Tod Goldberg

Two Faces Have I...And Both Of Them Will Be Out In The Public This Week

My two writerly selves will be out in the world this weekend and it would be wonderful if each and every one of you came by and said hi, bought a book or dropped off a $50 Starbucks gift card. Fortunately, this is one of those weekends when my fan base will be equally served. 

On Saturday, fans of Burn Notice can come out to the Borders in Riverside at 12 noon for a book signing and Q&A. I will answer any and all questions you might have. I will even pretend not to think it's weird when you can't tell the difference between television and real life. I will sign all of my Burn Notice books for you and will, upon request, Burn Notice any word you might offer me. It will be fun. Bring the whole family.

On Sunday, fans of my dark, sad literary fiction are invited to Skylight Books at 5pm for the Black Clock reading, in celebration of the latest release of the exalted literary journal. I'll be reading from my short story "Welcome to Thousand Palms" and signing copies of my book Other Resort Cities. Also on the docket are folks like Samantha Dunn, Richard Rayner and Nina Revoyr, so it should be a dark, sad, literary time for all. We'll probably go to the quad later and talk about death.  

Five Things I Saw/Heard In Georgia

I just got back from a trip to beautiful Savannah, Georgia -- truly, a great place to visit if you get the chance -- and, as usual, I saw and heard a few things of note:

1. A sign in front of a church: The son prevents burning.

2. A conversation I had with a young woman in the elevator of our hotel after she noticed the hotel pool when my wife and I got on board on our floor.

Her: Oh, they have a pool here.

Me: Yes, but no hot tub.

Her: I don't like hot tubs. I once got an eye infection in a hot tub. 

Me: [Thinking: How the fuck do you get an eye infection in a hot tub?]

Wendy: [Giving me the look that says: Do not fucking ask her how the fuck you get an eye infection in a hot tub. Just don't.]

Her:

Me: [Thinking: Okay, fine, I won't ask. But fuck! Who the fuck says something like that to someone in an elevator that is now pregnant with my wild imagination?]

Wendy: [Giving me the look that says: Don't do it. Don't say anything. Just stand there quietly like most people do in an elevator. Stare at the numbers as they pass by. Look at the glittery wall. You like glittery things, don't you?]

Her: Yeah. They're gross.

Me: [Thinking: Okay, she wants me to ask. I mean, other than blowing drifters underwater, how you can get an eye infection in a hot tub?]

Wendy: [Giving me the look that says: You're an idiot.]

Me: So it sure is humid here.

3. Adult video stores in Georgia also help you detox from that pesky addiction you have to beating off. And then do your taxes, too (click to enlarge...not a euphemism):

 

4. Paula Deen is pretty much like Jesus in Savannah, except that Jesus is pretty much Jesus in Savannah -- there's a lot of churches in that town -- so maybe Paula is like Elvis. At any rate, she has her own tour, every tourist shop in town sells her stuff (and there are a lot of tourist shop in town...oddly, they have the same crappy t-shirt shops as they have in Palm Springs, which makes me think: who goes out of town and buys a t-shirt that says, you know, Drinking Doesn't Cause Hangovers, Waking Up Does? I mean, at what point on your vacation do you think, oh, yeah, that's a shirt I must have! I can't wait to wear that back home! People will know I had a great time, see, because I got this here t-shirt!) and you gotta know someone to get into her restaurant at peek hours. And by someone, I mean Paula herself. Her restaurant was actually really good. I had the best pecan pie there and some really good fried chicken and then my heart actually fell out of my ass, which was a surprise, but which gave me more room for butter cake, so that was nice. 

5. Apparently neither Wendy or I look like locals. Here's a conversation we had at least once a day for an entire week.

Woman at store/restaurant/museum/just walking down the street who somehow felt compelled to speak to us: Where y'all from?

Wendy [she always answered for us in these situations, perhaps because she was afraid I'd come back with, "Why? Do you know me? Who do you work for? Who do you work for! I will fucking kill you!"]: California.

Woman: Y'all on vacation or something?

Wendy [because I would have answered, "No, clearly not. Don't you ride tour buses all day at home, you fucking whore? Who do you work for? Are you following me? I will fucking kill you!"] Yes.

Woman: What part of California?

Wendy [because I would have answered, "Look, I don't know your fucking friend, okay? Just accept that I live nowhere near whoever you know who lives in California, okay?"] Near Los Angeles.

Woman: Really? Wow, that must be neat. You know, they've filmed a bunch of movies here. Y'all ever heard of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil? That was here. Miley Cyrus just made a movie here. You ever see that movie with John Travolta when he was in the army? That was here. Y'all have key-ids? 

Wendy: [because I would have said, "What the fuck are key-ids? Is that some sort of blood disease? Do I look sick to you? Is there something in the water here I need to know about? What the fuck is going on here? Why are you asking us so many questions? Who do you work for?!?"] No, no kids, just dogs. 

Woman: Well, dogs are like kids, aren't they? Y'all are so cute. You enjoy yourselves here. 

Me [after the woman has gone off to ask other people personal questions]: Why is everyone so nice here?

Wendy: It's the south. It's just how everyone is. I told you.

Me: Well, I don't trust them. I mean, what's with everyone asking where we live and if we have kids? You think they're trying to measure us up for a kidnapping?

Wendy: What?

Me: You know, see if we have anyone who would miss us. Find out where we live, you know, sort of gauge our wealth, see if we have any kids with us they'd need to kill, and then, you know, follow us back to the hotel and snatch us.

Wendy:

Me:

Wendy:

Me: You know. That shit happens. 

Wendy: In Mexico.

Me: Aren't we on the gulf of Mexico?

Wendy: No.

Me: We aren't?

Wendy: No, we're on the Atlantic. Do I need to draw you a map again?

Me: No, but anyway, pirates do this shit to. I don't trust these people with their "where do you live, do you have kids" rap. 

Wendy:

Me:

Wendy:

Me: And grits. What's with all the grits? These people strike me as unusually nice and unusually attracted to grits.

Wendy: You're an idiot.   

Hate Mail Makes Me Feel Funny In My Pants: Special "I Am My Brother's Keeper" Edition With Bonus Contest!

Normally when my brother Lee gets hate mail, it's actually for him. But today, because I am apparently difficult to find on the Internet, Lee received an email from a woman named Joan who was very, very angry with me. 

Dear Lee Goldberg:

I love your books. I've purchased every one of them, and was happy to see your name as part of the writing team on a recent The Glades (can you get them to let you write those books, too?).

Now, my question with some setup: I recently purchased The Fix by your brother Tod. I am a reader who absolutely loves good long and complicated sentences (like the ones written by Kate Atkinson and Laura Lippman to give a couple of examples). Your brother, however, just likes writing long, long, long sentences. As much as I love the show Burn Notice, I quit reading his book around page 80, and have no desire to see the end--or buy any of the later titles. Can you please teach your teacher-brother how to write?

I found The Fix so slow going to try to keep all the actions in sentences running 75 words or more (no, I'm not kidding) and often followed by another long sentence. He has whole paragraphs--eight to ten lines--that are all Micheal talking in one long, run-on sentence. One long sentence every few pages would be fine--heck, one every page would be fine. But when he's talking in Michael Westen narrative 90% of the sentences become 75 words or longer. It doesn't make for relaxed reading in the evening, let me tell you.

I know you're not your brother's keeper, but he credits you with giving him the leg up to get the gig. He's already lost one potential fan in me, and I'm sure I'm not going to be the only one. I would have told him this myself, but I couldn't find a website/email addy for him.

And please keep giving us the wonderful Monk series. I absolutely love those books. I can't wait for the paperbacks and always buy hardcover.

Sincerely,

Joan

I'm not sure what to say back to Joan since I don't want to get too wordy. So let's put it to a vote:

A. I don't come to your job and tell you how to suck dicks.

B. Thank you for the helpful criticism. Now, eat a tranny dick.

C. Sorry you're a bitch.

D. Thanks! Best of luck!

Or...

E. Submit your own answer! Winner receives a signed copy of a very wordy book of your choosing. Entries can be submitted here, emailed to todgoldberg@gmail.com or left on facebook.com/todgoldberg by Saturday.

Updated: While I happened to love all of the suggestions -- most notably the nearly two dozen which came via email from a gentleman named Geoff that suggested variations on "lick my balls" like "lick my balls, which are covered in lice" and "lick my balls, which your sister licked yesterday and really enjoyed" -- the grand prize winner is Brandy, who wrote: "Thank you very, very much, Joan, for your long, long email to my brother Lee Goldberg, who graciously forwarded me your unsolicited criticism of my latest novel, "The Fix," although I must say I do not recall (nor do I think I have a habit of) writing long complicated sentences, because surely if that were the case, my publisher would have pointed them out to me, let me tell you." 

Brandy will be receiving signed copies of all three Burn Notice books, because I'm feeling generous, and Geoff is receiving a signed copy of Other Resort Cities, because if nothing else, I love persistence.