Tod Goldberg

I'm On An Award Tour With A Mic In My Hand...

The first round of Quill Award nominees has been released and, for my money, I think that audio books category is gonna be the one to watch. Let's see...Mary Higgins Clark & Carol Higgins Clark unabridged recording of The Christmas Thief  looks like an early favorite...until you consider that both the abridged AND unabridged versions of Patricia Cornwell's 87th novel Trace are nominated as well...oh, but, wait...the audio version of 7 Habits of Highly Effective People is in direct competition with the abridged AND unabridged version of its sequel The 8th Habit: From Effectiveness to Greatness.

What I'm really looking forward to, other than figuring out what to wear on the red carpet, naturally, is what the conversation will be like between nominees in the Romance category when they meet some of the Religion & Spirituality contestants in the green room, or elevator, or at the after party at Hef's place. Like when romance author Emma Holly, who, I understand, frequently has poly-amorous love stories (which, if I understand correctly, means: hot guy on guy and hot girl on girl action all in one book! And sometimes in the same scene!) encounters Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins, they of the books featuring the ultimate evil, genetically engineered from the DNA of two homosexual men. I think it might sound like this:

Holly: So what do you chaps write about?

LaHaye: Oh, you know, the end of the world, brought on by Satanic homos.

Holly: Fantastic! I have a great ass-fucking scene in my most recent novel. You'd love it!

LaHaye: Does the world end afterwords?

Holly: Well, there is a certain denouement...

There are two more rounds of category nominees still to come and I, for one, simply cannot wait!

Empire Falls Doesn't

I'm happy to report that the HBO Films adaptation of Empire Falls was quite good. I've been disappointed by a great many of the films adapted from my favorite novels (not the least of which have included the screenplays I've seen of my own novels...) and was thrilled to see that Ethan Hawke was in no way associated with the production. My only real issues with the movie have to do with the casting of Ed Harris as Miles Roby. He's a good decade older than the character and tends to come across as an archetype of masculinity -- there's something coiled and macho about Harris in all of his performances, not a bad thing, certainly, just not what I envisioned when reading the book. Harris was solid if unspectacular (whereas Paul Newman was simply spectacular) and I guess so was Miles Roby. Russo adapted his own novel and was thus very faithful to it, which some might view as a detriment in terms of film making, but which I appreciated. I'm an internal storyteller by trade and the strength of Russo's novel depended on the interior lives of its characters, so while I didn't care for the VO narration, I enjoyed the flashbacks and the way the camera tended to linger on moments for the subtext. All in, pretty much the best movie I've seen this spring. And to think, I didn't even have to wait outside the wrong theater for 6 weeks to see it.

For those interested, I'll be teaching a one day course on the novel Empire Falls this summer at the UCLA Extension Writers' Program. I promise not to call anyone who signs up a fucktard.

Letters to Parade: Special "Things I've Advised My Wife Against Doing After I'm Dead" Edition

There are only a few things I've explicitly advised my wife against should I happen to slip from the tethers of this mortal coil before her:

1. Please don't enter into a purely sexual relationship with Dave Navarro and Carmen Electra. Although I'm dead, this would kill me.

2. Please don't forget to get the new Madden game every year, and please don't forget to play the Raiders on rookie level, thus ensuring that they make it to the postseason.

3. Please don't throw away my vinyl copy of Licensed to Ill.

4. Please don't allow my mother to move next door (oh...wait...).

And, finally:

5. Please don't publish any of my bad rhyming poetry in Parade Magazine.

Apparently, the late Jerry Orbach did not have a similar proviso in his will and for that, I'm certain, he is currently rolling over.  Because, you see, Jon B. of Framingham, Mass. has come to Walter Scott this week with a desperate plea:

At the memorial service for Jerry Orbach, his wife shared some of the poems he'd written for her. Can you share a few with us?

First, Jon B. of Framingham, MA, I declare you not just a fucktard, but a morbid and scary fucktard. What kind of guy writes to Walter Scott in hopes of hearing the close, personal verse of Baby's father from Dirty Dancing? What, you weren't able to get any copies after piling through his trash for all those years, Mr. B? Moreover, how the hell did you find out that Mrs. Orbach read these poems...unless...you snuck into the service! Art thou a stalker, Mr. B? Well. I'm flustered now. Fortunately, Walter is on the job.

Elaine Orbach, 64, a dancer who met her husband in the 70s musical Chicago, offered two poems:

Arise my love and greet the day,/That shines so bright above you./When I come home we'll laugh and play,/And I can say, "I love you!"

A chilly Thursday morning,/ The wind could freeze your liver,/ And so, where are filming?/ 113th and the River!

No disrespect to the late Jerry Orbach -- or, no more disrespect than I've likely already given him -- but at a certain point in life one stops writing rhyming poetry. That point is age 17. When I was 17, I wrote a lot of rhyming poetry. A typical one would have read something like this:

Your lips are like black fire upon my altar of pain

Our hearts aflame with deceit and longing

My desire for your touch I cannot feign

Despite the languid torch of my wronging

This is also about the same time that I started really getting into Echo & The Bunnymen's old shit. Before they sold out. Before they...well, anyway, you get the idea. Now, you look at that poem and it makes no sense. Why? Well, because I was 17 and had never felt anything more viable than an inappropriate erection in Algebra II. I could therefore be forgiven for that prose if, at some point, it was reprinted in Parade against the wishes of my estate. But what of the man who rhymed liver to river? Had he not lived? Had he not solved, like, 500 murders? Had he not shared the screen with both Ice-T and Patrick Swayze? Had he not seen Baby whisked from the corner? What a chimera is man! What a prodigy! What a fucktard!

So, Jon B. of Framingham, MA, I ask you: Are you happy now? Can you live a complete and full like now that you've read the great poetry of Jerry Orbach? Will the 8,000 episodes of Law & Order you've recorded on your Betamax have more meaning now that you have Orbach's frozen liver in your mind?

Next week: the free verse of Dick Van Patten.

Reason #1 Why Stealing Purses Is Not Such A Hot Idea

Chief Idiot at OC Idiots directs me to the single greatest hidden camera ass-beating I've ever seen. Check it out here.

If I But Had A Time Machine

Every now and then I think, Man, if I could only go back to high school with the knowledge I have now. And then I think, What, exactly, do I know now? How to file an extension on my tax returns? How to read Simon & Schuster's cuneiform-like royalty statements? Mindless trivia about baseball, New Wave music and Choose Your Own Adventure Books? Would any of that have helped me, you know, score hot chicks? Then, by virtue of following my own stat links (thanks, Kitty), I learn about a whole new reason to jump back in time...and one that has parents aghast, I tell you, aghast! (More on that in a moment.) Or as Michelle Malkin writes in the Jewish World Review:

Here's a rich irony: I'm writing today about a new children's book, but I can't describe the plot in a family newspaper without warning you first that it is entirely inappropriate for children. The book is "Rainbow Party" by juvenile fiction author Paul Ruditis. The publisher is Simon Pulse, a kiddie lit division of the esteemed Simon & Schuster. The cover of the book features the title spelled out in fun, Crayola-bright font. Beneath the title is an illustrated array of lipsticks in bold colors. The main characters in the book are high school sophomores supposedly typical 14- and 15-year-olds with names such as "Gin" and "Sandy." The book opens with these two girls shopping for lipstick at the mall in advance of a special party. The girls banter as they hunt for lipsticks in every color of the rainbow:

"Okay, we've got red, orange, and purple," Gin said. "Now we just need yellow, green, and blue."

"Don't forget indigo," Sandy said as she scanned the row of lipstick tubes.

"What are you talking about?"

"Indigo," Sandy repeated as if that explained everything. "You know. ROY G. BIV. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet."

"That's seven lipsticks. Only six girls are coming. We don't need it."

What kind of party do you imagine they might be organizing? Perhaps a makeover party? With moms and daughters sharing their best beauty secrets and bonding in the process?
Alas, no. No parents are invited to this get-together. A "rainbow party," you see, is a gathering of boys and girls for the purpose of engaging in group oral sex. Each girl wears a different colored lipstick and leaves a mark on each boy. At night's end, the boys proudly sport their own cosmetically-sealed rainbow you-know-where bringing a whole new meaning to the concept of "party favors."
In the end, the kids in the book abandon plans for the event and news of an epidemic of sexually transmitted diseases rocks their school. But the front cover and book marketing emphasize titillation over education, overpowering any redeeming value the book might have. Indeed, according to Publisher's Weekly, the bound galleys sent to booksellers carried the provocative tagline, "don't you want to know what really goes down?"

She goes on to write:

Teenage group orgies are "an interesting topic?" Is Ruditis out of his mind? We can only pray Simon & Schuster keeps him away from the preschool "Rubbadubbers" books. In a small sign that decency and common sense still survive in the marketplace, a number of children's book sellers are refusing to stock "Rainbow Party." But as Ruditis's comments indicate, it's just a matter of time before the book ends up on public school library shelves in the name of "educating" children and helping them "deal with reality." The teen lit market is now awash in sexually explicit books that would require brown-paper wrapping if sold at 7-11; their authors are being hailed as "edgy."  For once, radio shock jock Howard Stern has my sympathy. When Oprah Winfrey aired a show last year in which a guest joked bawdily about teenage "rainbow parties" under the guise of enlightening parents, Stern pointed out the regulatory double standards. Why should he be punished for indecent broadcasts while Oprah escaped scrutiny for equally explicit and exploitative content?
Stern is in the wrong line of work. If you want to peddle smut with society's approval, children's books and sex ed is where it's at.

Make what you will of Malkin's article (and I'd wager that she hasn't actually read the book [except that wager would be wrong...Michelle wrote to inform me that she read Rainbow Party prior to writing her column...sorry for the false implication, Michelle...] because neither have I and yet I feel totally qualified to talk about it...I also feel totally qualified to say that using the term "where it's at" is one of my largest pet peeves, second only to vis-a-vis), but I'm now thinking that growing up in the 80s just wasn't as much fun as growing up in the 00s is. I mean, all I did as a teenager was get drunk off warm Keystone at a place we called The Circles (which was, it turns out, an undeveloped housing tract), have sex with women I didn't love, edit a banned yearbook and talk about getting out, man, just getting the fuck out. (Out of where was never quite determined.) And then there's the whole performance issue. I may have been strong like bull at 18, but all the colors of the rainbow in one night? Kids today!   Anyway, Malkin's indignation is fine -- she can feel what she wants to feel and that's okay -- but for a real good time, one must take a gander at the Amazon reviews for sheer Parental Aghastness. Here is my favorite:

Don't buy it unless you're going to burn it, May 25, 2005

Reviewer:

PAUL C. FRY (Cleveland, OH USA) - See all my reviews

One reason that I'm giving this a lousy review because I'm a parent. I've got two boys so far; I don't want either of them giving or getting oral sex when they're teenagers. Or ever for that matter.

Would this book make every reader engage in oral sex? Maybe not, but this book glamorizes it. Is that the author's intention? Maybe not, but honestly I have no idea what goes through the mind of a writer to make him want to write smut like this. Kids have enough trouble without fanning the flames of their passions and telling them that dangerous and immoral behavior is OK.

No oral...ever? Paul, dude, what if their wives can't achieve orgasm through sex and only through oral sex? Are you going to deny their wives the pleasure of orgasm simply because you don't like the oral? Now I can understand wanting to keep your kids clean and moral and passionless...your home, your rules, all that...but forever? Paul come on! Come on people, let's get a chant going: Let Them Have Oral, Let Them Have Oral, Let Them Have Oral...

Only Stupid People Are Breeding

My friend Jennifer implored me to watch the Britney Spears Trailer Park Extravaganza this week so that she wouldn't feel like she was the only one in America doing so. Ever the follower, I did as I was told. Or, well, I fired up the Tivo and watched it after Lost this evening. I can say with all confidence that the Britney Spears White Trash Express Train To Sonic-Drive-Thru Heaven is the absolute worst show I've ever seen in my entire life. And that includes that show Lee did about the trucker with the psychic truck whose partner was this guy:

For those of you not watching the program -- it's on UPN, which I found odd since I didn't realize the UPN was still in existence -- here is what I gleaned:

1. Britney Spears is illiterate.

2. Britney Spears' socialization process was stunted at about 15, which makes sense if you took Psychology 101 freshman year.

3. Britney Spears is about the last person on earth (save for, say, Michael Jackson) who should be raising a kid.

4. Britney Spears has enormous security guards who initially disliked Kevin Federline. In several scenes, they are shown beating the crap out of him, choking him and threatening him with a severe American Me-style ass fucking. (Okay, that last part about ass fucking is a lie, but they do seem intent on beating the crap out of him.)

5. Kevin Federline is illiterate.

6. Kevin Federline and Britney have several fascinating conversations on the disposition of falling in love that occur directly after marathon sessions of Kevin supposedly riding Britney hard and puting her away wet. The gist: They're both afraid of love because they've been hurt before. (In Kevin's case, I think that might be related to his baby's momma, though, since listening to Kevin talk is like listening to Corky from Life Goes On attempting to deliver the Gettysburg Address, I might have mis-heard.)

7. Kevin is originally from Fresno. Kevin later moved to Carson City. Kevin now lives with Britney Spears, but hopes to one day get his GED.

8. Britney Spears has all the innate personality of the kid making the lemonade at your local mall-based Hot Dog On A Stick, but with about $100 million dollars, a video camera, and, it seems, Kevin Federline's dick inside of her 3 times a day (this isn't hearsay, folks, this was confirmed on the show...oops, I did it again indeed).

9. Kevin Federline was in an LFO video, which is interesting because I like the girls who wear Abercrombie & Fitch, too. On another note, he and Britney are so wall-eyed, as my friend Jennifer noted, that it seems likely their child will be a goldfish. And goldfish don't wear Abercrombie & Fitch.

10. Who represents Britney Spears? CAA? ICM? The Firm? I ask because I want to know which agency sat down with Britney and said, "Yes, you absolutely should do as much as possible in terms of ruining your career, and it should include you talking about having Kevin Federline up in that ass three times a day, you talking about your thoughts on love ("I'm not afraid of love, I'm afraid of being loved."), you talking about, uh, love some more, you talking about, uh, love with Kevin, you talking to Kevin (Who is so illiterate he requires fucking SUBTITLES when he speaks!) and Kevin talking to you about your ass."

10a. A special note to Kevin & Britney: If you love your child -- and I know you do, because if you didn't people would have spotted you  both constantly smoking and drinking -- you'll give it up for adoption. Give the child a fighting chance to break the cycle of white trash servitude. Let the child grow up in a home with mature adults who won't ever invite Lance Bass over to babysit. Give the child to someone who deserves it...like Uchena and Joyce from the Amazing Race. Or that nice Rosemary lady down the street with the weird husband who wears all those turtlenecks and might be related to Satan.

How Authors Obsess

Today, my agent sent me a list of editors who currently have my new novel on their desks. I've not been obsessing too much over my new novel because I've been busy obsessing over my short story collection, which, at this point in time, means approving artwork and copy edits and the use of this and the misuse of that and wondering if the people blurbing my book actually mean what they're saying, or if they're just saying stuff to be nice and, really, maybe I am just a sham and perhaps I should just pack it all in and get a job back in outside sales, peddling human flesh under the guise of temporary employment.

But then this letter came. At first I kinda ignored it, figuring, like other things my agent sends me, that I could read it once, get the gist of it ("They thought your work sucked," or "They liked your work and would like to pay you for it.") and move on with my day in either mortal anger or waves of alluvial joy. The problem, however, is that once you know who is reading your book with an eye towards offering you cash for it, it's difficult to disassociate from it. Enter Google.

I punched the first editor's name into the god-forsaken white space. Here's a quote from her saying that the problem with crime fiction -- which I guess my book loosely falls under the rubric of, because, well, that's where they keep shelving me -- is that the market is just way to glutted with, uh, crime fiction. Here's another quote from her saying she loves literary crime -- books where people die or do some crime, but it means something. That's me! I think. I'm up in that shit like Neil Diamond in a glass-beaded shirt. I click over to the publishers website and find some authors said editor edits. I notice a few books where cats solve crimes. I notice a few books where cats don't solve crimes, but apparently a chef or a socialite or a cafe owner does. This is looking dire. I find more books that seem like something I might write -- somber men in their 30s on the wrong side of the law, just trying to make it in the world today. You get the idea. But I'm feeling like this woman has already read my book and is now using it to wipe up cat piss from her duvet cover. But then I think, you know, maybe she's dog tired of these fucking cats in her life. Maybe what she wants is a novel where men do men things. Where women are strong and tough. Maybe she wants some darkness in her life. Maybe right now she's sitting in bed and thinking, I need me some Goldberg.

Yeah. I calculate what she's been paying other authors according to an unscientific poll I conduct via Sarah's blog, PW, and various industry sources. "That's a fine offer," I imagine myself saying. "That'll do."

I move to the next editor in the list. Her name looks familiar. I flip through the file I've kept for all the rejections I've received for both of my previous novels and find her, albeit at two different publishers. For Fake Liar Cheat, she said that the book was well written but didn't "grab her." Fair enough. For Living Dead Girl, she said that she loved the book, loved it to death, thought it was brilliant and that I was brilliant and that in a perfect world her bosses would look at it not in a dollars and cents way but in a literary way and we'd have a deal. Alas. I check out her list. No cats. No chefs. No socialites. Lots of men in their 30s on the brink of something. Lots of books that look like mine but are not mine. I wonder if she's sick of books like mine. I wonder if she's sitting in bed right now and thinking, "If I get one more book about a criminal minded 30-something I'll eat my fucking eyebrow. I hope to god I don't get one of those Goldberg books."

I check out what she's paying. Hmm. Okay, because she's been so indifferent to me in the past, and because she seems troubled in bed, I'll take a little less, but I expect marketing to support me. And if I get a publicist named Suzie, it's off.

I go through this same maddening process with the next five editors, two of whom are men and who I imagine in the bathroom instead of the bedroom, if only for variety's sake. By the end of it all, I'm pretty sure I know exactly who will buy my book, how much my advance will be and what I'll order when we go out to lunch in New York when I'm there on tour this fall.

Meanwhile, if anyone needs me, I'll be sitting here waiting for the phone to ring.

Being Rutger Hauer

I've always thought that being Rutger Hauer would be pretty cool. Wake up in the morning, pop in Blade Runner during breakfast, reminisce over how much fun banging Daryl Hannah was. Around lunch time, pop in Nighthawks and think about how much you enjoyed punching Sly Stallone in the face. Come dinner, it's the Hitcher, baby, and how you forced C. Thomas Howell into a life of Soul Man remakes and stunningly brilliant movies about volleyball (I failed a test in college to watch the conclusion -- the stunning conclusion! -- to Sideout. Monroe Fucking Clark. Dude, Dave Baker, I know you're reading this...back me up!). Around bedtime, well, it's time to take stock: Blind Fury. Surviving The Game. All the other films you've made since 1990. If anything, being Rutger Hauer means never having to say you're sorry for playing mostly Nazi killers for the last 20 years. But, as the sick mind behind Visible Monsters alerts me to, Rutger probably should apologize for his online diary:

Had an invitation for an art gallery opening with some country officials. Did not have much information but decided to go check it out. At 6pm at a convention centre here. I was gonna let people know where I'd be and my ticket would be waiting. Approaching these premises I saw many exotic and very dressed up people. I had figured that an opening would take 30min. If nice longer. If stupid less than 5 for me. That's just how patient I am. Anyway .I sms'ed people where and what etc. and tried to pick up my entrance invitation and lol and behold a small crowlike lady said I could get past her if I didn't have although I explained it was waiting for me a few yards away. Along the escalator on the side people were calmly moving up to the next floor and in big letters it said GALA DINNER. I wondered what to do. I always get in,don't i? But was it worth going through this nonsense. Outside great rain was hitting the pavement. And I decided to bail out. I may have missed all the bold and beautiful and some ugly too. The art I can see later. Tomorrow will be another day.

I consider myself at least conversational in English and I have no idea what the hell that paragraph says.

Student News

I must say that the only thing more gratifying than getting published myself is seeing my former students doing well. You see, you teach them to avoid things like theme, motif and all that other crap and they just go out and write books unfettered. So big ups to my man Eduardo Santiago for selling his debut novel Tomorrow They Will Kiss to Little, Brown.

Santiago workshopped the book while a PEN Emerging Voices Fellow and he said of the EV program, “That fellowship made all the difference.” He made contact with Little, Brown through PEN member B.J. Robbins who said, “I wasn’t surprised that the book sold so quickly. He’s a fantastic writer.”

The book tells the story of the turbulent friendship of three Cuban women as they adjust to their lives in Union City, New Jersey in 1963. Of writing the book Santiago said, “Every morning I got to climb into the van with those ladies. I set out to write something really dark and spiteful, but ended up with a very funny, and touching story. Even during countless rewrites I was repeatedly moved to tears and laughter. At a certain point the characters took over and told me what to write. I can’t imagine how else this could have happened.” Tomorrow They Will Kiss will be released in Fall 2006. 

Eduardo tells me the novel is based on one of his short stories, so here are  few links to his short fiction.

Pedophile Wedding=Ratings Gold!

Not that Entertainment Tonight has ever been considered a bastion of good taste (what with them employing what was obviously a space alien -- John Tesh -- for all those years), but as my sister points out, why isn't anyone else aghast about the obvious concerning ETs three day marathon coverage of child molester/predator Mary Kay Letourneau's wedding to the child she repeatedly molested, Vili Fualaau: that Mary Kay Letourneau is a predator! ET has sent Jann Carl out to cover, for three fucking days, the wedding of a child molester to the child she molested! Take a look at this tender press release (the italics are mine) ET put out:

After seven years apart [while Mary Kay was doing hard time for child molestation...twice!] and eight months of wedding preparations, ex-teacher [and convicted sex offender] MARY KAY LETOURNEAU and her former student VILI FUALAAU [who she molested] have finally said "I do" in a private ceremony on Friday. JANN CARL [who should be ashamed of herself] was the only reporter invited to the wedding [Apparently Dan Rather was busy attending the wedding of Charles Manson to his cellmate Bubba].

The bride wore a white gown embroidered with handmade lace flowers and approximately 200 [misguided and possibly insane] people attended the ceremony, which was held at the Columbia Winery in Woodinville, WA, about 20 miles northeast of Seattle.

Vili had six groomsmen, including his two brothers. Mary Kay's maid of honor was her teenage daughter MARY CLAIRE [who should be seeking as much therapy as possible] and her bridesmaids included Vili's sister, and two close friends, one of which, KATHLEEN, she actually met in prison [no joke required].

Mary Kay and Vili's own two daughters, 8-year-old AUDREY and 7-year-old ALEXIS GEORGIA, served as flower girls and the happy couple even wrote their own vows! [Here's a sample from MK's: Remember when we met in 3rd period? Remember when we had sex in the car and that police officer found us and I had to go back to prison? Remember how I wrote you from the joint using only my blood and a sharpened piece of soap? Remember when I had to shank that bitch in the chow line for talking down about you? I have loved you since the first day we watched Barney together and you asked me to explain in words you could understand how a dinosaur could sing and dance. You rocked my world, Vili. We have so many lessons yet to learn. I intend to teach you math, science, and maybe even a little civics, though not that part about the judicial system. I can't wait to see you in bed tonight with your feetsy pajamas on.

And from Vili: I like it when we fuck.]

On Thursday, Jann witnessed the rehearsal ceremony with one nervous and excited Mary Kay -- and a more relaxed Vili: "He's the calm one," Mary Kay told Jann.

Vili was a bit worried about one thing, however. {What if my wife tries to shank me when I turn 22?] It seems a special chest he had wanted to keep the wedding rings in for the ceremony went missing just hours before the rehearsal. So the ringbearers, Vili's two nephews, were told to improvise. [And to avoid MK if she asks if they'd like to go for a car ride.]

Mary Kay and Vili's two daughters were extremely excited about their parents' big day. During the rehearsals, the girls both clung to Vili, who is such a doting dad that the family has nicknamed him "Buddha."

Even though both girls have spent most of their lives away from Mary Kay, it was clear they also loved being with their mom. [And mom has a special place in her heart for their young boy friends!]

The couple anticipates that this wedding and marriage will bring a happier, quieter future. "There are tragic things that happen in everyone's life and this certainly was a tragedy," Mary Kay says of her headline-making past. "Those hard times pass and we had to both maintain a lot of strength ... we're here and we're hopeful." [And by hard times, Mary Kay means when she molested her husband as a 13 year old boy.]

In a three-day ET event, everything from the vows to the reception will be covered. Monday, the preparations; Tuesday, the vows; and Wednesday, the lavish reception! [And Thursday I hope Mary Hart commits ritual suicide on stage, and I mean that.]