I swapped out the pivot rod on the bathroom-sink stopper assembly last night. That’s the technical name of the … well, you know when you pull the knob to close the stopper? That goes down behind the sink and hooks up to another thingie that goes into the drain pipe and actually makes the stopper go up and down. The thingie that goes into the pipe.
I’m always quite proud of myself when I do such things. Past projects included replacing the entire float assembly in the toilet, replacing a light switch (an old one with the wires not properly color coded), and installing ceiling fans.
Yes, these things are a little intimidating at first, but ultimately more fulfilling and a lot less of a hassle than calling the landlord to have her call an electrician or plumber then take half a day off of work to wait for some guy to come in and freak out the dogs. (And then have him show up late and drag crap into the apartment, scratch the walls, bang into crap with his tools, etc.)
Besides, what can go wrong? Aside from a bathroom flood or electrocution or an entire block burned down because I didn’t wire something properly.
It’s sort of like I tell people when training them on the computer software at work: “Look, you might get stuck, but you can’t break it anymore than it’s already been broken.”
Of course, the pivot rod had to be changed precisely because I broke it while snaking the drain, but no need to focus on that.
By the way, Snaking the Drain would have made a great album name for Motley Crue back in the day.
After the race yesterday, a friend suggested a conspiracy theory that I’m inclined to believe: New York Road Runners subcontracted the Brooklyn Half to someone else.
Because just about everything about it was run smoothly. Huge expo/pre-party (with volunteers instructing Manhattanites how to get from the subway to the venue). Incredibly organized corrals (with port-a-johns inside the corral so no massive lines). Hell, I’d asked a question on the Facebook page and got a response within the hour. (Interestingly, Brooklyn Half had its own Facebook page.) Of course, some people will still complain. Hear a lot of people whining that there were not enough mylar blankets. I was also disappointed to see Red Delicious as the apple being handed out after the race. Red Delicious? Really?! (I’m kidding.) Oh, and there weren’t as many people cheering this year. Probably because everyone was IN the damn race.
The most striking difference between this year and last year was the wave start. I wasn’t convinced it was going to help things–especially after registration was reopened and I’d hear numbers as high as 30,000. But night and day compared to last year. I never felt crowded, not even at that miserable cattle chute at Grand Army Plaza. The Scotland 10K a few weekends ago was much harder to negotiate.
The run itself? No complaints. I would have liked to PR for this one, but didn’t. I didn’t train quite as hard as I did last year. I’m also carrying about 10 pounds more than I did last year, which makes a pretty big difference. I probably could have toughed it out — weather was cool, no sun beating down — but I couldn’t get out of my own head. Or, more accurately, I couldn’t be bothered to find the extra gear. I haven’t run with music in over a year and yesterday was the first time where I actually missed it. (And, no, nice hippie chicks playing an acoustic set outside the park, Hotel California is not suitable music to get runners amped up!)
At any rate, it was a good race. First mile was slowest, last mile was fastest and I always like that. (But it was far from a negative split.)
I’ll set my sights on getting a PR at Hamptons this year.
Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk is the sort of book that makes another writer despair. How did Ben Fountain pull this off, that talented bastard? I’m practically sick with jealousy — and depressed that the book is over. Which is saying something considering the subject matter.
The books follows Billy Lynn and the fellow members of Bravo squad, back in the states on a “Victory Tour” after Fox News broadcast their battle with Al-Qaeda forces in Iraq. Billy Lynn and his fellow infantrymen or on the second-to-last day of the tour. After visiting family, a number of other swing-state cities and becoming minor pseudo-celebrities, they find themselves in Texas Stadium, slated to be part of the halftime show with Destiny’s Child during the annual Dallas Cowboys Thanksgiving game. All this while a Hollywood producer is trying to get them a movie deal. And they’re being shipped back to Iraq in two days.
There’s obviously a lot of symbolic potential in all of this. And a lesser writer would likely have made a heavy-handed hash of it. THINK THIS! CONSIDER THIS! But Fountain just keeps us tightly within the realm of this 19-year-old soldier with an average past, struggling to make sense of the world he inhabits. That’s not to say Fountain doesn’t get his points across. Setting this inside the throne room of the Dallas Cowboys is a strikingly effective way to say a lot about American priorities. It allows something as simple as a tour of the equipment room to sneak up and smack the reader in the back of the head.
Yes, it’s anti-war, but not the sort of anti-war sentiment that’s based in politics. Rather, it’s based in the tradition of Vonnegut and Heller–it’s anti-war in the sense that sending young men to foreign lands to kill and be killed is a horrible thing.
You’ve got a picture in your mind, I’m sure. The writer enters his special writing place and, before settling in front of the computer or typewriter, he fires up the iPod or turntable. Music fills the room—or his ears. A scratchy jazz record. Sweeping classical. Maybe some down-with-the-system rock or fuck-the-police rap. He sits down, closes his eyes for a minute, takes a couple of deep breaths. Then he starts writing.
Three songs later, he sends his manuscript to a publisher, is offered a six-figure contract, multiple subsidiary rights and a seven-figure movie option. He—or she (Hi, Jennifer Weiner!)—goes back to the writing corner, picks another album, rinse, lather, repeat. Life is good!
For me, this is largely a fantasy. And I’m not only talking about the huge book deals or the quaint little writing office.
The crowd the last time Ahead of my April 20 reading in Lafayette, Louisiana, I thought I’d offer some ground rules for attending one of these things. After all, not everyone’s been to one. And I’m hoping since Bacon and Egg Man is my second book, I’ll get all those people from the first one and then some.
Turns out, someone has already written such a guide. Me. A few years back. So, in an effort to protect the environment, allow me to recycle.
Please, note, Louisiana people: LAST TIME I HELD A READING AT THIS LOCATION, THE SAINTS BEAT THE VIKINGS IN THE NFC CHAMPIONSHIP THAT WEEKEND AND WENT ON TO WIN THE SUPER BOWL. I’m not saying, I’m good luck, but I AM saying one of you might win the Powerball on April 20.
Believe it or not, a reading and book signing can be as exciting as the Saints winning the Super Bowl (not really) and this may cause you to become confused. So I thought I’d make like Jersey Shore and tell you about the situation.
Basic ground rules.
No shirt, no shoes, no service. (But other than that, no one cares what you wear. It’s Saturday, wear what you want.)
DON’T get together with 14 of your friends and paint the letters necessary to spell out Bacon and Egg Man on your chests.
But DO bring friends.
DO bring friends who haven’t heard of the book or haven’t bought the book. Barnes & Noble would like to sell books.
DO show up early and buy a copy from Barnes & Noble if you don’t already have one.
If you are a teacher at a local university, DO offer extra credit to your students to attend.
DON’T just take a copy off the Barnes & Noble table, have me sign it and then walk out the store. They will gang tackle you and haul you off to jail.
While I’m reading, DO pretend to be extremely fascinated. There won’t be cue cards telling you when to laugh or cry, so you’ll have to figure out the appropriate moments for such behavior.
DON’T boo or hiss.
Sometimes, there is a Q&A session after the reading. DON’T ask me about my personal life, who that one character was really based on, if I know the way to San Jose and what kind of moron came up with the crawfish etouffee recipe in the back of the last book.
DO feel free to ask questions about The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival. (This is assuming that I remember to take questions this time. I was so overwhelmed by the crowd last time — and that, later that day, I was planning on telling my parents I was getting divorced — that I completely forgot!)
DON’T ask a three minute question that isn’t a question but really is just a way to show off how smart you are. I’m there to show off how smart I am, and I don’t need the competition!
While I’m signing, DO feel free to tell me the correct way to spell your name. Even if it’s Bob. You’d be surprised and how bad my spelling can be sometimes.
DON’T cut the line just because you think you know me. Chances are, most people there will know me. And my cousins from Ville Platte WILL beat you like a red-headed stepchild.
DO forward details about the event (or this email) to everyone you know.
Can’t wait to see yall.
DETAILS:
Ken Wheaton reading and signing
Barnes & Noble, Lafayette, La.
Saturday April 20
Noon to 2 p.m.
There will be music after the signing. Feel free to stick around.
When Gary Shteyngart’s Super Sad True Love Story came out in 2011, I was livid. And, yes, it was all based on petty envy and outrage at the publishing industry. At this point, I’d already written Bacon and Egg Man and had tried to interest a number of agents, none of whom were interested. It would be a hard sell, not quite in any genre.
Then this guy comes out with a dystopian novel set in a future New York and gets about six million glowing reviews and awards and the like.
Now I could have gloated that, once again, I’d been right and the brainiacs in the publishing industry had been wrong. Because you know how much money angry gloating puts in the bank. Besides, there was a bigger issue. No one was going to want to publish another dystopian novel set in a future New York. So I read Shteyngart’s damn book and liked it. And not only because it really had no overlap with mine! Continue reading “Inspiration, Coincidence and Great Minds Thinking Alike”→
Introducing Mrs. Sandman.
1. No.
2. What? No.
3. Maybe this one will — No.
4. Really? No.
5. Nope.
6. Ain’t happening.
7. Let me just. No.
8. Wait… wait… wai… No.
9. If I just … Nope.
10. In the immortal words of Si Robertson: “Nnnnah.”
Notes:
1. Subject complained of heartburn AND heartbreak from spectacularly shitty barbecue from a Brooklyn restaurant.
2. Despite substantial amount of Bed Poodles, subject seemed unaffected by their presence.
3. Subject also complained of thirst, but too lazy to go get water.
4. Subject ultimately decided to sleep on his stomach like he does every other damn night.
The first thing to say before talking about Mighty Quinn’s is it’s nice that New York has become a city in which there are barbecue options to nitpick to death.
There are some good things about this barbecue joint on Second Ave. and Sixth Street. And if you live or work in the area, it’s probably going to become a favorite of yours. But for folks who “travel” from other parts of the City to get their cue, I’m still going to recommend Hill Country as the go-to-place in the city.
Full disclosure, Texas style barbecue is my favorite, so if you like over-sauced ribs (and by over-sauced, I mean sauced) or pulled pork is your thing, feel free to disagree. But I’m also a certified barbecue judge, so that makes me like a professional barbecue complainer! Continue reading “Mighty Quinn’s Barbecue — It’ll Do Pig”→
The Sleepy Hollow Half Marathon was one of the most beautiful courses I’ve run. It was also perhaps the most miserable, pain-in-the-ass races, full of “Are You Fucking Kidding Me With This?” moments I’ve ever run.
On one hand, the first five miles are run through beautiful trails, through the woods, over old rail-road bridges, along the Hudson River.
On the other hand: 1,279 feet of elevation.
Not that you’d know that from the race’s website. Bounce around there a bit and you’ll see no elevation chart. I don’t blame them for this. They’d likely lose quite a few entrants if they put this on their website. And I think you’d be doing yourself a disservice if you didn’t run this race. It is beautiful. It is a challenge. And I want you to experience the same sort of misery.
Not a week goes by without someone mewling about independent book stores or the “plight” of the book as if some great dark age is upon us. This sort of thing drives me crazy, because it’s completely divorced from, you know, reality. There are more books available now than ever. More fiction than ever. More nonfiction than ever. More people making more money doing it than ever.
Well, except for some of those independent book stores. Two things. 1: It’s a business. And if you need to rely on donations and pledge drives to keep your business afloat, then you’re doing something wrong. 2) Barnes & Noble (and then Amazon) might have hurt your business, but don’t pretend that those two companies haven’t delivered more books to more people who couldn’t previously get them. Having lived in one of those parts of the country that doesn’t have many independent bookstores — with the exception of hard-core Christian ones — I’ll argue that Barnes & Noble is a veritable Library of Alexandria for the parts of this country.
KEN WHEATON 