Jeff digs up this mysterious Craig’s List job listing, which involves a $100,000 all-expenses paid duty to drive across the country with a toilet seat on his head to promote Toilet: the Novel (a book written by the the maybe late, maybe alive Michael Szymczyk and published by the vanity outfit Authorhouse). There are apparently three positions available. This would seem out of step with previous Toilet-centric lucre. A previous ad placed on the Washington D.C. Craig’s List paid out a meager 35 dollars for an afternoon’s work.
Now when we were at BEA, we observed a gentleman with a toilet seat on his head who was walking the floor. He was essentially ignored by all concerned. It was remarked by one of our colleagues that this gentleman had appeared the previous year and had received some local newspaper notice and a quick mention in Publishers Weekly. He’s even sneaked onto the Wikipedia “existentialism” page.
If someone has so much money to burn, we’re wondering why they would go to all this trouble. After all, $300,000 (assuming Szymcyzk has it) can probably buy more than a few TV spots, newspaper ads, and probably set the Vidlit folks up for a good clip. When we see a toilet seat, we don’t exactly think “literary novel.” We think toilet reading. Is this some Masonic conspiracy or the result of an out-of-control, Howard Hughes-like eccentric?
Some casual Googling reveals Szynczyk as a rambling philosopher who has received blurbs from the likes of Stephen King, Will Smith and Quentin Tarantino (who can say if these are real or illusory or kindly boiler-plate responses?). Further, Szymczyk was apparently banned from the Frankfurt Book Fair for an anti-Bush presentation.
Szymczyk might be an able activist, but we’re wondering if he’s either a crank or a misunderstood genius — perhaps attempting to upstage Gerard Jones. Of course, if Szymczyk wants to send a copy of his book to our PO Box, we’ll be happy to offer a careful report. He’ll still have to learn the difference between an “advanced copy” and an advance copy.
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. (
The job sounds kind of cool.
i read and liked Michael Szymczyk’s book. the guy seems pretty smart to me. kind of crazy too.