Ghosts of Chicago

John McNally, ever the self-promoter (just like moi), had sent me a copy of his new book and asked me to write a review of it in Amazon. Honestly, I try not to write the straight review, because that's just not me, but I don't think the readers on Amazon would get my usual style, so here I am.

To his credit, John didn't say that I had to write a good review, but he did sweeten the pot by offering me his autograph. Anyway, I read the book, which is a short collection, and I enjoyed it immensely. In my review below, I talked a little bit about my favorite stories in the collection.

John McNally's new story collection Ghosts of Chicago is full of portents, mysterious circumstances and haunted people. McNally has the ability to get to the essence of his characters and allow them to live their stories. And just like real life, they are full of unexpected events and comic turns. There is ravaged beauty, bits of magic and hopefulness in these stories.

The book opens with "Return Policy," a very affecting story about Mark Timbers, whose wife had left him after 18 years of marriage. Mark gathers up all the items in his house that were given to him as wedding presents and sends them back to their givers, because he felt that he no longer deserved them. Along the way, he attracts a stray dog, a dead cat, a deadbeat neighbor and the sales girl from a department store that was going out of business. How the story ends, demonstrates how people come together in times of grief. It brought tears to my eyes.

In "I See Johnny," a young woman, known to us only as Miss Betsy, is the host of a successful local children’s TV show. The titular Johnny is the boy Miss Betsy dated when she was 16, who was killed in Korea. The title refers to a segment in her show where she holds up a hand mirror (with the mirror removed) to the camera, and calls out the names of the children who have written letters to the show, "I see Martha! I see Jim!" What seemed strange to Miss Betsy is that even though there are lots of mail, she never sees Johnny. There are no little boys named Johnny. Every week she looks for Johnny, whose very name evokes some nameless longing in her.

Who hasn’t tried to play detective and try to track down somebody from their past? In "The Immortals," Rudy is sitting in an El train when he glimpses a woman standing outside who he recognizes but whose face he can’t place. The woman sees Rudy, recognizes him and calls out to him as the train leaves the station. Too late, Rudy remembered who this woman was: Leila, his ex-wife whom he hadn’t seen in 15 years. Leila took all their photo albums when they divorced after a brief marriage, telling him that it will be easier for him to forget her if he couldn’t remember what she looked like. A year after this chance encounter, Rudy picks up another lead on the whereabouts of his ex-wife, who is rumored to have been decapitated...

In “Men Who Love Women Who Love Men Who Kill,” Brandon Dawson is dating a girl who is in still love with a man in Death Row. Today, however, is the day that man is to be sent to the electric chair and Brandon goes out to buy an engagement ring. However, the fates are conspiring against him...

The Silverfish is the unlikely superhero in "The Remains of The Night," but this story is about his butler. Crazy.

Author James Frey was crucified by Oprah for not being completely factual in his biography, A Million Pieces. In a similar fashion, in "The Memoirist," an author may have fudged his facts a little too far, and his readers are going to give him a taste of his own medicine.

In "Contributor’s Notes," what seems like a straightforward biography about the author John McNally, turns into a hilarious romp with the type of punch-in-the-gut writing that shows us McNally’s mastery of the short story form. I loved this story! And what’s even better is the twist in the ending which was so unexpected that I was frickin’ amazed at McNally’s inventiveness. It's the perfect story to end the collection. And as I turn to the backflap, and there is this photo of John, in a Chicago Bears cap, scruffy beard, peering sexily above his dark frames...

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Related posts:

Author Stalker - How does it feel to stalk one of your favorite authors?

Interview with John McNally - If you like 'em rough, troublemakers are his specialty. Check out The Book of Ralph.

Slam

When we talk about the future, my boyfriend and I have started saying things like "when we have kids..." or "when junior comes along..."

I don't know exactly when this started, but I suppose that after almost six years of being together, thinking of the future in terms of vacations to take, or appliances to buy, or bankruptcy hearings to attend--it starts getting old, you know?

Both of us have our favorite names for our imaginary kids, of course, who doesn't? For any gay male couple, it's harmless, since it's unlikely that anything would come of it unless we take extraordinary measures to have a kid, like going to boring fundraising dinners and joining political rallies. Boy, I wish all I had to do was to masturbate into a cup.

I mean, when I am at The Gap, I would often 'accidentally' walk into the GapKids section, stage-project my voice, 'oh my! I didn't know it was the kids section!' before looking through all the cute outfits designed to stir your homoternal instincts. I would pick up a cute preppy outfit and think 'this is sooo cute! I have the perfect outfit that will go with this!' and imagine myself holding my little boy's hand walking in the park, playing football or putting together a killer hors d'œuvre tray.

Sometimes, these feelings are so strong that if The Gap had a pet store, I would've walked out with a puppy. I am not kidding. If I were a savvy businessman, I would put a pet store next to a designer kids clothing store because you know, all the gays with their unfulfilled homoternal instincts will walk in and get a new kitten or puppy without even knowing why.

Sometimes (and I know I've said this many times in this blog), I wish I were a lesbian, particularly Kim Stolz from America's Next Top Model. I am actually going through a phase right now where I am copying Kim's cool, casual androgynous style: vests, ties, white shirts, but I digress.

If I were a lesbian with homoternal urges, I would go to a bar when I'm ovulating, challenge a cute guy to a drinking game, coz you know I would need to get drunk to do the deed, and he needs to get drunk so he won't remember my face and my address, and so he won't notice my hairy legs or armpits when I take my shirt off--no way I'm shaving just to please a man--uh-uh. Rinse (my privates), repeat until pregnant.

In the breeding hierarchy, gay men are below straights (obviously) and lesbians, but just above Magic The Gathering tournament players. It's sad, I know, but I've accepted my lot. I've channeled all my energies into my two cats. I can't wait to put them in these cute Holiday outfits I got for our next cocktail party.



All these feelings have come back to the fore as I read Nick Hornby's latest novel Slam. The book is about Sam, a fifteen year-old boy who loves to skate. Sam, in first person, spends a few minutes to tell us, somewhat defensively, that skating means skateboarding, not rollerskating or ice skating, which apparently are lame. He talks about the dangerous stunts that skaters do and about Tony Hawk, his idol, whose biography is alternately Sam's bible and advice column.

Personally, I am not sure why Sam thinks ice skating is so lame. I'd like to see him do a triple lutz or triple salchow and see if he doesn't fall on his ass. As for dangerous, I am not sure if there is anything more dangerous than having to sew your own sequined outfit and wearing it to the local ice skating rink.

Sam lives with his single Mom who got pregnant with him when she was sixteen years old. Sam spends his spare time doing fifteen year-old things, learning new skate tricks until he meets Alicia, a beautiful girl at a party whom he gets pregnant.

The title of the book, getting slammed, refers to a bad spill from doing a skate trick. Metaphor for teen pregnancy, I get it. The book is published by Penguin's Young Readers imprint, which I hope won't prevent adults from reading this excellent novel. I am convinced this is one of Hornby's best novels, possibly just below About A Boy. The voice is that of a teen, but the themes are universal: growing up or coming of age, whatever, this is a lot of book for a slim volume. I was hooked into it fairly quickly and couldn't put it down. If you loved Stephen Chbosky's amazing 'young adult' novel Perks of Being a Wallflower, this book is for you.

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A Long Way Down - Annie and I review Nick Hornby's last novel.

Wao! Wao! Oscar Wao!

I don’t know about you, but as a reader, I have very high expectations. I expect that a novel have characters that are real, complex, tangible, that they are just one step away from being my own friends. I mean, if I wanted just any friend, I’d go hang out at a gay bar and buy drinks. I’ve never had as many friends as when I’m at a gay bar with an open tab.

If you’re author Junot Díaz, you’ve already gotten this down pat. Your skill as a writer is evidenced by the fact that your characters are not people I would normally associate with, whom I would totally shun, but am somehow drawn to and maybe even hang out with, if they bought me drinks.

Especially if your character is the titular Oscar, an overweight Dominican nerdboy with bad skin, bad hair whose glory days have passed him by at the age of seven, when he had yet to become a torpid teen, when youth was his ally and he had been the smoothest cat on his block. The apex of this period occurred when he had a three-way kiss with two girls at the bus stop, pre-dating The Real World hot tubs. Then it was downhill all the way. There are rumors of a weird curse--a fukú--on him, his family, possibly dating back to his ancient ancestry.

The story is narrated by Yunior--Oscar's sister's ex-boyfriend (wha...?), who tells the story in an epic mash-up gangsta cholo slash Lord of The Rings style, in an effort to divine the source of the curse or ward it off, I'm not sure. Then Oscar's troubled sister Lola jumps in and puts in her two cents into the boiling cauldron. Just when you're ready to write off some evil character, some truth is revealed and you go on hating the character but not without heartache.

Junot Díaz keeps all your senses occupied with his strange patois: a mixture of English, Spanish, Klingon, moving the story forward with an urgency and casualness which would’ve been at odds itself, if it had been written with less skill, throwing in pop culture references at you, like Donkey Kong throwing barrels at a befuddled Mario. At the same time, he peppers the story with footnotes explaining obscure customs or personal histories--short stories really--in three, five or ten sentences.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is Díaz’ first novel, although I had been first introduced to his work by way of Drown, his debut book of short stories in 1997. I normally don’t read short story anthologies because it’s usually one or two great stories, two more middling ones and then filler.* But I bought Drown because as I read the first paragraph at the bookstore, Díaz’ voice grabbed me with both hands and almost like he yelled, "It’s clobberin' time," I was drawn into the melee. Just like that. Check out his books.



Read this: "Homecoming, with Turtle" by Junot Díaz

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*There is only one exception to this rule and that’s Stephen King’s book of novellas Different Seasons, which spawned not one, but three feature films including Shawshank Redemption, Apt Pupil and Stand By Me.To this day, this book rules this category for me.

Other great writers I recommend:

Pulp Fiction - David Schickler is no namby-pamby, sensitive, wryly comic author. I predict he's your new fave author.

Interview with John McNally - If you like 'em rough, troublemakers are his specialty. Check out The Book of Ralph.

Get the books:

Author Stalker

This is what it feels like to be a stalker: nerves fire from every part of your body; your muscles quiver randomly like dandelions; your tired, blinkless eyes are like marathoners in the final mile, surging forward. There's a dry, brassy taste in my mouth, like deodorant or metal polish. I make a mental note to remind my boyfriend Brian to buy a different brand of metal polish--there must be one that has a more pleasing scent--strawberry, perhaps.

I'm at the Book Cellar, a genteel little bookstore in Lincoln Square, hiding behind the greeting card rack like a lion stalking a gazelle or a vulture circling a carcass, or a gay Bear pouncing on a donut. My prey is the famous recluse, author John McNally who was scheduled to do a reading and book signing. I scan the racks, hoping to find John an appropriate card for the occasion, one that says 'congratulations!' or 'good luck' or 'til death do us part.'

"Hey Paul," a man's voice behind me said.

I turned around and it's John himself. He's tall, taller than I've imagined him to be from the picture in the back flap of his books. I imagined that he would be at most 6 inches tall, with his lower body uncropped. But here he was, normal-sized and talking to me.

It was a couple of seconds before I was able to respond with a weak "Hi!" I was amazed that he even recognized me. The only explanation was that he must've read my blog and seen my pictures. But even that is surprising since I only post pictures of myself that are unrealistically attractive. They bear no resemblance to me in real life. In real life, I cannot hope to show only my 'good side' like Barbra Streisand. In real life, no cosmetic can cover up blemishes like photoshop can.

We spoke awkwardly for a few minutes. Our conversation was like a fish flopping about on dry land, gasping for a topic. I thanked him for sending me a copy of his book and he thanked me for posting my interview of him in my blog.

"Brian, my boyfriend, was saying that we should take a trip out to Duke's Italian Beef which you mentioned in your novel, out in Bridgeview," I said. "Is it like a Portillo's?" Portillo's is like the McDonald's of Italian Beef sandwiches in the Chicago area.

"Nah," John said, "Duke's is more like a hole-in-the-wall."

"I love hole-in-the-walls," I said excitedly, "in more ways than one!"

He raised an eyebrow and said, "Ba-dum-bum."

Ouch. But I didn't feel too bad because he grinned.

The bookstore was filling up, everybody was looking for a seat. John excused himself politely. I found a seat for myself. My friend Annie, who came with me to the bookstore, sat next to me.

I felt out of sorts. When I am in an audience, I am the guy who hoots and hollers, the one who initiates the clapping, the standing ovation. I looked around, scanning the small audience. People are seated, murmuring quietly. I wondered whether I should take my lighter out and raise it above my head, swaying.

While John read from his new book America's Report Card, I studied the people around me.

I wasn't listening; I had already read the book. I finished it quickly, in two late nights. My guess is that everybody in the audience had too. I was more interested in who I had wrestle with to get in front of the line for the signing later. An older woman, about sixty and with grey hair, sat a few seats away. She had a walker beside her. When I looked at her, she looked back, narrowing her eyes as she did. She had a stack of books on her lap. I was sure I could take her down. Or at least trip her.

Later, John graciously signed all our books. As he rose to leave, a bald man who was sitting in the audience stood up. He was immensely tall. It was Irvine Welsh, author of Trainspotting and Porno. They chatted for bit. I tried to casually eavesdrop but I couldn't understand Irvine with his thick Scottish burr.

In my mind, they were going to a nearby pub and were going to invite me and Annie along to discuss literature and booze and sex. It was perfect, I knew all about booze and sex. I stood right by the door for my invitation.

Unfortunately, a night of literate debauchery was not to be, an invitation was not forthcoming. Annie and I leave the bookstore only a little disappointed. We had our signed books and we shook John McNally's hand. I was even able to lightly touch Irvine Welsh with the back of my hand as I walked pass him.

That's enough for this stalker for one night.

Nightstand

I cannot stop by a bookstore without spending a few minutes going through the New Releases stack. I don't know what it is, but the sight of rows of books makes my heart flutter. Maybe it's because I am always on the lookout for the next About A Boy or Perks of Being A Wallflower--that amazing book that takes you completely into the character's head, into another world. I don't think there's anything else as satisfying as reading a good book, except maybe stealing it.

I bought The Book of Ralph by John McNally today, which given the number of books on my nightstand waiting to be read, may have been a bad idea. I don't know when I am going to be reading it, although reading the blurb, I can't wait to get started.

I am currently reading Dan Chaon's You Remind Me of Me. It's written well, but a tad slow--it doesn't rock my world. I am already looking forward to the next book.

I thought it may be fun to take a photo of the books on my nightstand. I haven't read any of these books, except the hardcover copy of Perks, which I got as a gift on my birthday last month from Annie, so read them at your own risk. :)

Just a little glimpse into my bedroom, my side of the bed.

What's on your nightstand?



a closer look:



For a complete list of all the books on the nightstand, look here

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Other books in my bookshelf
A post about my love affair with books

Dry

Alcohol is known as a social lubricant. I’ve been known to use it in very stressful situations like, fifth grade.

And when it comes to alcohol, I’m a lightweight. And I am one of those Asians who turns red after one sip. One night, I drank so much that afterwards I went to a reservation and built a casino.

Being a lightweight makes me a cheap date. One glass of wine and I’ll go to bed with you, make you breakfast in the morning and then nag you the rest of the week for not taking the garbage out. Two glasses and I’ll start bitching about your mother and how nobody’s ever good enough for her son.

In “Dry,” author Augusten Burroughs, narrates the story of his descent into alcohol, drugs and poor hygiene: he was so coked out of his mind he had started using Irish Spring.

Ok, maybe that wasn’t in the book, but in one scene where Augusten wakes up in an alley after a coke binge, clothes dirty and hair matted down, I could only think about how horrible it must be to have to face his hairdresser.

Augusten Burroughs is most famously compared to another gay author David Sedaris which probably really ticks Burroughs off. The toughest thing Sedaris ever had to deal with was having a domineering mother. Who hasn’t had that? My own mother was domineering and I grew up ok--all my ex-boyfriends would tell you that through their lawyers, since they all have restraining orders against me.

While there are similarities to the two authors’ style--they both use personal experience and have a certain gay sensibility, like how they talk about sports and girls all the time instead of their feelings--I think of Sedaris as a humorist, like Nora Ephron or Erma Bombeck. Burroughs is more of a storyteller, I think, and more satisfying. He never descends into self-pity with his addiction. In a way, I think he is most honest, most matter-of-fact in the darkest moments in the book.

In one such moment, Augusten walks into his apartment for the first time after spending thirty days in rehab and is greeted by a something he’s never seen before in the cold light of sobriety. There were empty Dewar’s bottles, hundreds of them, on all flat surfaces and in dark corners, as if they multiplied while he was gone, although nobody’s been in there.

Another character, with terminal breast cancer, muses about how she didn’t realize the insidiousness of alcoholism:

“Back when I was drinking, when I thought nothing [bad] had ever happened to me, something did. A lot of time passed. In bars, at parties with people I didn’t care for. It wasn’t about love or reading the Sunday paper in bed or anything that people call ‘life.’ It was always about drinking. So actually, something bad, very bad, did happen to me. I wasted my life.”

But before you think that this book is a downer, it’s not. It’s a book with a real message: that life is about living, not to drink and withdraw from.

Burroughs writing style is very engaging and there is never a dull moment in the book. The book was at times graphic in the descriptions of the horrors of working retail. And I think the book is quite aptly titled: it is quite witty and very, very dry.



Thank you, Jimi. I really enjoyed this book.

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Buy the book:


Check out the other books in my bookshelf

A By-The-Book Affair

I’m not one of those people who can casually pick up a book and leave it anytime, not caring if they’ve finished reading it.

It takes a lot of effort for me to find a book to read: cruising it at the bookstore, eyeing it on the shelf, walking nonchalantly, giving it a small smile as I pass by.

When I finally summon enough courage to approach it, I go tentatively, studying the cover, perusing the blurb, flirting with the first page. Sometimes I can get very daring and read an entire chapter. Scandalous! The clerk eyes me disapprovingly behind the counter.

When the plot clicks, I get this rush, this giddy feeling. I have to rush to pay so I can go home and get into bed with it. I spread its pages apart and dive in. I am enthralled, passionately reading all night.

In the morning I wake up and it is lying tenderly on my chest. Not just one for a nightstand.

When a book is really good, I keep it forever. It occupies a very special space in my bookshelf, in my life.

But once in a while, I get a book that starts out good but starts to turn bad. I have made a bad judge of its cover.

I find it hard to abandon a book. I usually stick with it to the bitter end. I am co-dependent that way: even though I derive no more pleasure with it, I cannot untangle myself. I am bound to it.

I try to negotiate with it. Another few pages I say, maybe it will get better.

But it doesn’t.

I can get really violent. I will slam the book close in disgust, or throw it physically across the room. But in the cold light of the morning, I am ashamed when I see its cover bruised, battered, lying there, forlorn.

A friend may see the book and ask me what happened. An accident, I say, the door...

But even though I carefully consider each book I encounter, most often, I get this feeling, like it wasn't meant to be. You know the kind: you have fun while it lasts but when The End comes, you part ways amicably.

Just another by-the-book affair.

I may bump into it in a resale store, or see it listed on eBay, or maybe hanging on to another reader’s hands.

I try to remember why it didn't work out. But my memory of that particular story arc only comes in bits and pieces. I realize it doesn't matter, I've already turned the page...





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My other ruminations about books:

On The Bus
Used Books
Mint Condition

Mint Condition

CONTINUED FROM Used Books

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My book collection makes me feel good. I like looking at my bookshelf, books lined up like soldiers at attention, pages crisp and tight like Joan Rivers' face.

I like keeping my books in perfect shape. I have books that are in near mint condition, binding unbroken, like a Catholic virgin with hymen intact, subjected only to furtive gropes and clothes-on climaxes.

I have mastered the skill of reading a book opened only to a narrow 30 degree angle so as to preserve the integrity of the binding. I wash my hands with warm sudsy water to carefully remove all grime and oil and dry them completely before touching a page.

This is common practice among comic book collectors, where the term 'mint' has seven grade levels including that sought after, fresh-off-the-printers bagged-in-mylar pristine-mint condition. It is amazing what adolescents who don’t have dates on a Friday night will think of. I just hope they don't get together under one roof, possibly in superhero attire, set up booths, and invite comic book creators to sign stuff.

But I admit it, while I mostly have outgrown my comic book geekdom, I usually still have the eBay selling value of an item in the back of my mind. My comic books, action figures, pez dispensers--they are still carefully handled and stored to preserve maximum value.

This behavior has spread to other aspects of my life where I will consider whether I should open a cereal box carefully in case I want to sell it to a collector at some point. You may scorn Britney Spears now, but her image on a Special K box or a Do-It-Yourself Pre-Nuptial Agreement could net some big bucks someday in an online auction, possibly five dollars.

I am not sure why I do this because I have yet to sell anything anything on eBay. I have bought hundreds of dollars worth of shit, but I have so far sold nada.

I tried selling my used underwear on eBay once for $10 a piece, but nobody wanted to buy them. One person finally asked me if they were 'stained.' I was indignant. What kind of person did he think I was, I thought, and is he willing to pay $20? Anyway, it's not the kind of thing I would tell me Mum. She might start selling her dirty panties.

It’s amazing what people will pay for a bit of nostalgia but I am not planning my retirement on it. Besides, a book isn’t going to keep you warm at night, unless you burn it in your fireplace. A good hairpiece may be a better investment.

Whenever I see a gap between the books on my shelf, I feel an absurd sense of loss. I rarely lend out my favorite books, and when I do, I usually require a signed contract for its replacement if it slips one grade condition level.

It's a quandary: you want to brag about your collection, but you're afraid to because somebody might want to borrow it.

Sometimes I do think about what would happen to my collection if I were to suddenly go on a "permanent vacation." Would they end up in a garage sale? Maybe someone will buy one of them. It would be read, enjoyed, passed on to friends, without a thought to condition, only to sharing the wonderful experience of reading a good book.

More likely, somebody will buy the books and give no thought to its previous owner, one who kept them pristine, who spent more time keeping them that way than reading them...

Used Books

I love going to used bookstores. I will often buy used books of authors I am unfamiliar with to try them out.

When I read a used book, I often have a feeling of spiritual camaraderie with the previous owner. Did they enjoy the book? Did they delight in the same passages? Is that why the pages are stuck together? Did they sell the book because it sucked, because they needed more room, because they needed the money?

It's the same kind of feeling I get when I see someone on a bus reading a book I love. I just want to gush and talk to them about the book and possibly follow them home without their knowledge. It's that full feeling in your chest that makes you want to smother someone with joy, with a thick, white pillow until they stop breathing. I wonder if Jeffrey Dahmer loved books as well?

I hate to say this because it invites scorn, ridicule. I know--after being called a 'gaywad', 'pillow biter', 'butt muncher', I shouldn't be afraid being called a 'poetry reader.'

Yes, two of my favorite books are books of poetry. They are e.e. cummings' Tulips&Chimneys and is 5 which I bought from a used bookstore after I saw the movie Hannah and Her Sisters nearly ten years ago.

In the movie, Michael Caine, a married man, tries to woo his wife's sister into an affair by asking her to read a poem in an e.e. cummings book. The poem is so powerful that the sister considers an affair with him.

I wanted to read this poem that was so powerful it incited such amorousness.

I bought the books and I loved the poems. The books were well cared for but also obviously well read. The edges showed wear where they were pulled to and from a shelf; the creases on the spine were numerous, easily opening to certain sections of the books.

And there was something else I found. In some of the pages, favorite passages were neatly, sparingly, underlined. In others, poem numbers were encircled, like a halo bestowed. But in a select few, there were little neatly drawn pictures which seemed to me the reader's impressions of the poem. These were deliberately drawn--not idle doodles--in colored pen.

I felt like I was reading the poems along with this other person, sharing intimate thoughts. I conjectured that both books of poetry were owned by the same person, a man, probably reasonably attractive, because otherwise, I couldn't imagine the possibility of sex between us.

I wondered who this man was. I wanted to talk to him and I wanted to ask him what other images came to mind when he read the poems.

I wanted to ask him why these books left his possession, these books that he so obviously loved.


    


NEXT: Mint Condition

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Bjork interprets an e.e. cummings song in her CD Medúlla

Recommended books: