Interview with an Angel

Although there is debate whether the credit (or blame) should be given to Oprah Winfrey or Michael Sheen, there is no question that Americans are more concerned than ever with their spiritual sides. And a large part of the phenomenon has been the increasing popularity of angels, spiritual guides who many believe either praise God and play harps, or provide venture capital for Silicon Valley start-ups. We sat down last week with the angel Gabriel, in town for a stone-rolling competition.

Angels seem to be everywhere in the media these days, on the best-seller list, in the movies, on greeting cards. How are you dealing with your new popularity?

Not well. The truth is, we're bitter. A lot of people have made a lot of money on this deal. Do you want to know how big a taste the angels are getting? Not so much as a thin dime. Zilch. But try telling that to the IRS, or the headwaiter at Le Bernardin.

Why haven't you cashed in?

Can't. The company won't allow it. They're very strict. Look, I won't lie, the wages are great, much better than the wages of sin. Health and dental are magnificent. But the non-disclosure agreement makes Diddy's look chatty by comparison. Our union, the International Brotherhood of Winged Messengers, has been fighting this, but the funds are all tied up in escrow, and I'll probably never live to see a cent of it.

So you can't tell us what it's like to be an angel?

No, no, I can't. But I can tell you what it's not like. It's not like a bunch of clouds and harps and choir practice. It's more like Vegas, but without Wayne Newton.

What's a typical day like for you?

We do a lot of praising, a lot of singing. It's not really that different from touring with "Up With People", which I did for a year, by the way. We used to depend very heavily on Bach's Mass in B Minor, but we've really gotten into Amy Grant's back catalogue now, and "Don't Worry, Be Happy" is one of the big guy's favorites. Bobby McFerrin is one of us, in case you didn't know.

But aren't you in constant battle with the forces of evil?

During working hours, yes. But after five, the forces of evil definitely know the best places to party. We don't let our rivalry get down to a personal level.

What's the number one misunderstanding about angels you'd like to clear up?

I'll tell you what bugs me. This whole question about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. You hear ten million, fifty thousand, ninety bajillion. That's not right at all.

So what's the correct figure?

Fie on fie!

Fie on goodness, fie

Fie on goodness, fie

Eight years of kindness to your neighbor
Making sure that the meek are treated well
Eight years of philanthropic labor
Derry down dell
Damn, but it's hell
Oh, fie on goodness, fie

Fie, fie, fie

It's no secret that I've always loved a good fie:

"Fie on ’t, ah fie! 'Tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed." –Hamlet

"Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: fie on him!"--Twelfth Night

"Fie, fie, on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and all foul ways!" --The Taming of the Shrew

But the truth is, and I wouldn't want this to get around, I had no idea what a fie was. It's got to be pretty awful, right? Nobody ever fies on the dog when he has an accident in the bedroom. You don't fie on the waitress because she forgot to bring ketchup. Fie is reserved for the absolute bastards of the cosmos.

So finally I looked up fie. And effing eff, it doesn't mean ANYTHING. It's not a blast of lightning, or a bright blade that cleaves a knave from the nave to the chops. It's not even the old fewmets hitting the windmill. It's just an interjection of disgust, like Tchaa! or Tsk! or even Pshaw!

Pshaw!

 This is how curiosity killed the cat. This is the curse of Faust. This is the overweening hubris of Oedipus. This is me wishing I'd never looked up fie. Let fie lie.

But where did the word come from? From French, and Latin (fi!) before that, according to etymologists. Thousands of years ago this monosyllable of disgust hovering just on rebellion bubbled up to the lips of a thoroughly tacked off plebeian and those around him in the forum nodded in agreement. Fie on the patricians, the praetorians, the Vandals and the Goths. When Hamlet uttered it something smelled rotten in the state of Denmark--fie has always been associated with olfactory offensiveness.

Night Owl Writer

Nighthawks at the Diner

  Why are so many writers night owls? Is it the peace and quiet, the hush when all the world's asleep? Or the insomnia that arises from trying to resolve insoluble plot problems? Well, I can only speak for myself, and my memories are a little bit hazy, but I blame my oldest brother and sister. Let me take you back. It was probably 1966, and I would have been eight or nine.

Jim, a career Army sergeant, was just back from his first tour of Vietnam and cooling his heels waiting for orders on his next posting. So he got a job as a short-order cook at the Toddle House (chain restaurant), and for good measure got my sister Nancy and his new bride, also named Nancy (both fresh out of the convent in the mass exodus of nuns after Vatican II) jobs as waitresses there. Yes, there were two Nancys with the same last name living at one address, which confused Toddle House corporate no end. They kept trying to pay them with one paycheck.

Bedtime for me and my older brother Asa was still 9:00, and the Toddle House crew didn't get home till about 11 (although in my memory it was more like 3 in the a.m.)

Now here's where it gets interesting. Y'see, Toddle House made pies fresh every day. Which meant they could take home any left-over pie at the end of their shift. Which meant if we could just stay up till they got home (when they would have coffee and pie and gab about their shift into the wee hours) we could cadge some PIE.

"All Home-Made Pies 12¢"

But of course to wander downstairs two or more hours past our bedtime we needed a pretty solid lie, which meant a story, and, like Scheherezade, a different story every night. And a story which would past muster with Jim and Nancy, two seasoned storytellers. Which meant I was developing my story-telling powers while learning to stay up late, all for pie, glorious pie, chocolate, lemon meringue, or the king of them all: black-bottom pie.

Black-bottom pie

Nighthawks at the diner
Of Emma's 49er, there's a rendezvous
Of strangers around the coffee urn tonight

All the gypsy hacks, the insomniacs
Now the paper's been read
Now the waitress said
Eggs and sausage and a side of toast
Coffee and a roll, hash browns over easy
Chile in a bowl with burgers and fries
What kind of pie?  

                            --Tom Waits

Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking by it.

Target audience

 

The agent's query submission form asked who was the target audience for my book, so I answered:

Mystery readers who don't mind reading in a mirror, romance readers brought up on cheap gin, suspense readers who like getting sidetracked."

I mean, if you're going to be rejected anyway, you should have a little fun. Besides, it's true

Troping in the dark

 

In other words, your trope may smell funny, but if it's not past its due date, it's probably okay. I guess.

Words are cheap

 

So I stumbled across this number yesterday:

The GLM [Global Language Monitor] estimates that in the modern world a new word is created every 98 minutes (approximately 14.7 new words per day). Each year, an estimated 800 to 1,000 neologisms are added to English language dictionaries.

That’s a lot of words, and English is already admitted have the largest vocabulary by far of any language. Maybe because languages like French, German and Spanish only average 200 neologisms a year. So what effect does this have?

Well, according to the law of supply and demand, words inevitably lose their value. The invention of new words, pressed out like license plates in the prison shop, floods, cheapens language as a whole. It’s been said words are cheap. They’re getting cheaper.

It’s been estimated that there are a million words in English, though the American Heritage Dictionary lists only 350,000. Which makes for a huge chunk of words that are floating around in the ether and could blink out like phosgenes any second, never even recorded or cast away like old ichthyosaurs. Moreover, the number of words one needs to know to be fluent in English is estimated at between 3,000 and 10,000, so English can be thought of as the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. We’re only seeing the tip on our cruise.

And all those obsolete and unused words? They can be thought of as lost or undiscovered species in the Amazon rain forests, species which may hold miracle cures if we can only catalogue them before clear-cutting wipes them out.

So many words lost in the shuffle. And more, the weight of so many words must inevitably over-run the silences, which like rests in music, impart the language its form and power. Light a candle for St. Harold Pinter.

Now I know that English’s Latin-Saxon agglutination is considered one of its glories, the source of its agility. And its thievery of words from other languages like a mad mynah bird is looked on fondly. And a living language must grow or die, just like a cancer or any capitalist economy. I don’t want to take away English’s rizz,

Just…search the garden before you plant a new flower. And take a favorite word to dejeuner today, huh?

The Textbook for this class

 It's amazing what you'll stumble across when googling.

Lifelong Learners: An Independent Collaborative (an outfit out of Boston, apparently) offered a course last year called The Mysterious World of Art Crime, Fictional and Factual.

This is the list of course materials:

Books and Other Resources:

The Art Forger, B.A. Shapiro

The Rembrandt Affair, Daniel Silva

Stealing Mona Lisa, Carson Morton

The Strange Case of the Dutch Painter, Timothy Miller

Painted Ladies, Robert Parker

The Art Thief, Noah Charney

The Raphael Affair, Ian Pears

Now I nothing about this outfit or whether, like the Ted Baxter Famous Newscasters School, they only attracted one student. And no, I don't know whether the course will be repeated (Although if you want to rise up as a mob and demand it, go HERE .)

But it's nice to be included, one way or another.

Ted Baxter Famous Newscasters School.

Review: Revenge of the Killer Flamingos

 What is the dys-brain? Well, it's a melange of dyscalculia, ADHD, and a few other
disorders. Maisie Jo, the hero of the tale, has it (and so does the author). And while I'm sure this makes life difficult for both character and creator, it makes M.J. one of the most delightful characters I've ever come across (and Pooks one of the most delightful authors). 

     Imagine a murder mystery. Our detective is trained like a laser on the clues to the killer, right? No, our temp who thinks she's in an episode from Murder She Wrote, is trained on bright shiny objects. And the arrangements for the murder victim's funeral. The victim is by the way, killed with a--well, I guess I shouldn't say, but the title might tip you off. M.J. is supported by a killer cast of characters, including a stuffy lawyer who hires her, a chihuahua and a killer cat. 

     What else do you need to know? She solves the case, just in time to become--wait. Just go buy the book. Get in on the first adventure in a series.

Beach Read

Fishing Boats on the Beach by Vincent

 

After rigorous analysis and testing, I'm happy to report that 

The Strange Case of the Dutch Painter 

has been designated by the Beach Reading Association as 100%

Beach Readable

Because of this designation, you are hereby guaranteed to enjoy this read on any beach in the world, from Cozumel to St. Tropez to Bondi Beach, without fear of sun-bleaching or sand-scratching.* 

Enjoy your summer!

*not water-proof

Scion Society hazing

 The admissions test was brutal.
First they blindfolded me. Then:

(Actually I just had to give my name)

1) They asked me whether the train from Paddington at 8.30 would get me to Devon by noon.

2) They asked me to discern five different types of tobacco ash by smell alone.

3) They asked me to recite "The Great Rat of Sumatra" word for word.

4) They asked the middle name of Watson's fifth wife.

5) They asked me in which story Holmes first mentions "the little grey cells."

6) They told me to put on a deerstalker cap backwards.

7) They swore me to secrecy.

But I passed! I'm now a member of the Crew of the Lone Star Barque Society (based in Dallas). I can put a swagger in my step.

Benedict Cumberbatch

I like Benedict Cumberbatch. I like Sherlock. How could I not? But the truth is, I have no news about either subject. I have no special insights into either phenomenon. I have no whimsical tales to relate. I'm simply pandering, hoping that a picture of this dashing young man will garner my blog more followers. Hey, it's worth a try.

Thanks, Benny.

 

The Strange Cases of Strange Cases

 Of course, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was the inspiration for the title of my first (and therefore my second) novel. I should perhaps have done my research further. It turns out there are a lot of "Strange Case" titles out there, and I am now chained to them for all eternity, like Marley's ghost with his cashboxes. And some of the titles are a wee bit...well...

HUGO SPROUTS AND THE STRANGE CASE OF THE BEANS
THE STRANGE CASE OF THE RICKETY COSSACK: AND OTHER CAUTIONARY TALES FROM HUMAN EVOLUTION
THE RABBIT REPORT: THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MISSING GINGER
THE STRANGE CASE OF THE SPOTTED MICE & OTHER CLASSIC ESSAYS ON SCIENCE

These are just some of my new bunkmates. But my favorite, hands down, is this title:

I haven't read the book, and I never will, because it couldn't possibly live up to its title. Perhaps you've read it and enjoyed it. Let me know. It's definitely a brother from another mother. 

Now excuse me, I have to get back 

to work on The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart.

Lagniappe: From Poem to Screen

 “Who’s on line two? Bob Frost?” 

    “Bobby, how’s it hanging, baby? How’s Vermont? Sap still rising?” “Oh, mending walls, eh? Make sure you get a good contractor. This guy Sophie got on the guest house, he’s a goneph. I swear, I’m pouring money down a rat hole.

 "So what have you got for me, baby? A new poem? Pitch me! Two ears, no waiting.” “Stopping in the Woods on a Snowy Evening? Great title. Says it all. Three teen-age couples, cabin in the woods, axe-murderer, chop, chop, chop, big box office, I can smell the money, these kids can’ get enough of the crap!

For the rest check out Lagniappe

Singapore Charlie

 If you've been following along, you know that I compulsively google my book to see how it's faring in the wide world. And one thing I've noticed is that it's available in a goodly number of libraries, probably due to my starred review in Booklist, which is apparently the Bible for librarians ordering books.

So I'm browsing through Google the other night, and I come across an entry that couples my book's title with the National Library Board. Well, that sounds impressive, so I click on that one--and sure enough, it is the National Library Board--of Singapore. Which has one copy--an ebook at that, for the enjoyment of the people of Singapore.

Now I will admit to you right up front that when I was writing the novel, my imaginary reader was not Singaporean. Which is, I suppose, a failure of the imagination. For there among the dusty e-shelves of Singapore sits my book, waiting for Singapore to discover it.

Let's assume, for the purposes of this fantasy, that Singapore has discovered it. Maybe not all of Singapore. Maybe, really, just one guy. He first came upon Sherlock Holmes when he was thirteen. He read the Canon in Chinese, and fell in love. So much so that he was determined to read it in the original English, so he learned the language backwords and forwords. His name is Charlie.

No, I don't know whether there's a single soul in Singapore (say that five times fast) named Charlie. I could do a little research and come up with a more appropriate name. Never do any research for your fantasies. It can only make them smaller.

So Charlie reads every Sherlock Holmes pastiche he can get his hands on, which is not many, because he doesn't make a load of dough and mainly has to depend on the National Library Board, which he has a fantasy of joining some day. Right now it consists of a dozen grim-faced old greybeards whose idea of good detective fiction is John Grisham.

Some day he'd actually like to write his own Sherlock Holmes pastiche. He figures Holmes made his way to Singapore during his three year hiatus. Maybe he worked the docks and secretly fought piracy for a year. At night Charlie can hear the creaking of

the wooden ships and the clash of swords. Maybe he had a sidekick he called Charlie, but whose name was really something far more appropriate.

But Charlie really latches on to my book. He's read it three times. He's told all his friends about it till they're bored to tears. He's even started a fan club, which has five members besides himself, four of whom don't know they're members, and one shy girl that he calls Irene. She really likes the book too--at least that's what she says.

Charlie would like to come to America, to meet me some day and shake my hand, maybe get an autograph. Maybe I would introduce him to my publisher (whom I've never even met) so he could show him his book, Sherlock Holmes and the Pirates. He's waiting to finish his book before he gets in touch with me. It could take a while, since he hasn't put down a word yet.

But he's got it all in his head. He's just letting it come to a boil. Keep an eye out for Charlie Singapore in your bookstores. 

Thank you, National Library Board.

Inspiration

I think I've come up with the plot for my next novel.

                                    Thanks to the great B. Kliban.
 

Pinteresque

This time for sure!  I've come up with my million dollar idea. I'm going to start a new antisocial networking site I shall call Pinteresque, where everybody posts moody, meaningful silences. 

Stranger Day

 Unfortunately, Stranger Day festivities have been canceled this year due to, uh, circumstances. Some have even accused last year's festivities of, uh, exacerbating circumstances. To which we reply with a resounding, uh, uh, hummnnnuh.

Join us next year, April12th (unless we've met) for all the fun and unfellowship the day deserves.

Inaudible Books

  I don't know whether to try to crowdsource this or go straight to the big financial backers in Silicon Valley, but I've got a great new idea for an invention -- Inaudible Books™!

Inaudible Books™ are just like Audible Books, except that the volume of the narration is so low you can't hear it at all. This will be perfect for people who are intimidated by audible narrators, or people who can't get to sleep because of the noise. And it should attract high-quality celebrity narrators who always shied away before for fear of straining their vocal chords. Imagine the Outlander novels narrated by Queen Elizabeth, but so low you won't be irritated by that squeaky little voice. Or The Art of the Deal narrated by Teller, in the voice that made him famous.

I know, right now you're begging me to take your money. And I'm willing to, because I'm your friend. Let's just wait till I hear back from the Shark Tank people first, eh? Inaudible Books™-- listen for them everywhere! Closely.

Profile in Trivia

     I was talking to a friend the other day (actually, my best friend, herein referred to as Rainbow Trout) and he asked me what was the deal in San Juan Hell with all the

verbiage underneath my profile picture. Well, no one's ever asked me that before--I suspect no one's ever noticed it before-- but I suppose I should explain for his benefit, and for anyone else too shy to point out out that my new clothes look just like my birthday suit.

Novelist–well, that's the easy one. Novel-writing is what you do when you hang up your apron after twenty-five years tending bar.

Kibbitzer–You may be familiar with this one. Let's say you're playing a fame of chess, or poker, or Monopoly, or really any game that's not Candy Land. There is inevitably a guy standing behind you who is not in the game, looking over your shoulder and giving you horrendously bad advice on your next move. That, my friend, is a kibbitzer.

Raconteur–French for a story-teller, especially one particularly witty or amusing. From this you may gather that French is the last refuge of the egotist.

Homo Ludens–A term coined by Dutch theorist Johan Huizenga, used to explore the play element in culture. The literal meaning is Man Playing. This is my species.

Sans-culotte—Also French, and I wanted to include flaneur and croque-monsieur as well, but I ran out of space. Sans-culotte literally means pantless, but before you get the idea that I'm hanging out in the altogether  (I might be and I might not), a bit of further

explanation. The sans-culottes were the lumpenproletariat* at the heart of the French Revolution, the ones Marie Antoinette wanted to eat cake. They were radical democrats, sort of like Bernie Sanders with the mittens off. They did wear trousers--they just didn't sport the fashionable silk knee-pants of the aristos. This is my political stance.

Tralfamadorian–if you know you Vonnegut, you know the Tralfamadorians, little aliens who look like plumber's friends, with a hand where their head should be, in which is set a single eye. They also live in four dimensions, which means that they can see all of time--and choose, quite sensibly, to live in the good times. This is my philosophical stance.

Dylan Thomist– is my own coinage, taken from the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, especially in homage to his great poem The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower (written when he was only 19) that expresses an intense identification with all of creation. This is my religious stance.

So there you have it--a rare example of tedious shorthand. I hope it was worth it.

*Lumpenproletariat--Marx's term for the class of beggars, thieves, and prostitutes below the proletariat proper.

There's nothin' to know...