'24' jolts:

Note to self: Do not watch first four episodes of 24 before bed. Was up half the night worrying about how the relentless ticking of the various plot threads would play themselves out.

Moved Out:

Helped Haugheys move. Will miss them a lot. Very tired now.

Giving a Low Hug:

When I hug out with Roman last week, he mentioned he had run into AJ of the Low Hug blog and zine at the Allied Media Conference earlier this month (I'm still kicking myself that I didn't go but it would have been nuts). I picked up one of AJ's "Chick Tracts" at Atomic Books the last time I was in Baltimore and loved it, a tiny booklet containing one long essay about representations of young women in 80's popular cinema.

Never mind I love the subject. Not only was it well written but it contained none of the usual zine garble ("Sorry it took me so long to finish this issue. I broke my toe etc.) and (heaven forfend) it actually had a mailing address and a web site address on the back.

What a concept! I cannot stress to you what a luxury this is for the zine fan, used to falling in love with a publication only to find out the creator leaves no trace of themselves anywhere and relies on chance and fate to cultivate a readership. Maybe they don't want to a readership. I don't know. But its mean and stupid to publish something, place it in stores where people can buy it, read it, love it and then reward their interest with silence.

And yes, I understand zines are print publications and don't need to be duplicated, line for crooked line, on the web. Nor are they professional publications with big fancy subscription departments. How about just an email address then? A mailing list (which can be set up for free in about 15 seconds) to let your readers know when a new issue comes out? It's not hard, just a little grown up and responsible. Artists have to do it. Unsigned indy bands also. Why not you?

So AJ of Low Hug is my new zine hero. I urge you to check out her catalog, which is clean and well-organized, another small mriacle. I hope she sees this and drops me a note.

A Mad Epistemographer:

My college buddy Josh, who is a lot smarter than me, has begun blogging. He's a Ph.D. candidate in the History of Science and Technologies at Cornell and is doing his dissertation on the social history of the VCR and home video. And because of that, when we see each other, we have protracted conversations about stuff with obtuse important sounding names like "content flow" and "media physicality separation."

No really, I'm exaggerating. I always remember our conversations for a long time afterward. it reminds me of how much I liked being in college and how I can best preserve the best part of that experience. The sutffy dorm rooms and the miasma of angst I'll leave behind.

This Week's Recommended Books (6.26.2003)

This week's theme: Work schwag.

Every now and then, one of the many in the pile of books I'd like to read and some work related project or event intersect. It happened a few weeks ago when I got a call from Drawn & Quarterly, an excellent graphic novel publisher based in Montreal, and asked me to do an onstage conversation at the Booksmith bookstore in Haight Ashbury with Adrian Tomine, the creator of the fantastic comic, Optic Nerve. Adrian was promoting the paperback release of Summer Blonde, his latest collection of stories based on the comic, and being a huge fan, I agreed.

Sumer Blonde contains issues 4-8 of Optic Nerve and is the perfect graphic novel if right now you're saying to yourself "I have no interest in comics or graphic novels." Called "the Raymond Carver of comics" Tomine creates worlds of thwarted romances, lonliness and youth seen as a curse as well as a blessing. It's a quick but enormously satisfying read and a solid introduction to this growing, fascinating segment of contemporary literature.

Summer Blonde by Adrian Tomine
(Drawn & Quarterly, $16.95 in paperback, 132 pp.)

************************

Okay, who remembers the last issue where I couldn't stop hooting about Random Family by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc? Well I finished last night and my enthusiasm was justified. This is a stunningly beautiful, sad book about 2 sets of teenagers becoming adults amidst the poverty, violence and addiction of the South Bronx. LeBlanc, who spent ten years with her subjects, writes in a straighforward, journalistic style that treats Coco, Jessica, Cesar and the other members of this family not as sympathy cases, not as poster children for larger social issues, but simply as human beings. And strangly then, it becomes both the story of these people's lives and a devastating look at the last twenty years of war on the poor of urban America.

I don't typically cheerlead for any one book because I come in contact with too many of them and I'm a bit of a skeptic. This is different. This is one book you cannot afford to miss. Please do yourself and your reading life a favor by getting a copy of Random Family.

Random Family by Adrian Nicole LeBlance
(Scribner, 25$ in hardcover, 408 pages)

********************

Before books became my career, I used to take a break after finishing a book by reading essays, short stories, poems, magazine articles, something shorter and lighter before plunging into the next book. I got this idea from the prologue of John Barth's Further Fridays, a collection of essays and lectures that I received as a gift while a student at Johns Hopkins where Barth tought until he retired. Barth spent weekday mornings working on his novels then held seminars in the afternoons. After his Thursday class, he and his wife split for their country home on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Friday morning, he would recharge his batteries by writing a light essay, preparing a lecture or a quick missive on some topic that had been bothering him. He took the weekend off.

I love this idea of shifting gears, gently but with purpose, in your work, instead of slamming on the breaks on Friday night and then passing out from the whiplash. I used to do this regularly in my reading but have felt in such a hurry this year to finish books that haven't paused for so much as a breath before finishing one and starting another.

I'm going to change that. For the next week, I'm going to clean out my reading pipes by dabbling in reading essays, short fiction and magazines I've let pile up. Next week's Smoke Signal will be dedicated to the places I go. But I'll probably start at the source. Therefore...

Further Fridays: Essays, Lectures and other Nonfiction 1984-1994
By John Barth (Little, Brown, 392 pages).

Travel Bug Blogs:

I'm not much of a traveler but am a great admirer of people who are. I smiled big then when, doing some research for my proposal, stumbled across Jen Leo's blog, Written Road, all about the business and pleasures of travel writing, which has just been added to my regular rotation of reads.

Jen has just edited a book of essays by women travel writers called Sand in My Bra which is supposed to be hilarious. Further inspection revealed that Ms. Leo is a Bay Area person who works at Travelers' Tales here in the city where my friend Tara used to work. Sure enough, they knew each other.

I'm guessing I will run into this Jen person someday and find her a kindred spirit, proving once more that San Francisco is less a city than a hamlet with a very big parade every June.

Tie a (hopeful) bow on it...

Latest draft of book proposal is off to agent person and interested parties. Keep fingers crossed.

'Nerve' y...

I was fortunate this evening to interview Adrian Tomine, creator of the comic Optic Nerve in front of an audience at Booksmith. Optic Nerve got me interested in comics maybe three years ago when an old friend raved "Finally a comic for grownups!" Issues of Optic Nerve have four stories, sometimes less, and always about the angst of love and aimlessness in your twenties. They've been collected in three books titled 32 Stories, Sleepwalk and Summer Blonde.

Highly recommended, especially if you're saying right now "I have no interest in comics." And Adrian? Great fun to talk to. Roman, my boss over at Invisible Ink Radio showed up and we hung out with his roommates afterward.

What a nice evening.

The Saturday that wasn't there:

What a weird friggin' weekend this was. After Suzan's birthday on Friday, I climbed in bed around 1 and then promptly woke up at ten minutes past 12 the next morning. I must have needed the sleep but I haven't done that since college.

Suzan and I made breakfast then watched the Everest:IMAX movie on DVD, which was narrated in that bombastic, science museum way by Liam Neeson but was otherwise pretty neat. Everest become a full blown industry now, which I'd like to learn more about someday. But we were late.

We arrived at The Haugheys for their going away barbeque, just about 3 hours late. I had a lamb kabob thanks to the culinary stylings of my friends Scott and Megan. Soon we were all deeply immersed in conversation and playing a heavenly MAME machine Matt installed in the corner of his living room. He's basically rigged up a cheapie computer, a old arcade-style joystick and two days worth of downloaded games, every arcade game you could possibly think off.

We played them all, then talked, then laughed, then played some more. By the time Suzan said she was ready to go, it was past midnight.

We hadn't had dinner yet and somehow (I have no idea why) ended up at an IHOP in Daly City. We ate then lamented that we were both zonked and would probably missed our friend Jane's housewarming party. I hope she forgives us. It was late, we were tired, but I still felt impolite.

Sunday I rolled out of bed around nine, thought about taking a run or folding laundry or staring at the dust under our new couch. Then I realized I had to work. On Sunday. Probably all day. A publisher had expressed an interest in signing my book but requested a few changes to the proposal. My agent suggested I "take a stab at it" over the weekend. He's a man of few words and generous understatement because, upon examination, I realized the proposal would have to be completely overhauled, like a house being razed to the ground and rebuilt, brick by careful brick.

That took me until almost 7 when, still in my pajamas, Susan suggested we get some Indian food. We got home at nine and after about 3.14 minutes folding laundry, I began to curl up with the warm socks and drift off.

By 10, I was in bed, having spent my weekend in two long strips, one working my ass off and the other doing the furthest thing from by yucking it up with friends and playing endless games of Mystic Marathon.

I was ready for Monday when it came.

33:

"Happy Birthday to you...
Happy Birthday to you...
Happy Birthday dear Suzan....
Happy Birthday to you..."

Happy birthday Suz! I love you.

So hey, it's Suzan's birthday. Wish her well, why don't you? Or just wishlist her well if ya lean that way.