personal charm didn’t come through on the screen.

Don't Try to Live Your Life in One Day

Fridays at Books & Books are made for one thing: getting through them so we can have a Warsteiner dunkel at Fritz & Franz Bierhaus. Then I heard about how Becky and Cleo Jr. spend their Friday nights. They make pizza, pop popcorn, and watch a movie. The evening often involves cookies or cake as well.

I think my generation is the last who remember movie nights on TV. Growing up, television offered four channels: NBC, CBS, ABC, and a local PBS affiliate. VCR’s hadn’t been adapted to home use. No one had thought of pay cable. If you missed a movie in the theater, you had to wait for one of the networks to show it. I don’t think this wait lasted years; it probably only felt that way to a child.

My father would pop popcorn in oil on the stove, batch after batch until he had most of a doubled-up paper grocery bag filled. This popcorn tasted better than any I’ve had made with any other method – the hot air popper you used to plug in, microwave popcorn, even fairground or theater popcorn. He added just the right touch of melted butter and salt. The paper grocery bag would sit beside the couch for a few days, for whoever wanted to munch. It tasted best the second day.

I tried popping corn from scratch on the stovetop once; I ended up with charcoal, sending smoke signals.

Anyway, the thought of a new family movie night was compelling, even when presented with friends and co-workers talking shit while drinking the greatest beer on the planet. Knowing how we love our Fritz & Franz Fridays, Becky presented the offer with a little hesitation in her voice. She needn’t have worried; who wants to be the guy who’d rather get drunk than have family time?

Unfortunately, I decided to do it all. Warsteiner at Fritz & Franz with Mark, a Guinness and a chicken wing with Hilldawg and Linda at The Bar, and then movie night with Becky and Becky Jr.

Texts and calls revealed that drinking nights and family movies night run on different timelines. Cutting off drunken revelry extremely early still means you miss dinner. You arrive late, hungry, with no sympathy for your hunger forthcoming because you were supposed to be there earlier. You also miss the beginning of the movie.

Drinking with friends was a bust. Movie night was a bust. I could blame my lack of a car, but that’s a circumstance which can be worked around. I won't get into specifics of Sunday, but just know I was short of breath by day's end, having flitted through everything I had planned but without enough time to enjoy or appreciate any of them.

This weekend taught me to choose. Say yes to everything and you end up giving everyone in your life short shrift.

The hard part isn’t choosing what you like, it’s letting things you don’t choose go.

It Doesn't Matter if You've Got a Fresh Bentley

No matter how early you got up, someone always got up earlier.

No matter how talented you are, someone is always more talented.

No matter how rich you are, someone is always richer.

No matter how good looking you are, someone is always better looking.

No matter how driven you are, someone always has more drive.

No matter how disciplined you are, some is always more disciplined.

You have to let a lot of that shit go, the comparing yourself to others, self-doubting, wanting shit. You also have to work a whole lot harder.

You Should Check Out Lip Service

Before I began submitting stories for Lip Service, I heard tell of them from my co-workers. Books & Books always underestimated the turnout, rarely having enough chairs, cramming far too many people into too tight of a space. This is a better event than the alternative, of course.

Usually the only person with a book to sell at Lip Service is its co-founder Andrea Askowitz, author of the hilarious and moving (and far less trite than that descriptor) My Miserable Lonely Lesbian Pregnancy. She always sells a few copies, but I wonder what all those bodies mean for business in general. I spot a few wine glasses and beers, but not many books. Nearly everyone snags a parking stamp, each stamp paid for by Books & Books.

Well, so what? More than money, the main event is the community, coming together, supporting each-other’s truths.

I watched number 12, featuring Heartbreak Pill author Anjanette Delgado and Secret Names of Women author Lynne Barrett. As an audience member, I didn't need to worry about when it was my turn. The evening was moving, funny, uncomfortable, and thought-provoking. I had a great time.

Esther Martinez is Lip Service’s other co-founder. Telenovela, her story of her mother’s infidelity, was simultaneously as funny and poignant as the best of David Sedaris.

My favorite of the evening was Jonathon Irpino’s hilarious Cuddle It Out. We always love the things which make us laugh more than what we admire. You can probably say that for people, too.

These stories I’ve mentioned, along with Lynne Barret’s perfect The Borges Cure, seem complete in a way my work never is. Probably because, as they say, the hard part of art is knowing when it’s finished. I’m sure if I spoke with the writers afterwards, I’d hear about the parts they hated, how they wished they’d taken more time, about how it was supposed to end this way but ended up another. I wasn’t feeling social, so I’ll never know.

I identified most with Andrea Askowitz's story. She’s written a book, she’s working on her second, she’s given a lot of local writers play they wouldn’t otherwise have through Lip Service, she’s directed a non-profit organization, she has a lovely wife and two children, but it’s not enough.

“I want to be famous," she said. "I want to be a great talent. I want my work to be recognized.” I want, I want, I want. Her words embodied my own insecurities and desires.

The piece was mostly about her mother, who sat in the back row. When Andrea read the part where her mother says “How did the time go so fast?" and "gets a little tear in one eye," those of us a row or two away clearly heard Askowitz’s mother respond by saying, “bullshit.”

I identified with that, too. Writers are completely full of shit, so why should memoirs be any different? Truth, what’s that? You mean, how I saw it? We were both there, but I wrote it down and you didn’t. I’m right (write?) and you’re wrong because my words are in print.

I quote the narrator of John Dufresne's honey and broken glass Requiem, Mass:

“I’m sorry if you’re offended, but sometimes a writer needs to bend the truth to fit a more efficient and attractive shape. And sometimes a writer finds that he has to flat-out make things up because that’s the way he wants or believes his life to have been. So he changes the truth to change the facts because he’s trying to make sense of his life, and the life he knows he lived is not always the life his fallible memory recalls.”

You’ve been warned.

Now keep your eye out for the next night of Lip Service, because it’s well worth the price of admission. Which is nothing but your time, and your attention.

Last Word on New Orleans, I Swear

At least until my next visit.


You might find this hard to believe, but I found several instances of Wood Injuns on my visit to the Big Easy.


Seems no matter where I go, people want to put me in feathers.


Can't call these cigar store Indians, because they ain't. These are two tourist-trap gift shops and a bar. New Orleans, shame on you for these blatant acts of Native Kitsch.

When I go back, I'm going to flash my Tribal ID and demand royalties.

So Much for Writing for Money

On Monday I spent a pleasant hour grocery shopping at the Publix in Coral Gables. I never realized having a car to load up with groceries was a privilege until I didn’t have a car to load. Maybe I went a little nuts – four kinds of apples instead of my usual two; twenty-pound litter instead of fourteen; 18-pack of eggs instead of a dozen; regular bacon and Canadian bacon; milk, Indian River orange juice, Bolthouse 100% Carrot, Bolthouse Green Goodness, and V8 – but I had a trunk to fill. Besides, my fridge was nearly empty. I promised Becky fruit smoothies for breakfast. It would be nice to have a few juices to choose from for blending, not to mention opening the fridge and seeing nothing but food instead of glass shelves and light.

“Nope,” the cashier says when I run my card. Her tone is curt, matter-of-fact, smug.

“Really? I just deposited my check on Friday.” I run my card again.

“Nope.” This time she shakes her head to emphasize her point, and she still comes off smug. I imagine as a cashier in Coral Gables, she eats shit from customers all day. If rich folks are good at one thing, it’s making people behind counters feel worthless. This is Yvvone’s chance to turn the tables. Derisive laughter courses just beneath the skin of her professional demeanor.

“It’s the only account I have…” I trail off, mortified. I don’t carry cash, and I cut up all my credit cards when I got into debt in the mid-nineties.

I’m no longer worth eye contact. Yvvonne suspends the transaction. She asks the bagger to put the cart in the freezer.

Watching the cart (my cart-my cart-my cart) being wheeled away, my heart sinks. Minime’s flea treatment isn’t working, but she won’t be getting spray or shampoo anytime soon. What else was in that cart? A Greenwise London Broil like proof we were meant to eat meat. A California Cabernet Sauvignon. Several ears of sweet Florida corn. The strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, quince (seriously), and banana which would have gone into the smoothies I promised Becky.

There are also little splurges I don’t usually allow myself because my backpack only has room for the necessities (and yes, the wine is a necessity because I opened a bottle last week and the empty space in my wine rack picks at the OCD part of my brain while I’m trying to sleep). Like chips and salsa. A pack of chocolate chocolate chip muffins. A tin of Smokehouse Almonds.

Not having the money to pay for groceries means I don’t deserve indulgences.

Public will close in fifteen minutes. I call Wachovia, like there’s something to be done at 9:45 at night. The cashier, the security guard, the people waiting in checkout lines, the people waiting at lotto and for cigarettes, they’re looking at me while I dial. I’d like to say it’s my imagination, but the groceries went in the wrong direction. I feel like I’ve been gut-punched. I can’t dummy up. Couple my longing stare with the departing cart, and you’ve got the whole story.

A deadbeat, here in the Gables? their eyes say. How did he get in?

I don’t want to imply that there’s accusation in their flat, curious eyes,. They aren’t filled with the cashier’s schadenfraude either. Mostly it’s a but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I satisfaction.

For their benefit, I try to appear indignant. What I really feel is humiliated and useless. A banking error is all it takes to put me back in school (if you can call a deposit slip marked “funds will be available on 5/24” which should say 5/25 because Wachovia doesn’t actually make the funds available until midnight an “error” rather than “a deliberate deception designed to maximize overdrafts”), being judged by my peers and found lacking.

The bank isn’t responsible for one truth in my life; I turn thirty-eight this year and I still live hand to mouth.

Relationships are Compromise

As romantic as it is to believe two people could be so made for each-other that they’ll have no adjustments to make in coming together, it just ain’t so. Whether as superficial as he-doesn’t-find-That 70’s Show-funny and she-finds-Seinfeld-characters-annoying, as silly as she-doesn’t-put-the-cap-back-on-the-toothpaste and he-leaves-his-towels-on-the-bathroom-floor, or as serious as what brand of peanut butter should be stocked and whether mushrooms are delicious or evil, you are going to have to give a little to get a little.

This is why people stay single. People happy with their lives often develop a vague notion that they want to share their happy lives, but that’s all they want to do: share their lives. As in, here, see how great my life is? Let’s both live my life together!

Sorry, you can’t expect a partner to be nothing but a reflection.

I’m not saying this is difficult or the process is contentious, I’m just stating a fact. You will change each-others lives, and some of those changes will challenge you.

Take, for instance… the first birthday in a new relationship. Let’s say your girlfriend wants to go see the Instruments of Torture Through the Ages exhibit at the Miami Freedom Tower. Let’s say you have had perhaps a dozen dreams over the years about torture, the images of which have not left you, the vividness of them making you wonder about past lives. Let’s say your new girlfriend, who while cute as a bug’s ear apparently harbors a heretofore unsuspected fascination with real live actual torture devices discovered in European antique stores and private collections, let’s say she really, really wants to go.

Do you tell yourself, confronting torture devices will exorcise these demons and I won’t have to worry about Medieval dungeons when I close my eyes again? Or do you say, have fun, Becky?

My decision to attend the torture exhibit is not without precedent. I took Andi to see Bodies: The Exhibition on her 34th birthday when I had no personal interest, and more than a little worry that I’d be creeped out. My imagination made it much more graphic than it turned out to be, and I found it fascinating. I hoped to have a similar experience with torture.

We found our first grammatical error – good ol’ your vs. you’re – on a poster before we even entered the exhibit. This same series of poster boards claimed that the desire to inflict pain, even humiliation, suffering, and torment on our fellows, is a part of being human. I don’t agree. I think better of us. I think certain cultures and circumstances might lend themselves to it, but I don’t think we’re born with torturous instincts.

Anyway, how was the exhibit? Rife with grammatical and spelling errors. They should be ashamed.

As far as seeing the devices goes, try NOT thinking about a blue-eyed polar bear for the next sixty seconds. You’ve heard that one, right? Well, once you’ve seen them, try not thinking about… the Saw. The Wheel. The Impaler. The Goat’s Tongue. The Breast Ripper, Thumb Screws, Pinchers, Scissors, the Pear, Flaying, The Judas Cradle. The posters out front promised the exhibit would provoke revulsion, and it did. But the exhibit failed in its promise to make me think about torture as it’s still used today. It’s grotesque. A walk through the valley of but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I.

Still, it caused a melancholy that’s been difficult to shake. I haven’t been thinking of water boarding, psychotropic drugs, or whatever I was supposed to think about, but the ills we allow to happen in the name of civilization. There are a lot. What they have in common is that I feel helpless to do anything about them.

How can I? I couldn’t even get Becky to go see Kick Ass instead of the guillotine.

Movies to Avoid

I watched two different movies this week which sucked in their own distinct ways.

First off, we’ve got David Lynch's Eraserhead.  No one can deny the appeal of The Straight Story or the artistry of The Elephant Man, and Lost Highway and Muholland Drive are two of my favorite movies. Wild at Heart?  Absolutely.  Blue Velvet?  Sure.  Dune?  Well, at least it was one the decade’s top three flops (the others being Heaven’s Gate and Howard the Duck).  If you’re going to fall flat on your face, do it with gusto.

I’ve had Eraserhead on my to-watch list for almost nineteen years, ever since a guy came dressed as Henry Spencer to a Halloween party my sophomore year of college and everyone went nuts.  They all seemed to know who and what Eraserhead was, and I felt like I was missing out. When I later learned the mind-bending Lost Highway that I loved was by the same director, I was psyched.

It may have taken another ten or so years for that excitement to wind its way through my consciousness and my Netflix queue and eventually to my DVD player, but I finally saw it.

In the special features, Lynch talks about dissecting a cat while attending film school and shooting Eraserhead.  The way the organs changed from vibrant colors to dull grays when the air hit them fascinated Lynch.  Eraserhead is like that.  It’s an exercise, nothing more.  It’s solipsistic (and no, I don’t think I’m using solipsistic too much since I’ve learned it, I’m just psyched to be able to use it correctly. And yes, that’s two uses of psyched; quit being so critical and write your own blog), it's gratuitously weird, and it's almost eye-wateringly boring.

But I forced myself to watch it.  It’s Lynch, after all.

The punchline?  When I brought it up at a party the next night to a bunch of pretentious film buffs, no one had seen it.  I wish I had given it my usual treatment, ejecting it when the first twenty minutes didn’t pull me in.

I have no idea how the other movie got in my queue. It’s called See This Movie and it stars Seth Myers and John Cho as hapless moviemakers (I’m laughing already) trying to get a non-existent film into a festival while simultaneously filming the whole experience to put in the festival.  It was so profoundly terrible I can’t help but wonder who these fools are rating it highly enough that IMDB gives it 5 out of 10 stars.

When it started, I couldn’t believe anything so horrible had become a completed film.  I know “horrible” is not specific criticism, so let’s say it had problems with pace, tone, performances, and writing.  I watched it because I didn’t believe it could be as bad as it was and still exist.  Then about twenty minutes in, there was a funny scene.  Seth Meyers gets hit on by Jim Piddick.  Normally a bit player, when given the chance to shine in a large role, Jim Piddick proves the old adage that it doesn’t hurt your career to be in a terrible movie as long as you’re the best thing in it.

This "dumb straight guy rattled by a pass from a man" scene has been mined for comedy countless times, but it was well written, Piddick rocked it, and it seemed like the only time Meyers acted instead of trying to be funny.  This scene fooled me into thinking the movie only started shitty and got better.  Not so.  I sat through an hour and a half of paint drying because of one funny scene.

I will never get these hours back, folks.  But if I can prevent just one person from wasting his or her time on these same cinematic failures, then it will have been worth it.