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Diagnosis on my desktop computer: D drive is fine, but the C drive is kaput. D drive has the Voyant files and most of the other data. The C drive held the OS, the applications, the drivers, and, unfortunately, my e-mail. So it looks like I need to get a data recovery firm to haul all the Outlook/Express e-mail files out of the dead C drive. Grr.

But at least I don’t have to re-rip about 300 CDs for my music library (which would involve fighting off the giant spiders while hauling the CDs up from storage).

You cannot believe the neurotic depths I fall into when I try to write fiction. This evening, I thought I could get started on this idea I have for a short novel (or a lengthy chapter in the magnum opus I can’t bring myself to write). I paced around the house for a bit, and kept not sitting down at the table to write. A good friend called, and we talked about these hesitations of mine. An artist himself, he feels great sympathy for me, and has faith that I’ll get rolling sometime.

It causes such dread in me, this fear of committing to one set of words instead of another. Maybe it’s the perils of working with a bunch of talented authors, and not wanting to write beneath them. Which is dumb, I know, but might still be my operating principle.

The funny thing was, after an hour of this melodrama, avoiding the screen, showering to clear my head, dressing in nice clothes to break the routine slack-attire of an evening at home, typing in a line here or there, I sat back on my fainting couch and found myself reconsidering one of the most pretentious things I ever wrote, back in college. In that instant, I marveled over how little I’ve changed in that time, and how I could’ve failed to grow in any meaningful way.

And then I thought I could make a pretty funny/pathetic blog entry out of that. And a bunch of the words and phrases just fell into position. So I got up, closed the five lines of Word (“Was he a missile with no target, or one with no warhead? Aimless or powerless?” to give you an idea of how over-wrought I was getting), and started writing this.

It’s much easier for me to write these little journals, even though the voices in which I write may be as fictitious as the characters I keep failing to work on. I do need to get back to more essayistic entries, but this’ll have to suffice for the nonce.

The promised second part of Escape from New York isn’t really much. Adam and I got home, and the power was still dead. Being a swinging bachelor (well, when I’m wearing boxers, at least), I have a bunch of candles around. So we lit those, sat in the living room, and shot the breeze for a while. Around 8:30pm, my father called, with the news that he’d gotten power back, about 10 miles from my house.

Adam drank my beer, ostensibly to save them from skunking. I’m not a big home-drinker, and I’m not a beer guy at all anymore, since I discovered the virtues of gin & tonic, so the three beers that were in the fridge were likely from 6-8 weeks ago, when my buddy Jon-Eric and I spent a rainy Saturday afternoon at my house, watching Blade Runner and getting wrecked.

Around 9:30pm, my old girlfriend (and one of two non-family members who calls on my birthday) in Massachusetts called to check on me. Her region had no power problems. I filled her in on the zombie plague, and the rats that were fleeing the city, and she laughed. In the middle of the conversation, my electricity came back, and I shouted, “I got power now, bitch! Fuck you!” She laughed again. I told her that I love her and got off the phone. Having friends is a good thing.

Adam was happy that we could now turn on the TV and see what was going on in NYC. As it turned out, not much of anything was going on. He feared riots or looting, but nothing ensued. I made up the guest bed (a queen-sized that used to be my regular bed, when I was living in the apartment; it’s nice and comfy) for him, and he crashed around 11pm. Around 2am, he opened my door, mistaking it for the bathroom. Fortunately, he didn’t try to urinate on me. That was pretty much the peak of the night of the blackout.

The main casualty appears to be my desktop computer (this is being written on my wi-fi laptop). It won’t boot, and it doesn’t sound like the hard drives are running. I’ll take it to my dad’s tomorrow to figure out what’s wrong. It’s my amateur assumption that the surge fucked up the power supply, or a circuit on the motherboard, keeping power from getting to the drives and allowing it to boot. Dad said something about the Bios getting zapped. We’ll see. There’s nothing super-irreplaceable on the desktop machine. I did rip all of my CDs onto the desktop, but that would just take time to replace, if the drives are scorched.

Suffice to say, I will likely go Office Space on my surge protector next week. I promise to post pictures.

Set to “shuffle,” my iPod decided to follow Bobby Darin’s Beyond the Sea with Sinead O’Connor’s Jackie. I laughed. Someone else should, too, but I doubt THAT’S going to happen…

In today’s mail:

“Dear Mr. Roth,

“Thank you for submitting The Immensity of the Her [sic] and Now for our consideration. After careful consideration, we have determined that this book does not meet our needs and/or selection criteria.

“We wish you success in marketing your book and thank you for your interest in American Wholesale Book Company.

“Sincerely,

New Acquisitions Review Board”

I’ve developed a relatively thick skin about the bias against small business that exists in our media-conglomerated world. Even though my press has national distribution, I can understand why the #3 book retailer in the country would want to skip on a book from an author with a 40-year track record, writing about 9.11, in a hardcover book that’s already received some nice reviews from national venues.

But my skin’s not SO thick that I won’t ask any Virtual Memories readers who live in the southeast or midwest NEVER TO SHOP AT BOOKS-A-MILLION (the parent company of American Wholesale Book Co.) EVER AGAIN.

Gil

PS: If you want to call AWBC to special order the book (in massive numbers, for a book club), or prank them with the Prince-Albert-in-a-can routine, they can be reached at 205.956.4151. I’m just saying, is all…

(or, “And that’s when the CHUDs came for me . . .”)

The big blackout hit yesterday. I was in the middle of a phone interview for a contract packaging article (actually, I was telling a potential interviewee that I’d like to e-mail him a list of questions, since my strep-addled throat still hurt like a mo’fo’). The computer went down, and the lights went dim, then began flickering like that scene from the Twin Peaks pilot. I finished the phone conversation, and the lights went out for good. I picked up my bag, and headed out to my car, around 4:15. I figured it was a problem with the building, but when I started the car, I realized that several stations on my radio were silent. I found a news station that reported a metro-area blackout. I started driving home, and called the office on my cell to give them that news, so they could start sending people home.

On the road, I called home to see if my answering machine was still functioning. It was! I Got the Power! I held off on grabbing provisions at the local supermarket, figuring that

A) I’ve got power;
B) I’ve got some food and snack-type stuff at home;
C) Thanks to the local Mobil station leaking gasoline into the water supply, I’ve got 6 five-gallon bottles of Deer Park water.

Well, I walked in the door at home and new something was awry. The place was too warm, given that I left the AC on when I headed out to work earlier. Lo and behold, the AC was groaning mightily. I shut it off, figuring that it was underpowered.

In my office area, the desktop PC was continually trying to reboot, then crashing as it approached the Windows screen, lacking juice. I shut that down, too. Moments later, the power went down completely. I was pissed. And I was still exhausted from getting over strep (I didn’t go into the office till about 11:15am, in fact), and still in some pain every time I swallowed.

So I sat down and started figuring out my options. I tried to call friends and family to find out who had power and who didn’t. Lines were overloaded, so it was tough to get through. The radio contended that Philadelphia was unaffected, so I tried to reach a friend down there and see if this was the case. If so, I was going to head down and stay with her (get yer mind outta the gutter!) for the night. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get through to her.

I figured that, if the heat was bad, I’d drag a futon mattress downstairs, where it’s cool, and sleep there. This would involve rearranging a recroom that’s currently in a state of major renovation. I tore down wood paneling from 1968, but have nowhere the put it right now, so the panels are sitting against the walls, with nails protruding everywhere. I like to refer to it as “the least child-safe room in America.”

Given that I was in a state of some exhaustion, and a bit fearful that the end of the world had begun AGAIN, I felt it was my best option to just sit down and stare at the wall for a few minutes. The uncertainty of something like this, not just the question of when it will be over but the reason it happened, is tough on me. Uncertainty fucks with me pretty mightily.

I settled on a decent course of action: get a whole ton of Love & Rockets comics from downstairs, lie down on the futon in the living room, and chill the hell out. If I had my wits about me, I’d have made a titanic G&T before all the ice cubes melted, but I was still a little fever-addled (which, in a sense, sorta obviated the need for a G&T). If still powerless by nightfall, I’d move everything downstairs and start rearranging the Nail-Riddled Panels of Doom (which probably would have made a great fort).

It was around 5:30. My buddy Fink had just called from Seattle to check on my situation. I told him it was tolerable, and thanked heaven that I had strep this week. Otherwise, I would have been sitting in Newark Airport waiting for that Puerto Rico flight when the power went out. THAT would’ve been a terrible situation, since it would’ve been much tougher to get out of there and back home. So there are good aspects to getting nuked with a 103-degree fever; you just have to look for them.

I was about to open up Music for Mechanics when my cell phone rang again (it plays “Hava Nagila,” which I always find funny). A high school buddy of mine was calling from his cell. He lives in NYC. I hadn’t thought to check up on him, which made me fell a little guilty.

“Gil?”

“Hey, Adam. How you doing?”

“Okay. Listen: how far do you live from the George Washington Bridge?”

“About 25 miles.”

“Do you think it’s closer than Scarsdale?”

“Depends on who’s driving, I guess.”

“No one’s driving. I’m around 115th St. right now. I’m leaving New York on foot. I don’t want to be around here when it gets dark.”

“(sigh) . . . I’ll head out to the GWB and pick you up.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll call you as I get closer, so we can figure out where to meet.”

When I say fever-addled, I mean fever-addled. I mean, I’ve got no electricity, I’m getting over strep, it’s still around 90 degrees out, and I’m about to drive toward the biggest metro area in the world at a time that people are likely fleeing like rats. Sounds like a plan!

Now, I may be dumb, but I’m no dummy. I only have half a tank of gas, which would be perfectly fine under normal circumstances, but if I’m going to be sitting in hours of diaspora traffic, I could run out, which would be NO fun. So I’d better fill up some bottles of water for the ride.

Better bring the digital camera, too, in case there’s an image worth preserving. And a book in case I’m waiting a while for Adam. And a notebook, in case I think of anything worth writing (like there’s a chance of THAT happening . . .).

But what if this is actually the first stage of a zombie plague, like in 28 Days Later? Then I’d REALLY be in trouble. Better take the largest steak knife I own. If I had more smarts, I’d have brought along one of the Nail-Riddled Panels of Doom, but hey. In my notebook, I wrote, “Note to history: If I die tonight, it’s Adam’s fault.”

Off to the Bridge. I tuned in the news stations and listened for traffic warnings. The newscasters indicated that the in-bound lanes were closed, and some traffic was being allowed out. I feared a massive snarl-up in Ft. Lee, as well as the preceding traffic foci (like the Rt. 4/17 junction). But there was nothing. I cruised to the GWB in record time, and parked at the building of my old office on Central Ave. Curiously, the Bridge was open. Cars were crossing in both directions, and the toll plaza was functioning at regular shifts. I wondered if the media were lying for the sake of keeping traffic down. After all, it’s not like people could turn on their local TV news and see how the traffic situation is. It’s like going on TV to make fun of the Amish: how are they going to find out about it?

So I walked down to the bridge, and crossed it. I’d never done that before, and it’s a shame, because there are some wonderful views to be had from the bridge. You sorta see it when driving, but I was much more at ease on foot. I took a bunch of pictures (see slideshow). I saw some interesting people, too. There were bicyclists, joggers, businesspeople and hippies. There was also a muscular black guy, wearing dark, pleated pants and a wife-beater T-shirt, and carrying a putter. No, a golf putter. Really. I thought, “He’s either got some new fashion vibe going, or he was profoundly affected by 28 Days Later, too.”

I met Adam about 3/4ths of the way across the span. He’d walked about 9 miles to get there. Heading back to the car, we noticed incredibly bad and loud music blaring a block away. It was coming from Siggy’s, a dive bar near Lemoine Ave. Adam said, “We deserve a beer. I’m buying.”

And so he did. We sat outside and had a beer. Then we got a guy on the sidewalk to take a picture of us, and it was off to Ringwood. Adam initially proposed that we begin a road trip after we refueled (power had been restored in some areas of Rt. 4), but I think he was starting to realize that walking 9 miles through NYC in the heat wasn’t going to treat him too well in the evening.

Overheard in my car:

Listening to the radio with its stories of people milling around the city, Adam said, “Did these people NOT think it was going to get dark tonight? I can’t believe people wouldn’t take more precautions and get the hell out, like I did.”

Laughter, at news reports that NYC mayor Bloomberg was offering PowerBars to people outside City Hall. “Does he have any grasp of irony?” Adam asked. I replied, “But remember: no smoking!”

Adam, an avid Republican, at one point remarked, “I can’t wait to hear the Democrats blame Bush for this.”

“We’ve heard that there are some lights visible in the southern Bronx,” said one radio reporter. I shouted, “You fool! Those are fires!”

Part II to come. If you’re lucky.

Looks like I’ve turned the corner, but only after a SEVERELY bad night. Still hurts to swallow, but it’s not as bad as yesterday.

I had to cancel my press trip/mini-vacation to Puerto Rico, unfortunately, out of fear that I’d rupture my left eardrum from the change in air pressure on the plane. I was looking forward to that trip, too…

Strep and an ear infection. Time to test the wonders of Omnicef. The doctor (first one I’ve been to since November 2000), gave me the powder oral suspension dosage to tide me over till my prescription gets filled. It tastes like an Atkins Strawberry Swirl. Go figure.

I’m gonna go be feverish now.

I’m sick as a dog, with an ear infection that took advantage of a 5-day stretch of REALLY pushing myself (magazine, book publicity work, and a friend’s bachelor party in NYC Saturday night; the latter was the final straw). On the plus side, the Bergen Record’s short piece on Voyant is out. I’ll cheer, but not too loudly, because the fever and delirium might trick me into thinking that someone else is wandering around my house:

8/10/03
“Voyant,” a word coined by poet Arthur Rimbaud, is derived from “voyeur,” one who sees, and “savant,” one who knows. But it’s hard for publisher Gil Roth, founder of Ringwood’s Voyant Publishing, to do either when it comes to predicting the public response to the company’s upcoming book: The Immensity of the Here and Now, by novelist Paul West.

“I’m hoping it will get talked about, certainly,” Roth says.

That, at least, seems likely. For one thing, West is a major novelist (The Dry Danube, Rat Man of Paris). For another, his book is about a still-hot topic: 9/11.

Most important, though, is some of the content. “It’s not very politically correct,” Roth says. “It’s full of rage about 9/11.”

It was this sulfurous element that had West bypass his usual publisher and offer a major opportunity for Roth’s one-man operation, which has published four paperback books since it launched in 1998. This is Voyant’s first hardcover book.

The book’s main character loses his memory after the 9/11 attacks; in his sessions with a therapist, he reveals a bile toward radical Islamists that may or may not reach delusional proportions (there are suggestions that the story may be happening in the future, and other world landmarks also have been destroyed). This is the classic “unreliable narrator” that everyone learns about in English Lit 101, but he’s still bound to make some readers uncomfortable.

“This is certainly not a right-wing gun-nut sort of book,” Roth says. “But this character has a lot of rage.”

Roth, also a writer, made at least one seminal contribution to West’s book: urging that West discard his original title, The Topless Towers of Illium (from Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus“).

“I told him I thought it sounded like a Trojan strip club,” Roth says.

The Immensity of the Here and Now ($23) will be in bookstores in early September.

E-mail: beckerman@northjersey.com

In response to “Tough Crowd,” VM reader Tom Spurgeon writes:

“Don’t you have it exactly backwards? I thought that Camus was in the resistance, and spent a lot of time after the war writing brutal letters and essays indicting the godly institutions for being cowards and supporting Nazi brutality.”

And he’s right! But, at the age of 20 or so, I was a bunch less informed about this sorta thing, operating pretty much on the principle that the French were a bunch of “cheese-eating surrender monkeys,” and so I devalued any philosophy or art that they created.

And so, to my French readers, I say, “Mea culpa!”

Oh, wait: that’s Latin. How does “Mon mauvais!” sound?

Well, anyway, to make it up to France, I’ll post a little slideshow of my trip to Paris from last October when I get home this evening (as a break from stuffing envelopes).