Opening Foreclosing Day!

During his playing days, former MLBer and steroid abuser Lenny Dykstra explained to a writer that he was totally unwilling to read, for fear it would affect his batting eye. This reached the point where he wouldn’t even look at road signs (presumably, while he was being driven somewhere). So when my boss, a huge Mets fan, said to me about a year ago, “I saw this thing on Lenny Dykstra on HBO Real Sports last night. He’s a financial genius!”, I was more than a little skeptical. After all, last I’d heard about Dykstra, he was running a car wash in California and getting cleared of charges that he was sexually harassing a 17-year-old employee. All of a sudden, he was a stock wiz and the publisher of a magazine for rich athletes.

I concluded that you couldn’t find a bigger sign that we were in a financial bubble than the hyping of Lenny Dykstra as a stock-picking savant.

(Another big sign of that bubble was the New Yorker deciding to commission a lengthy profile on Dykstra around this time. Interestingly, they seemed to choose a writer who doesn’t know much about baseball or finance. Maybe he’s a car wash expert. I can’t find any references to this article in the magazine’s coverage of the global finance collapse and the media’s role in hyping easy money.)

Here’s some of that Real Sports segment:

You’d think Jon Stewart would’ve picked this clip as part of his Jim Cramer beatdown-montage. To quote Mr. Cramer, “I think people don’t think of Lenny as sophisticated. But I am telling you, Bernie, that not only is he sophisticated, but he’s one of the great ones in this business. He’s one of the great ones.”

So how’s that financial empire doing now? Well, the NYPost has just coined the name “Lienny Dykstra,” on account of his default on his $12 million mortgage.

What It Is: 4/6/09

What I’m reading: Franny and Zooey, and Top 10 Season Two.

What I’m listening to: Who Are You, some Neko Case.

What I’m watching: The final four and the premiere of The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, which was scheduled on HBO to take the slot of Eastbound & Down.

What I’m drinking: Plymouth, Q Tonic and lime.

What Rufus is up to: Taking a 5-mile-plus hike up in Wawayanda on Sunday. And spending Monday in my new office, where he can chill out during the forecast thunderstorm.

Where I’m going: Nowhere in particular, although I may be heading into the city Thursday to gather up a friend of mine (and his dog) to attend our seder.

What I’m happy about: Baseball season starts! Springtime is here! Oh, and that my pal Chip Delany was profiled on the front page of the Philadelphia Inquirer yesterday.

What I’m sad about: That I’ve never tried Cel-Ray. I oughtta break my “gin, water & black coffee” New Year’s Resolution for that.

What I’m pondering: Whether Salinger has actually been writing all this time he’s been in seclusion. After reading all of his collected non-Catcher stuff in the last two weeks, and re-reading Ron Rosenbaum’s 1997 essay on his pilgrimage to Salinger’s driveway, I have a strong feeling that even if he is writing, he has no intention of publishing any of it. Guess I oughtta read that Hapworth 16, 1924 and see if that changes my mind.

The 0-fer Intersection

Many years ago, when I was a micropress publisher, the first book I put out had an introduction written by Samuel R. Delany. This was a coup, because Delany had built a significant fan-following over his years in publishing, first in science fiction and then in the high-brow world of literary theory. He loved the short stories that we were publishing and, while his introduction may not have convinced a single person to actually read the stories, I believe his imprimatur did boost sales. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that having his name on the cover helped us move tens of books. (I keeeed: I was not a good publisher.)

A year later, shooting the breeze in his impossibly book-lined apartment, Chip (as I’d come to know him) asked me what the press’ next book would be. I had no ideas, so he offered me two collections of his letters, one set from 1984 and another from the early 1990s. I looked over both sets of bound photocopies. I thought about the cachet of publishing new work by a guy who’d written some of the seminal science fiction (and fantasy) novels of the 1960’s and ’70’s. I considered the kindness he was bestowing by essentially offering to waive any royalties in order to strengthen the micropress.

And I told him, “Y’know, Chip, I’d love to say yes right now, but I have to tell you: I’ve never read a single book of yours. Given that fact, I’m a little nervous about committing to publishing a book by you.”

He chewed on his lower lip for half a second, reached over to one of the many bookshelves in his apartment, and said, “Well, why don’t you read the Einstein Intersection? It’s quick and somewhat representative of my earlier work. You can read it in a day or two and then let me know if you still want to publish my letters!”

I did, and I did and we published 1984 a year later. (Neil Gaiman gave us a blurb for that one; I’d actually read his work beforehand.)

So that’s our 0-fer of the week: I was once asked to publish a book by someone whose books I’d never read.

I’ve gone on to read a bunch of Chip’s work, including his best-known novel, Dhalgren. I’ve even volunteered to proofread his galleys under crazy time constraints (the all-time craziest being the 30 hours I spent poring over the reissue of The Fall of the Towers back in 2003). Despite my insecurities, we’ve stayed pals long after I closed the press down, and that brings me to the point of this piece: to wish my pal Chip a happy birthday!

Many happy returns, y’hirsute galoot!

Wham! Bam

In honor of April Fools Day, Popmatters decided it was time to goof on an album that sold a bazillion copies and launched the career of George Michael, whose first solo album sold a mind-blowing 20 million copies. (I’m partial to Listen Without Prejudice, Vol. 1, but my wife is partial to Andrew Ridgeley, so hey.)

  1. Wham!’s Christmas Conundrums (Shouldn’t that be “Conundra”?)
  2. Wham!’s Fashion Revolution
  3. Make It Best: Single by Single
  4. And just for Amy, Andrew Ridgeley: An Appreciation

Lost in the Supermarket: Singles 45s and Under

It’s time for our first reader submission to Lost in the Supermarket! Benji C. sends in Spam: the Single!

It’s a pity they registered that “Just rip and tear your way to CRAZY TASTY® town!” slogan! I was gonna use it as the tagline for my site! Thanks, Benji!

Do you think “Single” is meant to descibe the product or the person who buys it?

See the whole Lost in the Supermarket series

What It Is: 3/30/09

What I’m reading: Finished Zot! 1987-1991 (which belatedly gets added to my “comics you can show your girlfriend” canon), read Salinger’s Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters and Seymour, an Introduction, and started his Nine Stories.

What I’m listening to: A funny conversation between Bill Simmons and SNL’s Bill Hader (lengthy MP3 download here). Here’s an exceedingly silly clip (1 min., mp3) about a rejected SNL skit idea.

What I’m watching: Some NCAA, and Man on Wire.

What I’m drinking: Much of a bottle of white wine on Saturday, but without the sluggishness/headache I usually get from whites. Yay!

What Rufus is up to: Going to the local kiddie-park on Saturday so he could get affection from lots of kids and parents. I realized that made him happier than going to the dog park, where he tends to shun the other do gs and . . . seek out affection from lots of kids and parents. He also bore up to the Sunday-night thunderstorm for a bit, but eventually got freaked out and hid in the guest bedroom for a while. Once the hail started, we were tempted to join him.

Where I’m going: Nowhere!

What I’m happy about: That Man on Wire managed to be even more joyful than the segment in Ric Burns’ New York documentary about Petit’s wire-walk. Here’s my ramble on Petit from a few years ago.

What I’m sad about: A lifelong friend of mine appears to have become totally unhinged. It’s such a textbook-clean snap that I find it more disturbing than if he just started evincing some signs of “strangeness.” I’m hoping it’s just stress/exhaustion, but I don’t want to write more until we get a clearer idea of how he’s doing. It’s just been weighing on me for the past week, the idea that someone can just so utterly break apart in such short order.

What I’m pondering: Why the French get Philippe Petit and America gets Evel Knievel.