We went out once. We didn’t click.
And yet you persist in leaving me five voicemails a day (no, contrary to the pathological excuses you’ve been inventing to justify your looneytunes zeal, my voicemail is functioning quite well; unfortunately, just too fucking well) and cluttering my inbox with all manner of deranged JPEG attachments of coffeehouses we “might be able to meet in.”
In case it isn’t salient by now, I wish you well, but I have no interest in meeting you, much less exchanging a single word with you, ever again.
Most ordinary humans take the hint and move on with their lives. Despite polite and carefully worded language from me thanking you but suggesting that we weren’t exactly the Bob and Betty Wills of our day, you insist in your indefatigable efforts. What part of “Do not call me again” did you not parse? I mean, I think that’s a pretty lucid message, don’t you think?
One would think that at the age of 35, such basic laws of human interaction would be familiar to you by now. And yet you persist.
Since you seem equally intent upon tracking my every online move and responding with some commentary about “what a genius I am” (newsflash: I’m not), I’m hoping that in posting this message, some reasonable element within your being will finally wake up and stop calling me. Failing that, there’s a movie you might want to see that illustrates precisely what has gone wrong (since this has been a common theme in your nutbar voicemail solilioquys). That movie is Play Misty for Me. To be absolutely certain you understand what’s going on here, I’m the Clint Eastwood character. Got it?
Very truly yours,
Edward Champion

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. (
All right, I get it, Ed. I GET IT. And, by the way, In Parsi, “Do not call me again” actually means “Please continue to send me JPEGs of coffeehouses.” Just thought you’d like to know.
Hard to get… NICE.
Oh, but Ed, you are a genius.
She sent you a JPEG of every Starbucks in Manhattan? Yeah, that’s definitely looney tunes….
How Very Fun For You, Ed.
How are you by the way?
I dunno, a stalker might be kinda nice. I could use the validation. You can keep this one, tho’.
Ed, you know that Clint Eastwood was also in _The Bridges of Madison County_… you’re sending mixed messages here.