And then we came to the end...

...of another year and not a moment too soon. It has been a rotten year in many respects. We lost an unusual amount of talented people whose work I admired. There was a personal loss that hit hard and has left many close to me crawling from the wreckage. Finally, there was the election which still feels like a boot to the stomach and which has left me with a sense of fear and foreboding like I've never before experienced. 

Fortunately, there is always art, especially books, to mend my heart and sooth my furrowed brow. Old friends in the book biz still look out for me and I buy books, of course. I use my library more than I have in years and it gives me a certain feeling, a familiarity about which I had forgotten but which I'm happy to feel again. The nearest branch ain't exactly Disneyland but you make do.

Tallying it all up, I finished 30 books this year and picked up and put down another dozen, I suppose. Since I remain consistently terrible at writing about all the books I read despite having this here blog which is allegedly about all the books I read, there may be a few I've even forgotten. Looking over the list, I'm still reading more fiction than non-fiction. 

Uncharacteristically, I read a book of poetry this year, Jeff Sirkin's Travelers Aid Society  (full disclosure, Jeff is an old pal o' mine from an unaccredited Hebrew school we attended in Kuala Lumpur). I must say I enjoyed it but I'm still unsure if I "get" poetry and so there is always a feeling as though I'm doing it wrong. When I laugh at what I think is a funny line, I then look around, guiltily, wondering if that's where I was supposed to laugh or if I completely missed the point of it all and only uneducated cretins laugh at that line and I've actually no business laughing at that line and the poet would be crushed to learn I laughed at their pain. Maybe I can just come to terms with the idea that poetry makes me nervous and uncertain and, perhaps, I'm undoubtedly overthinking this. And why do I look around, guiltily, when it's only Mrs. Next asleep next to me and the dog awaiting the "you-can-get-on-the-bed-now" signal? 

All neurotic, incomprehensible blather aside, here are my top 5 non-fiction reads for 2016:

Sunny’s Nights: Lost and Found at a Bar on the Edge of the World by Tim Sultan

Ever hear of this book? Or the author? I hadn’t either but you should because I think it’s terrific.  Sunny’s Nights is a thing of beauty. A writer, both physically and professionally lost, happens on this tiny, non-descript, only-open-on-Fridays bar in Red Hook, Brooklyn. The owner, Sunny, is an estimable raconteur who holds court and can code-switch from Shakespeare and the Bhagwan Rajneesh to the poetry and patois of Red Hook in an eye blink (in one instance, he suggests Sultan drink a “berlermaker”). He is a gorgeous soul, all too aware of his limitations as a human, but full of a passion and a spirit to be admired. The stories he tells, the life he lives, all chronicled with loving detail by Sultan, make you wonder if he’s putting us on but Sunny’s the real, though unlikely, deal. Fans of J. R. Moehringer’s The Tender Bar will love Sunny.

Preston Lauterbach’s The Chitlin Circuit and The Road to Rock 'n' Roll was an eye-opener for me. It made clear the link between the big band era and rock ‘n’ roll, how the bands pared down in size, how black entrepreneurs made their own successful world despite being confined by Jim Crow, and how huge a debt is owed to the Roy Browns, Big Joe Turners, and Louis Jordans. They led the way for Little Richard and James Brown and all those subsequent musicians who felt their influence. Hot stuff.

The Seven Good Years by Etgar Keret

These pieces were all written in the seven years between the birth of Keret’s first son and the death of his father. Though non-fiction, they have all the elements that make Keret’s writing so outstanding: black humor, empathy, a deep humanity as well as witty self-effacement. Where there is immense sadness, there is also great hope.

97 Orchard by Jane Ziegelman

A remarkable work that traces the history of one Lower East Side address and the five immigrant families that all made their way through the doors from the 1870’s through the 1930’s. Only after reading the book did I learn that this is the address of the Lower East Side Tenement Museum which I then visited in late March (the day we went was the anniversary of the Triangle Shirt Waist Factory Fire). To read this marvelous book and then see the actual rooms themselves was unlike most of my reading experiences.

Under the Big Black Sun: A Personal History of L. A. Punk by John Doe and Tom Desavia

Told by the musicians and artists who peopled the scene, these are recollections of an era that would influence music in ways that are all too often overlooked. X, the Blasters, and The Flesh Eaters may not be as well-known or remembered as their east coast punk rock counterparts but their influence along with others in the book cannot be overlooked. There was power and passion and lots of weirdos. Bless ‘em for it.

Stay tuned. Working on my top 5 fiction picks now. At my current rate, I should be done by early February.

We Are Still Tornadoes by Michael Kun and Susan Mullen

Click the link below to learn more about the book

Regular Reed-ers will remember that I wrote about this book before it was a book. Michael Kun generously asked me to be an early reader of this novel he co-wrote with Susan Mullen when it was still in manuscript form. I loved it and was so happy to spread the early word. To help with that, I plugged it and posted an interview with them (goo.gl/g3yn6h). Not long afterward, the book was shopped and I was delighted when it was snatched up by St. Martin's/Griffin. 

Early this month, it was published and the reviews have been excellent as has the media attention it has received including an extensive blog tour and public appearances on both coasts. I can only guess sales are strong. 

I just want to say I enjoyed it even more than when I first read it almost two years ago. It's a marvelous story that rings true, the characters are people you know and grow to love, the '80's references are plentiful and germane to the book, and it deserves to be read and re-read. It made me laugh out loud throughout and it made me cry. As I start to assemble my picks for the year, We Are Still Tornadoes has already found a place on my list. 

Now go get yourself a copy.  

Running Into An Old Friend at Halloween

Like so many, reading gripped me at a young age and I was also lucky enough to have a few champions who encouraged me and turned me on to books and authors. In a small town with only one bookstore, my family took great advantage of the public library. I would visit on Saturday mornings after breakfast out with my Father. I knew most of the librarians and took a shine to a few, in particular Rosemary D., on whom I had a tremendous boyhood crush, and Pat M. who was among the most generous people I've ever known. 

Pat was probably the first polyglot I ever met and his knowledge astounded me. Most of all, he was a sci-fi nut and turned me on to Heinlein, Asimov, and Bradbury. I remember being especially taken with Bradbury and I read a lot of his work. What's strange is how little I seem to remember. My memory hasn't failed me completely and I still know far more than my fair share of trivial nonsense (the problem, of course, is that I'll share it with you) but with only a few exceptions, I can't remember much about The Martian Chronicles, The Illustrated Man, Fahrenheit 451 and many others.

So it was with great pleasure that I re-read some Bradbury just recently. In truth, it was my turn to make a selection for my short story club and I thought it would be great since, in the dozen years we've been doing this, we've never read anything by him. Utilizing my public library, I ordered up A Sound of Thunder and Other Stories. I also ordered up The Halloween Tree, a favorite of mine. What I found was how great Bradbury's work remains. 

The Halloween Tree was written for what we would now call YA lit. One of things I liked about his writing for the younger reader was that he NEVER condescended. In fact, it was like he was letting you in on something, like he knew you belonged there and he took your hand with a welcoming wink and a squeeze of your shoulder. The story, a group of boys must travel the world one Halloween night with the mysterious (and perfectly-named) Mr. Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud to save the life of their friend, Joe Pipkin. 

Pipkin is the heart and soul of these boys. He's their leader, their biggest supporter, and their best friend. Without Pipkin, it's not Halloween. Without Pipkin, it wouldn't be Christmas or any other special occasion. Without Pipkin? Unthinkable! He is the what holds them together and enables them to fly. In one of my favorite lines ever, Bradbury describes him this way: 
"Joe Pipkin was the greatest boy who ever lived...The day Joe Pipkin was born all the Orange Crush and Nehi soda bottles in the world fizzed over". 

Would that anyone were to describe me that way!

Needless to say, The Halloween Tree was as I remembered it--Jack O' Lanterns in the trees, candy skulls, the perfect accompanying illustrations by Joseph Mugnaini, still a little slow in the middle, and a moving conclusion. 

In searching for short stories, of which Bradbury produced hundreds, I wanted something that was less science fiction-y and went back early in his career. A Sound of Thunder & Other Stories is better known as Golden Apples of the Sun (In reprinting it, Harper Perrenial decided to change the name. I've no idea why.) and contains works spanning a decade beginning in 1947. It was remarkable to me how prescient Bradbury was and none moreso than The Murderer from 1953. So as not to give it away or take away the power of the story, I encourage you to read it yourself: 

http://www.sediment.uni-goettingen.de/staff/dunkl/zips/The-Murderer.pdf

Needless to say, I'm so happy to have read Bradbury again and will continue to reacquaint myself with his work. 

Happy Halloween. 

Labor day weekend lazy

I have been duly chastised by a few of the more faithful Reed-ers this weekend and while I don't have anything original to contribute, I did want to pass on this list from the Wall Street Journal. It's going to be a big fall for books and there are many I'm looking forward to reading.

http://graphics.wsj.com/image-grid/fall-books-preview-2016/

Fever At Dawn and Spill Simmer Falter Wither

Lot and lots of reading of late. Publishing pals are keeping me well-stocked with a wide array of books and I'm trying hard just to keep up. 

Peter Gardos is a Hungarian filmmaker who has done things in reverse. He has already made a movie, Fever At Dawn, and then went back and wrote the novel of the same name. I haven't seen the film but I finished the novel recently. 

The book starts with Miklos, a Hungarian Jew, hospitalized 

in 1945 Sweden as the Holocaust winds down. Because of fluid in his lungs, he has been given six months to live. In his boredom and defiance of his imminent death, he manages to secure the names and addresses of 117 girls from his hometown, also hospitalized in Sweden. He writes each the same letter in the fervent belief a correspondence will develop and through that correspondence, he will find a wife. In this manner, he meets Lili.

It's a hell of a set-up, don't you think? Better still, Fever At Dawn is based on the true story of Gardos' parents. He only learned of this tale after his father passed and his mother showed him the correspondence and revealed their story. 

Fever At Dawn is fast-paced and entertaining especially in light of the truth behind it but I wonder if it worked better as a film. To me, most of the characters were uneven and underdeveloped, especially Lili, whose illness is never made known and whose constant fainting becomes laughable (Like Lou Reed said, "...women never really faint..."). There is also a "frenemy" sub-plot that seems unnecessary. I did love Harry, Miklos' randy boon companion, and his never-ending quest to test his potency.

Despite what I find deficient, the book was a bestseller in Europe, the book rights went to auction here in the States, and it will be published in thirty countries. Please decide for yourself. 

More to my liking was Spill Simmer Falter Wither, the debut novel by Sara Baume.  Some might shy away from the man-and-his-dog saga but this is done so well, you'd be foolish to do so. Be warned however, this is no warm and fuzzy read. 

Ray is a puzzle and the solution doesn't come until well into the book. What we do learn is that Ray lives in "his father's house" in a small, seaside, Irish village. The village has been Ray's only home but has always been regarded as an oddball and at 57, that won't change. His father has passed and one day, in a move that is out of character, Ray adopts a troubled shelter dog after seeing a flyer taped to the window of the local jumble shop. The dog has been injured which leads Ray to name him One Eye and they become utterly devoted to each other. The story is told to One Eye but you will often think he is addressing you, the reader. 

At first, I thought the unconditional love going both ways would allow Ray to develop into his own man but One Eye has a mean streak which creates trouble for them both. There is a hovering danger author Baume creates that is unnerving. At one point, Ray is so afraid, he packs up his car, gets his savings, and they spend months driving nowhere and anywhere to avoid consequences that may or may not actually exist should they return to the village. It is a impetuous, paranoid, but poignant trip that leaves Ray broke and afraid but with nowhere else to go but "home". 

Throughout, Baume had me by the cojones and the heart strings. She imbues Ray with surprising insight while avoiding sentimentality. Her prose can sparkle as when Ray remarks about how One Eye's senses overtake him during their walks: 

"...I call you but you don't seem to hear, you're hypnotised by smell. Now you zig-zag the concrete, hop on the wall and shout at the gulls, bust into a frenzied run...How can you be so unremittingly interested? How can every stone be worth of tenderly sniffing, every clump of grass a source of fascination?...I wish I'd been born with your capacity for wonder. I wouldn't mind living a shorter life if my short life could be as vivid as yours." 

If you've ever owned a dog, you know how well she captures the rapture but it is counterbalanced by Ray's own wonder, his deep love, and his history of heartbreak. 

Trouble Boys: the True Story of The Replacements

Like books, music is a thing I try never to deny myself. There was always music in my house growing up. I started plunking a guitar at 12, got my first bass and amp as a bar mitzvah gift from my family, and I still play today.

In the 80's, I began to absolutely devour music. The punk explosion and the post-punk and new wave that came after truly spoke to me. The difference today is you can hear practically anything, anytime. Scarcity is a thing of the past but back then, I couldn't afford all the music I wanted and so we all borrowed cassettes from friends and "dubbed" them on the ubiquitous dual tape decks of the decade. That was a time when the major labels lamented that "home taping is killing the music industry". Actually, those dinosaurs went extinct more recently.

The Replacements were a band I had heard of but never heard much. My freshman year, a kid down the dorm hall lent me his cassette with Tim on one side and Let It Be on the other. While there were elements I liked, their music just didn't reach me and I moved on.

A few years later, The 'Mats played a sizable venue on a Saturday night and then stumbled across the street to the much smaller joint where my band was playing. As we took a break between sets, I walked up and told them they were welcome to take the stage if they wanted. Wasting no time, they immediately got shirty with me, telling me they'd blow us off the stage. In the parlance of times I could only think, "Well duh"! We were a bar band playing for small change and sandwiches. They were pros with records and tours and a legendary reputation for being drunk and pugnacious. I was merely extending my hand to a fellow, albeit much bigger, band and in their customary fashion, they bit it. I wrote them off for good.

Years later, for reasons unknown, it clicked and The Replacements finally spoke to me. I had never known much about them, just their music and that infamous reputation. Trouble Boys: The True Story of The Replacements by Bob Mehr gives it to us straight and exhaustively, clocking in at 435 pages and a tiny font size that vexes a man my age.  Mehr, a veteran music journalist, writes nimbly and with authority. He was able to secure the surviving 'Mats, including the famously aloof Paul Westerberg, along with friends, family, fellow scenesters, and those behind the scenes, to tell all the stories that make up this much larger tale.

The trouble with Trouble Boys is that I don't think I can finish it. Not because of the length nor am I squeamish or prudish but because it's so achingly sad and I'm only as far as the band recording their breakthrough album. We already know how it ends--they never really "make it", they grow resentful of each other which leads to a terribly acrimonious break-up (is there any other kind?), Bob dies, and none of them rebound. While they re-grouped a few years back for a few festivals, it's not the same nor can fans expect it to be but to read another 200+ pages about their prolonged downward spiral is just too much for me. The tales of staggering drug abuse and boozing, the self-sabotage and self-destruction, the bitterness and pain they cause themselves and each other will only get worse and I just can't stomach it.

Please don't read this as a book I didn't like. I did indeed. ‘Mat’s fans will love it. Mehr is a writer good enough to make me put down his book because the story he writes so well causes me to flinch and cringe at the seemingly endless pain that shrouded The Replacements and their inevitable demise.

Of Penthouses, Tenements, and Thieves

Greeting Earthlings and others. I'm happy to say I've been reading a blue streak and want to pass on a few recommendations before my memory deteriorates entirely. 

Let's start a little light with The Swans of Fifth Avenue by Melanie Benjamin. 

Early in his career, when Capote truly did show promise and began to find success, he inveigled himself into a social circle well above his meager beginnings. These women, wealthy, influential socialites, first regarded him as a pet but friendships emerged, none more so than with Babe Paley, wife of media baron William Paley and the leader of the group Capote called his "swans". Author Benjamin recreates the story of how Capote rose among these society swells as well as his being cast out by his own arrogance. 

In 1975, Esquire published a short story by Capote entitled La Cote Basque 1965. It was the first time he had been published in years and was part of a purported master work he would never finish. The story was a thinly-veiled tale that exposed very private details about the lives of his "swans", details only he would know. By this point in his life, Capote's writing career had stalled. Instead, he had become a "media personality", quipping his way through 70's talk shows and being "seen" at Studio 54 all while pickling himself with coke, alcohol, and self-pity.

After the story was published, they would never speak to Capote again nor would he ever regain his stature. Author Benjamin does an admirable job with this piece of fictionalized history. 

97 Orchard: An Edible History of Five Immigrant Families in One New York Tenement by Jane Ziegelman 

97 Orchard examines each family through the lens of what foods they ate and cooked and how they shopped. She also explains what new foods they learned to enjoy as well as which traditions were preserved from their mother countries. Germans, Russian Jews, Irish, Litvak Jews, and finally Italians all lived at 97 Orchard street and we follow them, beginning in the 1870's through the mid 1930's, and witness the vast changes happening in New York and American culture. 

Reading the book caused me to visit the Tenement Museum, located at 97 Orchard street in NYC. It was an absolutely fascinating view into the lives of the families about whom I'd just read. Do visit and, by all means, read 97 Orchard.

When I began Welcome Thieves, it annoyed me. Kind of that weird-just-to-be-weird thing and I considered putting it down since the To Be Read stack is large and friends and publicists have been generous with new books of late, enough so that Mrs. Next is giving me that familiar "you need to cull the herd" look. I'm really glad I stayed with it because I think Welcome Thieves is clever, funny, and deserving of your time. 

The collection is a bit out of balance but so are the characters and once you get to the third story, "Monkey Chow", you'll know whether or not you want to proceed. Beaudoin writes well AND can tell a story. Word-wise, he is real gunslinger.  A line I particularly liked comes from one of my faves in the collection, "All Dreams Are Night Dreams": 

"She grabs a towel, removes her makeup with a swipe. Beneath is the expression I once saw on the face of man who'd been stabbed with a pen over a game of dice". 

If that grabs you, you'll dig the sweet and sad "Comedy Hour" and the remarkable "You Too Can Graduate in Three Years with a Degree in Contextual Semiotics". Fans of George Saunders and, especially, Karen Russell, will groove to this collection of oddballs, weirdos, and bruised hearts.

Reed Next? I thought you were dead!

I was going to come to you hat in hand, all apologies as Kurt used to sing, but I've ridden that bus already. No doubt, it's been months, MONTHS, since I've posted anything but there are no rules to this thing. Why? 'Cause I sez so.

As a small gesture in catching up, I just saw the movie version of The Martian, the last book about which I posted here. Loved the book and, happy to say, loved the movie. Matt Damon was well-cast as Mark Watney and the effects were much as I imagined. 

As is often the case with a film, there was less development and some characters were abridged, Kristin Wiig's character in particular, which is too bad because in the book, NASA PR director Annie Montrose is delightfully hell on heels. Much along these lines, the film felt a bit rushed. In the book, time is practically a character, maybe even an enemy, to Mark's potential rescue and survival. Still, well done but read the book.  

Last year, I was lucky enough to read an unsigned novel by Michael Kun and Susan Mullen which I thought was wonderful and deserved to be published. I'm so happy to report the book got signed to a great house, St. Martins Griffin, and will be published November 1. As good is the cover art. 

I'm especially pleased this is being marketed to a YA audience as it should hit home with "kids these days" but all you 80's refugees out there, read this one. You may very well find yourselves on the pages still wearing that awful beret and smoking clove cigarettes. 

You can pre-order at Shmamazon or wait and buy it at your favorite indie. And yes, I'll be glad to remind you before the book comes out. 

Finally, an upcoming title you must read is Dodgers by Bill Beverly. Due out in April from Crown, this book is part buddy picture and part road novel/coming of age tale. The road trip is a long journey from a bad LA neighborhood known as the Boxes to kill a witness in Wisconsin whose testimony has the potential to undo the drug gang to which they belong.  

The "buddies" are anything but. In fact, they are not acquainted at all until we learn that East, a devoted soldier, and Ty, already a cold-blooded killer, is his 13 year old brother. I was especially taken with the character Walter who provides a worldly counterpoint to East's narrow naivete. He brings some light and some oxygen to the tiny world East has inhabited his entire young life. 

Beverly's prose is short and sharp and he is skillful at creating and maintaining a gnawing tension that hangs over the road trip like a cement cloud. I was moved by this story and these characters, East most of all, and hope Dodgers finds the broad audience it deserves.