Tod Goldberg

Gone Learnin'

Okay, so, see that picture? Imagine it minus all the snow, but with mosquitos the size of Corvairs and that's where I'll be for the next ten days as Wendy and I are departing for our twice-yearly sojourn to the lovely campus of Bennington College Wednesday evening. Since we're apparently fucktards, we're flying United again, which means I'm likely to be without my underpants for the first three days of my trip. I am being a little smarter this time and not taking the Anarchist's Cookbook in my luggage, which might have been reasonable cause for holding up my baggage last time. At any rate, things may be a little more quiet than usual here -- and since I'm also in the middle of writing another Burn Notice book, things might get even more quiet than expected, but rest assured if important world events transpire (ie Scott Pollard comes off IR and the bench and drops 30 on the Lakers in game 4 or someone, somewhere acts like a fucktard) I'll be here reporting live, if only live from Vermont. 

Gone Fishing

That's me and Fish. I'm the one on the right. We'll be together for the next two weeks in the wilds of Vermont, presumably freezing to death while trying to figure out why the preponderance of low residency MFA programs are situated in places where it's fucking freezing during winter residency. We'll be back with all new content beginning January 15th, but because I care about you, my valued readers, some classic golden oldies, essays, stories and nude pictures of Lisa Laporta* will fill this space while I'm gone. And who knows, I may well pop in from time to time to report on my activities (Sample post: Jesus fucking christ, it's fucking 16 degrees here!] just to keep you updated on all the exciting trials of my existence.

Have a happy fucktard-free new year. See you in 2008.

*not really...I just like to see how many people come here searching for nude pictures of Lisa Laporta, who, if you aren't aware, is the elvish woman who  gets your house in order on HGTV before you sell it and who, apparently, lots of people fantasize about. Who knew?

Field Trip

I'm going on a field trip with two friends to the San Bernardino County Museum on Tuesday to see the exhibit Salton Sea: Lost Lakes & Salt Dreams. I've started working on my new novel, which takes place at the Salton Sea in both present day and the 1960s, and so I've been doing a lot of research on the history -- and the future -- of the Salton Sea and thus I'm positively geeked to be going to see all that they have to offer. I wasn't even aware of the exhibit prior to last Tuesday when I heard just a brief snippet about it on KCRW (or perhaps it was KPCC) and nearly pulled off of the 10 to see it right then and there.  Then my friends, Alex and Kyle, brought me a flier for the event and were thus conscripted into going with me. I invited Wendy as well, it went like this:

Me: Oh my god, I just heard the coolest thing on the radio. There's an exhibit at the San Bernardino Museum all about the Salton Sea.

Wendy: I didn't know San Bernardino had a museum.

Me: Oh, sure, it's quite esteemed.

Wendy: Really?

Me: I have no idea. I'd never heard of it either. But I think it's by the amusement park in San Bernardino with that big-ass Pharaoh looking thing.

Wendy: Well, you have fun with that.

Me: You don't want to go?

Wendy: Didn't we go out to the actual Salton Sea?

Me: Well, yeah.

Wendy: Haven't you read everything on earth about the place?

Me: I wouldn't classify it as "everything" but, yeah, quite a few periodicals and books and that fucking Val Kilmer movie, god that sucked.

Wendy: Right, so you have fun with that.

Me: You don't want to go?

Wendy: Do you want me to go?

Me: Well, I don't think I'll be talking much, and I'll probably take a bunch of notes and stuff...maybe I'll take my dictaphone...and then I might want to sort of sit quietly for a while to think about stuff, you know, like, about character and stuff, so, yeah, I'd like you to come if you really want to come.

Wendy: [nothing]

Me: I hear they have a cafeteria there. We could get lunch.

Wendy: [nothing]

Me: And then maybe next month we could go back out to the Sea and see the stuff on exhibit in person, which would be pretty cool.

Wendy: [nothing]

Me: So, yeah, it would be great if you wanted to come.

Wendy: You're an idiot.

Conversations I Had While On My Book Tour

With only one more weekend of personal appearances on the docket -- next weekend in Seattle -- it seems like an appropriate time to look back fondly on some of the conversations I had with America's brightest minds...

1. Chicago, IL

The scene: I'm sitting in a sushi restaurant, which is, apparently, the hot place to go for lake-side sushi dining in Chicago judging by the model-like humans buzzing about. Just like the previous sushi restaurant I visited -- also supposedly the hot place to go for lake-side sushi dining -- this restaurant for some reason doesn't feature real tables or chairs.

The conceit: For some fucking reason, people keep dragging me to sushi restaurants in Chicago, which would be great provided I actually liked sushi which, for the most part, I do not, especially since if I wanted sushi, I'd probably want it from a restaurant relatively near the ocean. So I'm cranky.

The conversation players: Me and the hot thang seating people.

Me: Would it be possible to get a table with actual chairs and, you know, a table.

Thang: What?

Me: I'd like a table, an actual table, not an ottoman. Is that possible?

Thang: No.

Me: No it's not possible, or no you don't have tables.

Thang: It would be an hour to two hour wait for a new table.

Me: Well, see, that's the thing. I don't want a new table, I just want a table. One with chairs, preferably. We've got ten people here and we're sitting on the floor.

Thang: I'm not understanding you.

Me: That's not my fault, clearly.

2. St. Louis

The scene: 15 people eating dinner and having drinks in an Irish pub, some 15 minutes after my booksigning. The only person I actually know has somehow been shoved into an opposite corner of the restaurant and I am now sitting beside a very large and chatty man.

The conceit: I'm tired, having just flown in from California, and a little crazed from lack of real food. I'm also kind of wondering why all these people agreed to meet for dinner after my signing, but only half of them actually came to my signing, preferring instead to sit in said pub quaffing beer.

The conversation players: Me and chatty large man.

Chatty: So you live in Los Angeles?

Me: No, actually I live in the desert outside of LA. Near Palm Springs.

Chatty: My ex-wife has a house in Indian Wells.

Me: I live just down the street from there.

Chatty: She has a really great house, you know, just fabulous. Her new husband is very nice, actually, and that's really excellent.

Me: (silence)

Chatty: I've been down their before, back when my wife -- my ex-wife -- was publishing her Patrick Swayze fan magazine.

Me: Your wife published a Patrick Swayze fan magazine?

Chatty: Ex-wife.

Me: So she published it after you were divorced?

Chatty: Oh, no, while we were married, too.

Me: Really.

Chatty: Oh, yeah. We went to LA but we never saw Patrick Swayze. We wanted to see where his ranch was and everything, but no one seemed to know where it was and so we just gave up after a while.

Me: I know exactly where it is. [I actually do -- it's a long story, just trust me that I do]

Chatty: Really? Would you be able to tell my wife -- my ex-wife -- how to get there? I could call her, or maybe you could call her when you get back to town? I could give you her number.

Me: Yeah...uh, no... I really don't know the exact directions anymore. It's been a real long time.

Chatty: She's still a real devoted fan. It would mean so much if she got to see it.

Me: Yeah, well, yeah. Now, Roadhouse, that was a helluva movie.

3. Las Vegas

The scene: I'm rollin deep in my mother-in-law's Lexus [again, a long story, but rest assured a boring one] in a car filled with authors attempting to find an easy way to navigate the Las Vegas strip while one author received the "slow crush" from his girlfriend, another author berated me for liking a student he hates, another author tried to open a window that would not open and deemed it anti-Semitic and while much candy was passed around, in addition to Luna bars (there was a lot of traffic from downtown to the buffet and people we're hungry).

The conceit: I've never had anyone chant my name in God-like or Darryl Strawberry like fashion.

The conversation players: a passel of writers.

Me: How about giving Goldberg some props for driving you stoned motherfuckers to dinner tonight?

Female Writer Performing Slow Crush: Did you just speak of yourself in 3rd person?

Me: Yes. Later, I will speak of myself in 2nd person and it will be met by much confusion and pretention.

Candy Author: I give you your props, Goldberg. I'm getting the slow crush and giving you all the credit.

Me: I'd like to get a little chant going then. Like, you know, Goldberg Rules, Goldberg Rules. Something like that.

(Car begins chanting. It doesn't sound right.)

Me: How about just my last name, sort of Sun God like.

(Car begins chanting Goldberg in deep, glorious tones. Again, it sounds wrong.)

Me: How about like how the Braves fans used to do it?

French Named Author Who Thinks His Window Is Anti-Jew: That chant got them into quite a bit of hot water with the Native American community. It's very disingenuous to how the actual Native Americans of the area sounded and I find it, personally, offensive.

(Chanting begins. Sounds pretty bad ass.)

Me: During that period, I would have fucked Dave Justice simply because of that chant.

Author Who I Slept The Entire Month of October With: Oh, christ, Justice sucked. Now Dale Murphy, he was a player who just was brilliant -- I mean, fucking brilliant -- and then it all went. Kind of like Darryl Strawberry, but if Darryl were Mormon and white.

Me: I'll take the Darryl chant.

(Car erupts in Golllllldbbbberrrrrrg.....Golllllldbbbberrrrrrg...Golllllldbbbberrrrrrg...and a legend is born.)

4. Los Angeles & La Quinta, via the telephone

The scene: I'm talking to my brother on the phone about an upcoming signing in a neighboring city.

The conceit: My brother and I have signed at every single bookstore in California at one time or another and can, therefore, predict within five the number of people who will attend an event.

The conversation players: Me and Lee.

Lee: What time is your signing?

Me: I dunno, 7. Something like that.

Lee: You do realize that not a soul is going to show up for this.

Me: No, I've been assured that lots of advertising has been done, that shit was on the newsletter, it was in the paper. Everywhere. I bet there are 15 people waiting for me when I get out of my car.

Lee: I've been in that store a dozen times in the last year and do you know how many people I've seen?

Me: I have no idea.

Lee: That's right, because you can't count a negative number. I've always been the only person in there and that's when I'm just shopping. The last time I signed there, the woman behind the counter read me her rhyming erotic poetry for an hour.

Me: You under estimate my drawing power. I bet they have pre-sales of, like, 30.

Lee: You'll be back and blogging about fucktards by 7:45.

(Total visitors to signing: 1. Total books sold: 0)

5 Unrelated Things I Saw This Weekend In San Francisco

1. A Canadian Naval Destroyer filled with, uh, Canadian soldiers. What is interesting about the Canadians is that they had no pretense about being civil -- they were civil, until Rob asked one, "So, you pretty much hate having us on your boat, don't you?" and the soldier, a woman, responded, "Yeah, pretty much." -- as we toured their ship. It was a free tour that required only that you show your ID and that you not fire a fucking torpedo into Oakland, which might explain why a shifty Russian dude wearing a Wesley Clark for President shirt was allowed to walk all over the boat while asking questions like, "How much fuel is in this boat and, if need be, how far could the largest gun fire?" I don't know what it is, but I still don't trust those Commie bastards.

2. A woman who felt the need to tell us all about a vagina puppet she saw and how, surprisingly, she learned that only the hole is the vagina and that other parts of the female reproductive organs have, you know, different names. It's like she never saw Seinfeld.

3. A Navy band playing a live concert at Pier 39. As we walked up, the female lead singer, festooned in all white from head to toe (including a very long white skirt which made her look like a sort of fetish item), shouted out, "Who wants to hear some Skynyrd?"

4. A conversation I didn't expect to have:

Person: Have you ever done any fisting, Tod?

Me: Like, have I gotten a fist in my ass or used my fist on another person?

Person: Either.

Me: No.

Person: It's incredible. You should really try it.

Me: On someone else, or do you mean someone should do it to me?

Person: Either, really. It's incredible.

5. The worst cup of coffee and the absolute worst bread pudding I've ever tasted at a pub called the Phoenix in the Mission. In all my life, I've never had coffee that tasted like an alpaca's piss, but then I haven't spent a lot of time searching for coffee that might make my colon glow yellow. Bread pudding is always a crap shoot, but this was so bad that I actually gagged a little on my first swallow and realized, within moments, that if I continued to eat it that I'd vomit and it would be a marked taste improvement.

5 Things I've Learned & Experienced While In St. Louis

I've been in St. Louis for the last two days and what I can tell you is that unlike all the Nelly videos I've seen, there aren't a lot of hot chicks dancing up on cars and shaking their asses in front of my face, which is a shame. Of course, seeing as I've spent the preponderance of my time in bookstores, I shouldn't have expected too much -- but is it too much to ask for just one rap video moment? I also haven't seen the arch yet and am beginning to believe that it doesn't exist, sort of like Mt. Rushmore. For years I thought that place really existed and, well, I've seen no proof thus far. I have learned a few things, however:

1. Apparently, people in Missouri go to church quite a bit as there's one on every corner. A lot of them have scary Jesus names: Church of the Bleeding Messiah and things of similar ilk which, I think, would drive me directly into the hands of Satan, who, while evil, probably isn't still bleeding.

2. Steak-N-Shake. I fucking love Steak-N-Shake and tomorrow on my way to Chicago I'm going to visit the 1st Steak-N-Shake ever, which is supposedly located in a town called Normal.

3. No offense to my friends in the great Middle of America, but what's up with the fashions from five years ago? Every where I look I see kids and adults and teens and college students dressed like they're rocking in the millennium. The college boys look like Fred Durst circa 1999. The college women look like Fiona Apple circa that video where she's rolling on the floor with the other suitably pasty white humans. The adults look like they're getting too much estrogen in their meat and thus are forced to tuck all of their shirts in and wear overly tight jeans with thick belts. In order to join them in fashion and passion, I dressed from my worst period, too:

3. A Japanese fast food restaurant called San Sai that had exactly zero Japanese people either working or dining within at least 20 miles of the front door, including those working at San Sai. One of the people I was with had to swab the sauce off of her food in order to eat it, which was both disgusting and oddly fascinating.

4. American cars. American beer. American Patriots.

5. There is something comforting to me about the inside of a Borders. No matter where I am, no matter what my mood, I always know that Myla Goldberg will be hogging my shelf space in Fiction and Lee will be hogging it Mystery and Sue Fucking Grafton will be carpetbagging in both. Q is for Quit Fucking Writing So Many Fucking Books That All Of Mine End Up Getting Squeezed Into The Tightest Spot Possible, Until My Covers Are All Mottled Up And Nasty Looking, Bitch. (And I mean bitch in the nicest way possible, like, you know, in prison and stuff.)

Tomorrow: Chicago.

Setting Begets Character Begets Plot

My cousin Anea recently returned from a trip to our summertime childhood haunt of Loon Lake, WA, home to imaginary trout and elusive silver salmon and a lifetime of fond memories, and brought pictures to prove it. It is also the setting for my novel Living Dead Girl (though with a few key characteristics changed for fictional purposes, like the name and the size of the lake itself, though not the location or most of the details themselves), so I thought for true fans (and thanks to both of you!) these pictures might be kinda cool.

This is the view from Paul & Molly's cabin.

Minus the peddle boats, this is the dock I always think of when imagining the final scenes of the book (and several of the memories interspersed throughout.)

Where Bruce Duper kept his boat.

Sheriff Drew.

This is actually the general store on the property, but in my mind, this is Bruce Duper's house.

The inside of Paul's mind. (Really. I used to sit behind those trees and stare through them for hours, imaging stories as a little kid...stories that would take place at Loon Lake. And when I wrote the novel, I always imagined Paul's mind looking like those trees.)

The cabin my Nana & Papa Dave always stayed in. Not a scene from the book, but a very special place to me no less.

It Just Goes To Show You That Even A 4 Star Review In People Magazine Doesn't Mean Shit To The Kid In Charge Of Ordering Your Books

I was catching up on some back issues of People -- my main source for news and commentary about people finding Jesus whilst fighting for life in Iraq, in a raft off of New England, or beneath an overpass in Chicago -- when I stumbled on a glowing review of Steve Almond's new book The Evil BB Chow and other stories. How cool, I thought, someone who wrote a story about Michael Jackson's dick filling the pages of the magazine versus stories about Michael Jackson's actual dick. Plus, I really liked the book and found the guy to be, well, swell when I met him. Shit, I thought, how many units do you move when you're reviewed in People? So I went to Steve's website to see what was happening on his Tour Diary and found this post:

The following stats sponsored by the Department of Why Chain Bookstores Suck

• Largest Audience: 220 (for a short story panel at the LA Times Book Festival)
• Number of copies of BB Chow supplied by Border's after the panel: 0
• Excuses offered by Border's employees: 7

If there is one thing I have learned in my travels across this vast and wonderful land, it is this: no matter how popular your book, no matter how fantastic the reviews, no matter how important you're feeling because you've got your name on the spine of a book, invariably it all boils down to the 17 year old kid in the back of the store who happens to be in charge of ordering books. This guy is normally named Lance or Cameron or Dax or Tiff or Topher or Paulo or Rain. He wears a lot of black. He listens to old Cure albums, back before they really made it, back when they were keeping it real, singing about Camus and shit. He reads a lot of stuff by dead Russians. He's depressed. He has a profile on MySpace and he's all about finding truth and wisdom. He's also probably banging the assistant manager, because that job in the back pays a little more than a job at the front of the house. He's in a band, and he's got fliers to prove it. He's a little pissed at his parents because, like, they want him to pay for part of his schooling but he's, like, not even really interested in school and, like, it's all about truth and wisdom and did Joss Whedon even go to school? And he knows he's supposed to order your books for that big ass event, or he knows you're coming into his store sometime and while he'd like to order your books, would really prefer not to be yelled at for it later when someone (like, say, my wife) comes in and screams at everyone because the books for the author waiting in the cafe are nowhere to be found, he's, like, totally late to meet his friend who has the fake ID and promised to get him a 12 pack of Keystone.

Your life as a writer on tour basically boils down to a trusting a kid who couldn't get a job at Hot Topic to do the right thing.

If you're not sure yet what this person looks like, here's a picture that might help:

And Don't Ever Go To The Borders in Wilmington, Delaware. Trust Me.

Adam Langer (whose Crossing California was one of my favorite debuts of the last year or so) solicits some advice regarding book tours and readings. Here are a few I could empathize with:

8) KNOW WHEN TO HOLD THEM; KNOW WHEN TO FOLD THEM

• If you ever hear yourself uttering the words: "Should I stop here or go on?" STOP.
Merrill Feitell, author of Here Beneath Low-Flying Planes

10) DON’T BE A JERK

• Make sure to smile. I think it's important for readers to be polite. I like readers who seem to remember that their listeners have gone out of their way to get to the reading. Readers who act too cool for school, or roll eyes at questions from the crowd, leave a bad taste in my mouth.
Louisa Kamps, contributing writer, Elle.

• Read as if you actually enjoy the process; mumbling is not a good idea; lack of enthusiasm should be disguised. Rather than dis the audience or the notion of actually reading one’s work, see this as an opportunity to sell yourself and even reading books in general. True, most people who attend a reading already read, but some are just looking for shelter from the physical and psychological rain. Also, use your hands for something more than leaning on a podium. They can actually be expressive and add to the physicality of the read. Otherwise, why not listen on the radio or to a book on tape?
Karen Michel, reporter, producer, National Public Radio

• Make eye contact as much as you can, and act like everything's intentional.
Christopher Cartmill, playwright


11) KNOW YOUR COMPETITION

• When reading in front of an audience, make sure David Sedaris isn't reading for an audience of 5,000-plus at the nearby university at the exact same time. Such scenarios will make you nostalgic for the all-homeless audiences you garnered in Dayton and Oakland, not to mention the "intimate discussion" with four would-be readers (three of whom are bookstore employees) who found themselves stuck in a Borders in suburban Milwaukee on a rain-drenched Friday night. Bring snacks to the bookstore; sprinkle a trail of them from the healing-and-recovery section to the area where you'll be reading. Promise extra snacks (possibly alcohol) for those who stay for the whole thing. When reading in cities in which former lovers reside, know that if they come to the reading it is because they believe they are the subject of the book, which you wrote solely to work through your grief about the breakup. Know they will believe this even if your book is a scratch-and-sniff children's story about a firefly named Lulu. Know that as awkward as this is, David Sedaris has it 5,000 times more awkward. There's a positive side to everything.
Meghan Daum, The Quality of Life Report

I'd also encourage you to find out when major parades will be shutting down all the streets around the book store you are visiting (see: Goldberg, Tod; Seattle, WA, Summer 2000); get a general sense of where the kid's section is in the Barnes & Noble so that you don't end up reading that scene where the word "fuck" or "motherfucker" is repeated like a mantra, until a score of angry parents ask you to, politely, shut the fuck up (see: Goldberg, Tod; just about every B&N on the West Coast between June 2000 and, uh, May 2005); learn when the next Harry Potter book is coming out and then don't plan a signing or reading on that day, unless your book is Harry Potter slashfic (see: Goldberg, Tod; Las Vegas, NV, Summer 2000); bring along someone who can yell at the people who've forgotten to order your book, despite the fact that you've traveled across the country to sign said book, but don't yell at them yourself (see: Tod's wife Wendy, aka, The Woman Who Makes Bookstore Employees Cry in Cities Far and Wide, 2000-present); if your publisher is picking up your hotel tab, don't order all the porn movies on Spectravision and maybe only get one steak dinner. Okay, two. (see: Uh, yeah, this is just a story I heard from a friend. And he's dead now, so no use dragging his name back into it...).

And don't go to Wilmington, Delaware. Dude. Trust me here.

This Is What It Means To Say Yuma, Arizona

About a year ago, I wrote a column in the Las Vegas Mercury about a trip I took with my wife and her aunt to Yuma, Arizona for their annual pilgrimage to Cracker Barrel. (Look, they're from the South. Apparently, people from the South love the Barrel.) In the story I wrote:

Knowing that the conversations of the day were likely to hinge on these themes, I decided to do a little searching online to see what there was to do in Yuma between meals and soft-focus Southern Gothic memories. What I learned was that, officially, there is nothing to do. Oh, there's a movie theater and a Barnes & Noble and even a Cold Stone Creamery, your basic signs of intelligent life, but other than that, the town's enduring commercial claim to fame appears to be an Old Town section that is mostly filled with "antique" (read: used clothing) shops and young men on skateboards. In fact, unemployment numbers for the city generally vacillate between 15 and 35 percent, which is the legal definition of living in a shithole, ergo, the kind of place where a prison is the main tourist attraction.

It's noon now and my day has consisted of the following activities: driving through nowhere towns like El Centro and Westmoreland; thinking about the wisdom behind Golden Corral, a chain restaurant that offers all-you-can-eat discount steaks; eating the Barrel's vaunted eggs and grits, except I didn't eat the grits because they taste a little too much like dirt; and, now, standing in the middle of a prison talking to an old man who seems to have a strange yen for both my wife and her aunt--two women, it should be noted, who have suddenly re-adopted their long-lost Southern accents after their gravy-heavy breakfasts.

This week, a letter arrived in the mail from the Yuma Community Marketing Group that said, in part:

Legal definitions aside -- and without delving into the nightmarish tedium of the employment-figure-skewing aspects of seasonal and itinerant farm workers, I'm sincerely hoping you enjoy your next trip to Yuma, at least more so than your trip earlier in 2004.

Like you, I don't think biscuits and breakfast belong in the same sentence, much less the same plate. Regardless, with a modicum of effort, I can assure you that there is more to Yuma than prison landmarks and Cracker Barrel cuisine.

I gotta give James Stover, the chairman of the Yuma Community Marketing Group and the writer of the letter, some serious props. I write an article where I call his town a shithole and he responds with an entertaining letter (which also included an invite for a guided tour of the Yuma Art Center and an attractive calendar) and a gracious invite back to the city for further examination. I don't know if I'll be returning anytime soon, seeing as Wendy ate at the Cracker Barrel in Phoenix last week and seems to have gotten her fill of Southern culture (and Arizona) in the process.

(Not that this has anything to do with anything, in particular, but while Wendy and I were in Scottsdale last week, the big news -- and, from the news reports, happy news -- was that the legislature had voted overwhelmingly to allow gun owners the right to bring their glocks into bars. One person interviewed on the news said, and I swear this is true, "You never know who has a gun in a bar and I think this just lets me feel safer going out." Uh, wait, okay, now...oh, fuck it.)

Anyway, big ups to the city of Yuma and James Stover. Now, let's see if this works: the city of Lahaina on Maui sucks. There's nothing to do there. It's a shithole. I'm gonna need some real convincing in the form of a 7 night stay to change my opinion...