Month: December 2003
So we leave town tomorrow and, after a brief stopover in the Bay Area to spend New Year’s Eve at my sister’s (and help her celebrate her birthday), we arrive in Portland by the weekend. If you have a book group or a writers’ group and wouldn’t mind an extra member, I’d love to join.
A few writers signed with Berkeley publisher Creative Books only to find out that their books had minuscule print runs, no marketing, and no promotion.
Tom Tomorrow riffs on the notion that Dean Can’t Win. See the cartoon here.
I didn’t much care for some of what’s been written about 9/11 (no, not even by You Know Who’s story in the New Yorker), but “Good to Hear You” came as a refreshing surprise. Holiday Reinhorn’s opening paragraph pulled me in and I left my dinner to burn while I finished reading the essay.
On the morning two commercial airliners crash into the Twin Towers of The World Trade Center in New York City, my father wakes up in his bed in Memphis, Tennessee. Unaware of the disaster now in progress, he turns on the shower in the adjoining bathroom to awaken Laurie, his second wife who is still asleep, then shuffles into the kitchen to turn on the coffee machine and feed the cat. In the kitchen alone, my father lights his first cigarette and watches the cat, a skinny stray he found hiding in the barbecue recently, systematically wolf her food. It looks more like backwards vomiting than eating, he thinks, but my father watches the meatballs he has prepared for Littleslip (whom he also calls Lovebird sometimes, or Ki Ki) disappear with rapt appreciation. If he could, my father imagines, he would live with thousands of cats–thousands, if Laurie wasn’t allergic, but it is nice enough of her to even put up with this one, he reminds himself. Laurie (and it almost brings tears to his eyes to think of it) is a very generous young person.
Just after 9:30, Laurie appears in the kitchen in her business suit and the two leave their house at 7095 Ivy Leaf Circle. They step over the newspaper lying on the doormat and get into my father’s 1989 Honda two-door coupe. My father is behind the wheel in Bermuda shorts, T-shirt and Italian dress shoes. Laurie is beside him with her open briefcase in her lap, paging through computer forms that will become vitally necessary to her life in the hours ahead.
LCGR continues to impress me with the kind of stories its editors publish. It’ll be at the top of my list of subscription renewals this year.