Ladies and gentlemen. I finally met Howard Junker. My last night in San Francisco. Two men. Pabst Blue Ribbon. It doesn’t get any sillier than that.
I am here to tell you that Mr. Junker imbibed Pabst Blue Ribbon with me. How many editors of literary journals would drink PBR? Would Wendy Lesser drink PBR? Or David Remnick? No! But Howard Junker did!
The only reason I was imbibing the stuff was because I am trying to acclimatize to Manhattan cocktail prices. Although it would appear that certain establishments in San Francisco are charging equally ridiculous prices. So perhaps I can return to better ales.
There will be more later. A lengthy post on leaving San Francisco. Another post, if I can find the time, on Richard Cheese and the remarkably dim audience at the Red Devil Lounge. But I suspect that BEA will trump all of this. Bear with me. I am now in transition!
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
Pabst? You drank Pabst? To get used to New York?
Dude, I was born in Cleveland and live in Cincinnati and I don’t drink that stuff, even though it costs a fraction of my usual poison. (Bass, or if I’m slumming it, Killians.)
Actually, Ed, I was just in San Fran two weeks ago. You’re going to find New York drinks are actually a little cheaper. Since you’re moving to Brooklyn, you should be able to find Yuengling. Highly recommended.
Oof. Ed, quit the PBR training. Drinking beer from a can will only breed malcontent. Instead, go for the local brews, Brooklyn or Yuengling. We’ll point you in the direction of some decent happy hour establishments. $3, tops.
@ a cup of tea: you’re right, but Yuengling is from Pennsylvania.
Ed drank PBR.
I am removing my pants.
Come on over to mama, sugarbear.
@ Carolyn: What, Pennsylvania isn’t local? Shoot, I knew that. I meant to say Rheingold.
Pabst just doesn’t taste the same since Miller bought them. And then they went and killed Falstaff.
good luck in the east, ed. we’ll miss you in our hood. try a rheingold when you have a chance.
best,
howard
fuck these prigs. did bukowski go around imbibing grey goose? pbr if it works.