Not the public variety. The ones where you utter foolish statements ragging on people close to you and broadcast it to the public at large. The best reason not to do this is because you will always come across as an assclown.
On Friday my literary agent called me. I was surprised to hear from him as it was a long weekend and neither of us were on a first name basis with each other. In fact, my agent hadn’t returned my voicemails and was quite surprised to find that I was indeed one of his clients. Nevertheless, we chatted a bit about how inept we both were at making turkey and the associative guilt we felt at being relegated to mashing potatoes. Even then I was writing a blog entry in my head: he was calling me to tell me that I should probably write a pretty darn nice novel if I ever expected to be published. Again I was lazy. Again I lacked time.
The reason he was calling me was to tell me that he was leaving the publishing business, as well as his wife. He also told me that he had unexpectedly contracted herpes simplex from a Bob’s Big Boy waitress and that I should probably not tell this to anyone. He said he hated to use the word ashamed but that’s what he was. I was stunned. I told him I understood and that I would keep all this confidential. He fucked too much and he wanted to leave his wife. He doesn’t know what he’ll do, but hopefully he’ll be able to find a regular sexual relationship at his STD support group.
I asked him if this was the reason he had forgotten that I was his client. He said, “No, Ed. You have a tendency to shoot your mouth off.”
“Well, at least I’m not Sandra Scoppettone,” I said. “And at least you’re not a real person but rather a figment of my imagination which I can use for a satirical post.”
“That’s true too, Ed. But like most fictional characters, I too have feelings.”
Anyway, I promised to send him a Purina fruitcake later in the year and wished him well. And we concluded our call.
But unlike most professionals, I couldn’t really function after all this, even after about twenty expensive hours of psychotherapy and enough antidepressants to knock a circusful of elephants on their asses. Who will be my new agent be, if I’m going to have one?
Not to insult anyone, but this agent is the last of a certain breed…he is, in fact, one of those rare Border Collies who is not only capable of reading, writing and speaking the English language, but setting me up with publishing houses without so much as stopping to fetch a newspaper. He mentioned the possibility of one agent and I asked how old the person was. Not only was this new agent human but he was twelve years old.
I know any agent I take on is going to be a little different, but twelve? This kid can’t even get into a PG-13 movie! And I can! I’m not saying an agent at this age has to be horrible! In fact, a pederast down the street recently knocked on my door to inform me that he lived in the neighborhood, per the requirements of Megan’s Law, and he assures me that twelve year olds are more adept in certain areas than older people. I’m not certain I believe him.
Still, if this twelve year old agent can get me the gigs, and I can put my innate agism aside, concentrating on his skills as a professional, well then maybe I just might get through this thing.
Pardon me while I buy my new agent an ice cream cone.
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. (
She should have written about Steve Almond instead.
I love this …..snicker snicker