Posted on

Sofa, So Bad

NM Governor Bill Richardson may be a kingmaker in Democratic party presidential politics, but I hope the eventual winner doesn’t promise him a position in the Department of Interior Decorating:

credit: Rebecca Craig/The Santa Fe New Mexican, via Associated Press

Seriously: that’s some terrible upholstery (and I’m pretending not to see the “GOV” fur blanket behind him). Good thing Bill Clinton brought his chameleon sweater to this Super Bowl bash.

(Photo credit: Rebecca Craig/The Santa Fe New Mexican, via Associated Press) 

Posted on

Good night, sweet Curator of Webster Hall

Almost 10 years ago, when my micropress published its first book, we had a launch party at Webster Hall in NYC. This was facilitated by the author’s pal Baird Jones, whom I met briefly at the event. Two years later, we used the same venue for our second book’s launch. There was no payment involved, which gratified this cheap bastard no end; I assume Baird was just looking for any way to boost traffic at the hall on a weeknight.

Over the years, Baird was often cited as the source of Page Six gossip items in the NYPost (always referred to as the “curator” of Webster Hall). I would feel a little celebrity-by-proxy moment, a flicker of “I met that guy!” even though I didn’t actually know him.

So I was kind of sad this morning when I discovered that Baird died earlier this week. But I think he’d be glad to know that the news made Page Six.

(Update: here’s a long piece on Baird over at Radar.)

Posted on

Exit, Ghost

On the flight home from Belfast last week, I finished reading Exit Ghost, the new Zuckerman novel by Philip Roth. I didn’t enjoy very much of it, except for the scene of Zuckerman’s reunion with Amy Bellette, the woman brilliantly “fictionalized” in The Ghost Writer. It’s only in that episode that I really felt the weight of Zuckerman’s age, as he and Amy recommence a conversation they began 50 years earlier.

The rest of the novel — in which the narrator laments his lost erection as he fixates on a perfectly toned, slim, large-boobed, literary oil-heiress who has married a schlubby Jew — left me cold. At its worst, it degenerates into a bad standup routine: Zuckerman, isolated in the Berkshires for more than a decade, comes back to NYC and grouses about people using cell-phones. Fortunately, the character doesn’t have to fly anywhere, or else we could’ve been subjected to a rant about airplane food.

But I digress. Where the book did succeed for me was that one evocation of old age and loss, as characterized by Amy Bellette’s refusal to let the the love of her life go, though he’d been dead more than 40 years. And it got me thinking about how long I’ve been reading Philip Roth’s novels and how I’ll feel when he dies. Flying home, I thought, “I’m sure I’ll be sad, but I wonder if I’ll cry.”

I doubted that I would, and that got me thinking: Which living artist’s (writer, musician, actor, painter, cartoonist, etc.) death would move me to tears?

I’m having an awfully hard time thinking of one. There are contemporary artists whose work mean the world to me, but I’m not sure any of their deaths (provided they’re not killed senselessly or somehow incredibly fittingly) would make me cry.* I’m trying to puzzle out what this means, since some of the possibilities aren’t too palatable.

So I put the question to you, dear readers! In the comments section, tell me (okay, the world) “What artist’s death would bring you to tears, and why.”

(If you need to expand the field to include athletes, feel free.)

* I mean artists with whom I don’t have a personal relationship. I’m friends with a number of professional writers whose deaths would absolutely crush me. So no cheating and naming a writer who’s your dad or something.

Posted on

Long weekend

As mentioned in my previous post, Amy & I were, um, JETSET PARTY PEOPLE!!! this weekend. Saturday morning, we flew out to St. Louis, had a brief stopover, then flew on to Tulsa, where we celebrated Survivor Status for Amy’s pal Doug, five years after his treatment for brain cancer. The party was a blast, and Doug managed to make it through his guest/host-of-honor speech much better than I would’ve, if I’d been in his shoes.

Sunday morning, we headed back to the airport to return to St. Louis, to surprise my brother at his 40th birthday party. Of the weekend’s four flights, that would turn out to be the bumpiest. But them’s the breaks, when you plan air travel in the midwest in February.

I’m pleased to report that Boaz had no idea that Amy & I were in town, proving that my mom and his wife are quite capable of keeping secrets from him. I wasn’t so sure about my dad, so I didn’t tell him about this trip till Friday.

I had a great time shooting the breeze with my brother and sister-in-law. Boaz has already cemented the family’s travel plans to NJ this summer. (Hint: they overlap with Springsteen’s dates at Giants Stadium.) My nieces, as ever, were a hoot. At one point, the little one managed to pack about a million silk scarves into her shirt, giving herself cafeteria-lady-boobs. Amy took a ton of great pix this weekend; once she’s done fixing them up, I’ll post her flickr link.

Going into the weekend, I was worried that weather would mess with our plans, and cause us to miss one flight or another. Naturally (just as happened in Belfast), the only fight that got delayed was the one coming home. Oh, well.

Another upshot of this weekend: I can cross off one more state in my list of “states I’ve visited for more than just a drive-through.” I’m at 29 states (+1 district) and counting, and I do have an invite to visit a friend in Maine this summer.

Feel free to visit the Visited States page and make out yer own durned map.

Posted on

What it is: 2/18/08

What I’m reading: A Fan’s Notes, by Frederick Exley

What I’m listening to: Oblivion with Bells, by Underworld

What I’m watching: Gerald Green’s cupcake dunk.

What I’m drinking: Water. I’m taking a few days off from the lush life.

Where I’m going: Home!

What I’m happy about: Surprising my brother by coming out to St. Louis for his 40th birthday party last night.

What I’m sad about: Boarding my 4th Embraer ERJ 145 in a span of 52 hours. (We also had a party in Tulsa this weekend.)

What I’m pondering: This post from Donald Pittenger on great artists who hit a peak and never manage to come anywhere near it again. I thought Philip Roth’s late run makes for a good counter-example, but I know a lot of people find him irrelevant.