Tod Goldberg

Yeah, What Keith Said

Where The Sea Used To Be

Yesterday, I went with my sister Linda and her husband Dustin to the Salton Sea to take a few pictures and look around some. It's a bizarre and inspiring place for me -- I've set a couple stories there in the past, including "Rise, John Wayne, and Rebuke Them" from Simplify and a new one called "The Salt" which will be appearing in an anthology soon -- and Linda has always wanted to go and see what there is to see for her own artistic purposes. We only visited a small portion of the Sea -- the small towns of Desert Shores, Salton Beach and Salton City along the south side of the sea running along 86S, but it still chewed up three hours.

Since it's not yet summer, the smell wasn't too awful, but there were a ton of dead fish to be found rotting along the banks, as well as enormous pelicans (or, at least I think they were pelicans) with these beautiful black-striped under wings. I was creeping along what I thought was sand, but which was actually a well-disguised salt bog in order to get a shot of the birds when, well, I learned that sand was a bog, let out a little yelp, and the birds went flying Jurassic Park-like into the wild, thought Dustin got a shot of them midflight. Dustin has already posted a bunch of really excellent photos in his flickr, which you can see here, and I'm sure Linda will upload hers soon, so I'll put up a link to that shortly as well. 

The Definition Of Whack: Everlast Edition

My friend Jarret asked me the other day to add a new feature to this blog where I talk about albums no one remembers that have inexplicably held up well (specifically David & David's Welcome to the Boomtown, which I just listened to and, surprisingly, it has held up well). I just may do that. But I think it might be wiser to also look at truly god fucking awful music by artists that somehow redeemed themselves later. So, for the first installment, here's Everlast back when he was the male model of Ice-T's Rhyme Syndicate and opted to sample My Sharona in his bid for rap immortality:

And for the sake of comparison, here's his new song:

In all fairness to Everlast, I don't think I'd want there to be video evidence of what a fucktard I was in 1990 (though, somewhere, I suspect there is...I wore a lot of Greek lettered clothing...I dated a lot of  women with extensive scrunchy collections), nor would I want anyone reading anything I wrote in 1990. Or 1995.

Letters To Parade: "Keep The Bastards Locked In The Attic" Edition

I'd like to believe that most people are fairly decent, that if given the chance to get away with killing a puppy or strangling an infant or defecating on Dick Cheney that they'd take the high road. I'd like to believe that in this day and age, in this enlightened society, that even fucktards might be able to look charitably towards, at the very least, defenseless humans (so, Cheney is out in this equation...but Dr. Laura is fair game...) and realize that whatever station they were born into was not, categorically, their fault.

I'd also like to believe that periodicals such as Parade, which purports to be all about the American family, would perhaps take a sensitive angle to the plight of poor, defenseless kids who've had the temerity to be born out of wedlock to actors.

But alas, I've also always believed that if Gwen Stefani had the chance to see me in real life that she'd probably want to have a threesome with me and Wendy...but then I literally ran into her at Target a few weeks ago and she totally did not seem down for the three way (nor did Gavin or their kid -- Apple? Suri? Fullerton? Levon? Seven? -- who was just, you know, a poor defenseless kid being held by his hot ass mom in Target) and, thus, my entire belief system was thrown into flux. So it didn't come as much surprise to me that a fucktard named Mario Bartoletti of Valdosta, GA would pose the following clusterfuck of fucktardery in this weekend's issue of Parade:

In Hollywood’s Golden Age, stars like Loretta Young kept their out-of-wedlock children a secret. Why do today’s unmarried stars feel free to flaunt such babies?

That's a great question, Mario. Here's your answer, you insufferable piece of shit:  BECAUSE THEY ARE THEIR CHILDREN NOT SOME FUCKING DISEASE THEY PICKED UP FROM A TRANNIE HOOKER IN THAILAND, YOU FUCKING MORON! This isn't some VC Andrews novel, Mario, you miserable fucktard, so children are allowed to leave the house and everything these days. Even if they are born out of wedlock, they are still given all the rights of a human being. That means they don't need to be hidden in some back room and fed porridge out of a dog bowl...they actually get to live! Yeah, I know, it's crazy. Children whose parents aren't married should be hidden away. They should be stigmatized. They should be looked down upon by people like you, Mario. They should periodically be pelted with rocks and garbage and be forced to watch the 700 Club while being spit on by gila monsters.

"Flaunt such babies." Jesus. Mario. Really. You're a fucktard. If you send me your address, I'll send you one of my "One Planet. One People. No Fucktards. Please." shirts free of charge.

Now, then, I think we can expect that Parade would greet this question with the same level of scorn that I have, right? I mean, particularly since they are all about serving AMERICA. So, they'll tell Mario to suck it, right? Right? Right????

Uh, no.

In Young’s day, film studios often had “morals clauses” written into contracts to ensure that stars maintained acceptable standards of behavior. Young’s contract could have been terminated if it was learned that she was pregnant by Clark Gable, her Call of the Wild co-star. (For years, her daughter, Judy Lewis, thought Young had adopted her.) Today, Hollywood has no such standards —“acceptable” or otherwise.

So, I'm curious. What is unacceptable about being a successful person and having a child that you can support and love, even if you're missing one of the parents? What is unacceptable, morally, about giving birth? I always hear about how immoral abortion is, so I'm wondering where giving birth falls into the morality debate. I'm also curious about how many single mothers work at Parade. How many find their lives to be unacceptable? Take the myth of Hollywood out of the equation -- because, really, all actors are are people with jobs, just like any of us -- and once again Parade is relegating women to second class status. It's a pretty rampant thing in the pages of Parade -- specifically in the intellectual bukakke of Personality Parade -- and so I wonder, yet again, what must it be like to be a woman and in charge of a magazine that hates you and thinks you're nothing more than a cum vessel (really -- they had a story all about it a few weeks ago...)?

Good Things, Good People: Crime Edition

You'd think that since my brother was in charge of the Edgar Awards this year that he'd throw me a bone and let me know the winners in advance, particularly in the case of those who were nominated who also happened to be my friends. But alas -- it was just like when I was a little kid and I always asked him to take me to the arcade in Concord (The Great Entertainer, I believe it was called) and he never did, claiming her forgot all the while. Each time I asked him, "Hey, did my friend Susan win for best short story?" or "Hey, did my friend Matt win for best television script?" he'd feign memory loss. Fortunately, unlike when I was a kid, he didn't then make me smell his armpits. Well, tonight, despite his best efforts at secrecy, they gave out those damn Edgar Awards and I'm pleased to say that my friend and colleague Susan Straight won for best short story for her piece "The Golden Gopher" in Los Angeles Noir and that my friend and colleague Matt Nix won for best television episode for the pilot episode of Burn Notice, which he wrote and is executive producer of and which I better not fuck up in book form. (Not to self: try not to fuck it up, it's winning awards now!).

The full list of winners, along with some photos, are available on that lying scum bag Lee's blog.

Non Believers, You Can Check The Stats*

My friend Rider's 30 second spot for Obama is one of the 15 finalists for Moveon's top award, thanks in no small part to the tremendous number of you who went and voted from this site. So, take a few more minutes of your life and cast your deciding vote here (you'll have to go through many of the 15 of the finalists, but they are all actually pretty good...a little heavy on the treacle in places, but, you know, it's liberal politics, what do you expect?). And as long as I'm pimping, if you happen to be in NY, check out his short film Irish Twins in the Tribeca Film Festival, which has two more showings -- one on Wednesday and one on Friday.

*bonus points for anyone who can cite the source without visiting google...

LATFOB: A Sweat Drenched Retrospective

Let's just dispense with the formalities first: It was miserably fucking hot on Saturday. I live in a desert that frequently reaches well into the 120s during the summer and by about, oh, 9:30 Saturday morning I was already bemoaning the need to look at least passably professional for my duties as Big Time Famous Author by virtue of wearing the requisite outfit preferred by today's 30something author men: jeans, some kind of brownish shoe, shirt of either polo or buttoned variety, along with a messenger bag slung over shoulder containing, you know, early drafts of your next great novel, a dozen sharpies and a book of earnest poetry. I would have much preferred to be wearing the other favored outfit of today's west coast man authors of 30something age: shorts, t-shirt, flip-flops, messenger bag. By about 9:48am I smelled like I'd jogged to UCLA from La Quinta alongside a pack of nutria. It was fucking miserable.

That being said, it was, as usual, a lovely time. Here's how it broke down by the day:

Friday: Friday is the official kick off of the LA Times Festival of Books (heretofore known as LATFOB) with the annual Book Prizes and the Book Prizes after party. As usual, I took my brother Lee as my date (because he's tender and passionate and usually buys me a flank steak sandwich at the restaurant across the street from the Mystery Bookstore prior to their annual pre-LATFOB get together). We sat next to my friends Tara Ison (a fellow Book Prize loser..a vaunted community), Mary Yukari Waters and Mark Sarvas (along with is lovely wife) and pondered several things as the prizes unfolded:

1. We were all pretty certain that Gay Talese was dead prior to him walking out to host the awards.

2. Several of the finalists for awards seemed like excellent potential mates for Mary Yukari Waters, particularly one fellow who won an award who looked vaguely like Mr. Spock.

3. The Book Prizes are really quite a lavish spectacle -- it's pretty much like going to the Oscars with a bunch of book dorks who make really interesting, funny, and engaging acceptance speeches.

After, we headed over to the party where gossip was the food of choice -- well, alongside the yummy Korean BBQ and the chocolate fountain (where I encountered several members of the crack UCLA Extension Writers' Program team...uh...how to say...wasted...fucked up...unlikely to make it to their booth on time Saturday morning...but in a good, literary way, of course) -- and where every person with a glass of wine made a point of spilling it on Lee.

Saturday: As noted, it was hotter than fuck out, but that didn't dissuade 150,000 people from showing up bright and early to attend the festival, which would have been great if they hadn't been so fucking sweaty. Nevertheless, I managed to make it to my 10am panel with Susan Straight, Brock Clarke, Sylvia Brownrigg and Tara Ison, which was a sell out and a great time. I really like moderating panels because I'm genuinely interested in the things other writers have to say and also because I hate attending panels where the moderators aren't, which makes being on a panel and being in the audience a torturous exercise. So, I like to moderate a panel in such a way that it would be a panel I'd like to see. Thus, I rolled out the word "bukakke" almost immediately after Tara attempted to make a point about...something...where she was searching for an appropriate metaphor about...something...and so I just kind of said, "Like bukakke?" to which Tara just kind of nodded, like, yeah, bukakke, precisely. (When asked later by an audience member what bukakke meant, Brock responded that it was an "ancient Japanese jism ritual," which seemed to satisfy that questioner...) It's always great fun doing a panel with Susan because she is always so smart and interesting and insightful and has a wonderful look of horror on her face whenever I cross that line into, you know, abject obscenity.

After the panel, we headed to the green room, which is pretty much made from the very fabric of awesome. Why? Because you're sitting there, eating a sandwich, and over the loudspeaker you hear "Will TC Boyle and Jane Smiley please report to the patio?" and you think, How did I get here? But mostly because they have pretty yummy food, it's air conditioned, quite large, and filled with every author you've ever heard of and many you haven't and everyone is so nice. I tried to find someone to have an odd conversation with but had to be satisfied with learning that Lee had inadvertently offended someone -- it was a mix up of names, hilariously, as it happens, that I'd recount here if it wouldn't involve Lee being hideously embarrassed and then the person he really meant to talk shit about would probably start emailing me, too -- before making an ill advised trip down the hall of torture that is the Janss steps (whenever I walk up and down these fucking things I think about that scene in Galaxy Quest where Tim Allen and Sigourney Weaver encounter a series of odd killing machines in the bowels of the space ship that serve no larger purpose but to possibly kill, and Weaver says, "This episode was poorly written!') during the heat of the day. Lee and I stopped off to visiting our cousin Danny's birthday party on the lawn before knocking around the booths down below. I made my way to the Akashic booth to sign some copies of Las Vegas Noir and to marvel at how Johnny Temple can look so cool while sweating like a hobo and I just look all frumpy and Jewish. Note to self: lose weight, get cool, found a press. I then walked back up Janss, found Susan Straight and her daughter and her daughter's friend and assured them all that I knew how to get to a panel Laila Lalami was moderating (and which featured one of my favorite writers, Tony Earley). About three hours and 10 pounds later, by which point even Susan was calling me a fucktard and letting me know what a fellow named Uncle Frosty was going to do to me for my lack of navigational abilities (or was thinking it, anyway) we finally found Korn Hall, approximately two miles from where I thought it was and about fifty paces from where we started out.

We spent the next hour drying in the AC and giggling and then, for the love of god, I walked down those god awful steps AGAIN, only to walk back up them, AGAIN, by which point I was generally aware of the smell of my own groin. But then I got to sit with Tony Earley back in the green room, along with my OV Books editor goddess Stacy Beirlein, talking about 80s music, the hall of fame credentials of Steve McNair and people we all mutually dislike. So that was nice.

Sunday: Sunday was The Day of the Siblings as all four of us had events this afternoon, and which also meant I'd have to do things in order to prove to my sister Linda that anything is possible if you have dangling thing around your neck with your name on it.

First objective: Speak to Aimee Mann.

This would have been easier if I'd just tagged along with my friend Steve Almond when he went to host the show Aimee was doing with Joe Henry at Royce, but I was busy eating french toast in the green room, so when she arrived back in the green room herself and Linda started acting like it was 1987 and getting all, you know, hush hush keep it down down, I walked over and said hello to Aimee and Joe (because we're pretty tight now, I just call 'em Aimee and Joe), chatted with them briefly and then moved on to, uh, more french toast. Linda was suitably impressed.

Second objective: Have a conversation with Steve Garvey.

The funny thing here is that Steve Garvey actually lives in my neighborhood here in the desert, but I'm not going to go up to him at Ralph's and be like, Yo, nice forearms! But on equal ground at the Book Festival, I figured, you know, he wouldn't think I was too much of a dork. Problem was, I didn't see him until nearly the end of the day, but was able to corner him for this exclusive interview as he walked past me:

Me: Hey Steve.

Steve: Hey Tod.

(I'd like to think he's a big fan or remembers the Kato incident...but I think he just looked at my name tag...but whatever...we hit it off...)

Where my ego failed me, however, was when I was in the food line alongside Karen and Linda and a person I do a, uh, unflattering imitation of happened to be standing right in front of me.

Linda: Why don't you do your imitation now?

Me: Why don't you shut up?

Linda: Maybe he'd appreciate it.

Me: (twisting my name tag around) I'm going to guess he'd find it transcendent, but unfunny.

I managed to avoid getting my ass kicked by said man of books, which was good since I had a panel with Rob Roberge, Mark Haskell Smith and Chris Goffard that afternoon, which was also great fun. We managed to not piss off any fans of cat mysteries, so that was nice, and Rob didn't tell anyone that they "parroted morons" so that was also nice, since I saw him do that once on a panel, too, but Mark did get an audience member angry because he didn't answer a question sufficiently to her understanding (she was taking notes, which we all found frightening) and Chris, being the only Pulitzer nominee on the panel happily managed not to scream "You, Goldberg, are an idiot. I was up for a Pulitzer and now, now, this? Fuck you all, fuck you too death!"

Later, after the book festival people finally kicked me out of the green room, I went to dinner with Rob Roberge, Steve Almond, Stacy Beirlein and, seemingly, the entire Internet -- Pinky, Callie and Sarah -- which made me a little nervous, since it's possible every word I said would make it onto a blog. Luckily, I was totally, totally on my best behavior, speaking only of books I haven't actually read, people I like but still hold in contempt, and giving out life advice ("When in doubt, assign blame.").

Other things I did this weekend:

Tried to make it to panels for friends and former students, but, you know, it was really quite hot out.

Wondered what the fuck is up with authors from the east who wear suits to this event -- don't they realize this is LA?

Pondered ways to go up to people I'd maybe given not so great reviews to, but who I genuinely wanted to meet since we have mutual friends and they seem like nice humans, albeit ones whose books I didn't entirely like, before ultimately deciding, you know, fuck it. If the shoe were on the other foot -- and god knows, there a lot of shoes in my metaphorical closet -- I probably wouldn't want that person coming up to me.

Signed more than one copy of this Sunday's Parade for fans, which makes me think it's time to stop writing about Parade.

Told someone that there was a new Akashic anthology coming out called San Dimas Noir, and the fucktard actually believed me.

Answered a lot of questions about the word fucktard.

Sang the Ruby's Diner birthday song in order to get a dove bar.

Talked to a lot of people who thought I was  Lee. No one ever thinks I'm Karen.

Screamed "My name is my name!" and realized that being Marlo would be awesome.

Pondered the enduring popularity of Julie Andrews. She is like Elvis a this thing.

Pondered just what Timmy from Lassie has to say in his memoir

Thought about how much time it must take to actually set up the LATFOB and marveled at how it runs like a perfect machine. It is, without a doubt, the best literary event in America and is run flawlessly by the LA Times -- from the panels to the stages to the aforementioned green room -- to the point that as an author you really have nothing to worry about while you're there, since you're treated like a super star all weekend long. It really is truly amazing. So big ups to Maret Orliss, Ann Binney and the rest of the festival team who make it all such a pleasure.

Dr. Laura Is A Dr.

Apparently, Dr. Laura is a frequent reader of this blog and was upset that I asked, in my LA Times Festival Of Books Primer, if she was actually a doctor. (That she didn't seem to mind that I was considering approaching Steve Garvey and saying, "I don't know about you, but I think that Dr. Laura is looking like a sweet, sweet piece of conservative fucktardery this weekend. You gonna hit that?" is somewhat curious, but, hell, if Steve Garvey wanted to "hit that" with me, I'd probably have to consider it, too. I mean, he's Steve Garvey, right?) At any rate, Dr. Laura emailed me today  saying she thought I was being unkind and misleading for pondering said question and provided me with her full credentials. In the spirit of fair and balanced reporting, here they are:

PhD in Physiology (Medical School) of Columbia University in NYC

Post-Doctoral Certification: Marriage/Family/Child Therapy from USC
License in California: MB14914 Marriage/Family/Child Therapist
Taught psychotherapy techniques and abormal psychology
at Pepperdine for years...also in private practice
32 years of helping people via radio/books, etc. (including 10 NY Times Bestsellers) and columns (NewsMax, etc.)

She has a point. She is a doctor. But I'm thinking I match up pretty well:

BA in English (Creative Writing Emphasis) Cal State Northridge (aka The Columbia University of Nordhoff and Lindley)

MFA (in progress) Bennington College.

Taught creative writing for 8 years in extension writers' programs at UCLA, CSUN and CSUF and the last two years in the MFA program at UC-R's Palm Desert Graduate Center.

Lost on Rock-n-Roll Jeopardy

Recently saw Gwen Stefani at Target

37 years of helping people via books (Fake Liar Cheat taught a lot of people how to dine and ditch, Living Dead Girl taught people how to go crazy at a lakeside home, Simplify taught people that Elvis bleeding on your wall is not okay, The Fix will make you a better American), columns (I once wrote a very good column about selling used socks online), blogs (people need to know when they are acting like fucktards), journalism (I just interviewed a member of Danity Kane...it's a showstopper), criticism (well, apart from the people who send me hate mail when I review them poorly) and through my tireless work self-googling.

Plus, if anyone needs proof that I'd make a damn fine radio personality prepared to help you solve your problems, one need only listen to my appearance on Jonesy's Jukebox to know I drop science like Galileo dropped the orange. (Next week, you'll be able to download it here.) I've always thought that in addition to be an author, I'd make a damn fine life coach or cult leader...but a doctor, clearly, I am not. Dr. Laura? True that.

Moment of Zen

I think we can all agree that when people think of me, the first thing that comes to mind is: Rock God. Okay, maybe that's not precisely the case, since it's not as if I spend all of my  free time astride a sand dune with my ax and my hairy chest, but let's not forget that I was a contestant on Rock-N-Roll Jeopardy (and would have won had I not found it impossible to answer every fucking question in the "Songs By America" category with "What is Ventura Highway?" except for the one question that actually was the answer to, which I offered up a "What is Sister Goldenhair?" in response to instead) and actually won Rolling Stone's College Music Trivia World Bantamweight Title (or some such thing) in 1994 (I was part of a team with two other guys in my fraternity, Jeremy Padow and Chris Rager and, as I recall, the answer that put us over the top was "Hippy Chick" by Soho. Our winnings? A year's supply of ice cream, a denim jacket with the Rolling Stone logo on the back, and a bunch of catalog CDs, like Steve Miller Band and REO Speedwagon. The next year, after I graduated, Chris won it by himself and received a Mustang. Not that I'm bitter, naturally), so I know music. It's in me. If I could play a guitar, i'd be out on a fucking sand dune right now making it cry, yo.

I bring this all up today for two specific reasons:

1. On Friday, at noon, I'll be a guest on Jonesy's Jukebox on Indie 103.1 in Los Angeles, along with the author Robin Benway and two people as yet unknown to me. What this means is that I'll be talking with Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols about music for two hours. This is pretty much the culmination of my life's work. (If you don't live in LA, you can still hear me make an ass of myself by going to Indie1031.fm and listening online.) I'm not precisely certain how I got asked to do this, but I'm going to pretend that it's because I'm super cool and I'm the spike in ratings they've been waiting for and that Steve Jones is a big, big fan and has always wanted to meet me. My feeling is that what's likely to happen is that the folks at KCRW will hear me, will immediately fire Michael Silverblatt and I'll have my own bad ass radio show all about books, where my main objective will be to, you know, glorify myself. I'm thinking: Would it be wrong to bust out my much vaunted Michael Silverblatt imitation on Indie 103.1? To maybe do the entire show as Silverblatt? You know: "Steve, I was transfixed by your transcendent work with the Sex Pistols, and by transcending, I mean..."

2.  I was informed today that there is an Austin-based band called Riot Like Words who have a song on their new album called Fake Liar Cheat. Now, I have no idea if this song is actually in any way related to my book of the same name, but I went and listened to the song on the band's Myspace and I'd like to be able to tell you that the lyrics gave me a clear and precise understanding that, yes, I am the reason they make music. I'd like to be able to say that the song's lyrics convey, in music, the difficult life of a man working a dead end job at Staff Genius, who meets a dangerous woman, who makes him do dangerous things, who makes him, uh, maybe not put a vital 3rd act into the book for reasons still unclear to the author, makes him go off into an ambiguous ending that still, 8 years later, prompts angry emails from 17 year olds demanding answers (if you haven't read the book, skip this next line, since I'm going to finally answer the question that has so plagued a nation of millions: I am of the opinion that they die. There. I said it. I'll probably change my mind at some later date, but there's your answer: they are dead, sorry for the confusion.) and then segues into a much better second book. But the thing of it is, I can't figure out what the fuck they're saying. The music is pretty good. Sort of Jane's Addiction meets Kyuss. I think. Who knows. But it sounded pretty tight. Here's a live version that was apparently filmed in total darkness:

So, yeah, I'm pretty much a rock superstar.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

My friend Rider, his girlfriend Alexandra and his brother Shiloh called in a few favors, made a few calls, killed a few midgets with outstanding vendettas, bought actors off with troughs of coke and photos of them in compromising positions with Republicans and then made a series of ads for MoveOn.org's "Obama in 30 Seconds" campaign competition. The results are pretty damn funny. They actually ended up with several options, but have submitted one for competition. (In order for your vote to count, do go and sign in at that website.)

The other spots are available on their website, but since I'm all about spreading the viral campaign, I've put them below as well: