Mr. Bell, paging Mr. Bell

Here is a nice little interview with retired legend Marvin Bell at the Bellingham Herald. I love when local papers do these.

Zomertijd...

...and the livin' is easy.

Last Saturday was the Amsterdam Gay Pride Parade, or as I heard most people call it, the "Gay Parade." These gentlemen were rather boisterous.



Now we understand why they're called floats.



Proudly flying the flag.



We always hit this place when in Amsterdam.



Here's our newest favorite local Haarlem cafe, 't Kantoor.



There is a cat who comes in 't Kantoor every afternoon for his dinner, picks a free stool, and waits patiently to be served.



He knows the rules: "Only two paws on the bar."



We also are served -- most often Liefmans, the tastiest beer I've had yet.



I am working on a whole post about Liefmans...



Yukking it up with our neighbor Louis.



And at the Haarlem Culinaire...



We sampled some tasty fare...



These are "bolletjes" -- "little balls."



Dutch Japanese-style beer -- why not?



Photos by traca de broon

News from the Homefront

From the ever-incisive Press-Citizen: Sam on her experiences at the helm of the Workshop. She offers an interesting observation about what "administration" means in the context of the Workshop.

Time is Money...

...and money is the root of all evil. Does that mean time is the root of all evil?

Actually, I think aphorisms are the root of all evil in our governance-by-bumper-sticker society.

At any rate, I'm in search of information. Does anybody have a sense of how much a senior writer at the New Yorker or the Atlantic or a similar publication is paid for a full-length nonfiction article? (I'm thinking of someone like a Susan Orlean or Larissa MacFarquhar.)

The memoir I've been waiting for

I can't imagine how interesting and entertaining this book will be -- if he ever finishes it. A hopeful sign:

"The range and type of stories was exactly what you would hope to hear," Pietsch says. "The memories and the emotions, people wonder if he remembers anything, but I wish my memory was that good."

Charlemagne's Heir

I'm pleased to report that Charlemagne (Mrs. Charlemagne, actually) has given birth to a first born daughter. Her name is Emmerson James, and she arrives at a healthy 2o inches & 7lb 13oz. Mother, father (who is henceforth to be known as Pappy One-Eye), and daughter are all in great health and looking forward to building a pyramid of diapers, one stinky poo at a time. I'd post pictures, but sadly, there are far too many weirdos on the Intertubes.

Like father, like son

Nice article about Will Conroy, Frank's son, who is a screenwriter. Seems that a movie of Stop-Time is in the works, with Will doing the adaptation.

Me gusta mucho

I got this email that says, in part:

Not a lot of people decide to produce a commercial for a Mexican fruit soda without getting the approval of the brand owner...but we did.

Making commercials is now underground. Can you spot the luminary? I don't even know how to talk about how perfect this is. Greatest commercial of all time or merely one of the greatest commercials of all time? Every shot begs for commentary.

Not even Jane Austen could get published today

Jane Austen freak sent off opening chapters and synopses from Northanger Abbey, Persuasion, and Pride and Prejudice to 18 publishers. Then the rejection letters started coming back -- for all of them. And only one editor spotted the fraud.

Atlantic article on workshops

An article in The Atlantic Monthly on graduate writing programs is available online for subscribers here. But if you subscribe, uh, you already have the article, no? So you don't need it online. Little unclear on the concept ... oh, right: moolah. Too bad for us nonsubscribers.

(Update: subscribers don't get this issue, evidently. So never mind about that.)

Good news is a long interview with the article's author, Edward J. Delaney, is available online. A sample:

Another factor is that with these programs there’s usually a certain lag time before it becomes clear whether its graduates are finding success. Harvard Law School can measure its success by something as simple as the percentage of its graduates who pass the bar exam. Or they can gauge how many of its graduates are getting jobs at the top law firms. But with writing programs, it’s understood that for the most part these writers are going to spend a decade or more after graduation toiling away in obscurity just continuing to work on their craft [Slight comfort in numbers here. -- Ed.] So if a student in a program has some success 10 or 15 years later, is that an adequate measure of the program as it exists now? It’s easier for a program to claim that credit if there’s been a lot of faculty stability. If a student who studied with writer X 15 years ago meets some success and writer X is still working at the same institution, then that would seem to be a more accurate measure.

A snippet of what he says about Iowa specifically, and this is so true...

The people there – as at a lot of the schools that are away from the hustle and bustle of the big city—really focus on building a community. Chris Tilghman at Virginia observed that one of the most difficult things to measure is a program’s sense of community. When the workshop ends, you’ve gotten a certain amount of progress. But does everyone then go to dinner together and continue the discussion that was begun in the workshop? Schools such as Montana and the University of Pittsburgh and Virginia and Iowa really spent a lot of time talking about the community they feel they’ve built; whereas in a larger city, it’s a little more difficult. People tend to go their separate ways. Community is part of what has made Iowa work.

Another interesting factor about Iowa is that it has looser requirements than a lot of other programs. But there’s also a lot of open-ended stuff that goes on constantly. For example, while I was there, Charles Baxter spoke. He did a reading in the evening and then the next morning he did a Q&A. And those events were absolutely jam-packed. From what I gathered, that’s how it always is; the people in The Workshop never want to miss a learning opportunity, even if it’s not a formal class.

The little differences

Vincent: You know what the funniest thing about Europe is?

Jules: What?

Vincent: It's the little differences. I mean they got the same shit over there that they got here, but it's just - it's just there it's a little different.

Jules: Examples?

Vincent: Alright, well you can walk into a movie theater in Amsterdam and buy a beer. And I don't mean just like in no paper cup, I'm talking about a glass of beer. And in Paris, you can buy a beer at McDonald's. And you know what they call a, uh, a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris?

Jules: They don't call it a Quarter Pounder with Cheese?

Vincent: Nah, man, they got the metric system, they wouldn't know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is.

Jules: What do they call it?

Vincent: They call it a Royale with Cheese.

Some more that I've noticed:

* Using English that's just a little bit off. Our favorite orange juice is called CoolBest. The slogan on the carton: "We keep it Cool, you get the Best!"

* Bread starts out crusty and gets softer as it gets stale.

* When you leave a room, even if you don't know anyone and haven't spoken to anyone, such as in a gym locker room, you're supposed to say goodbye, and everyone says goodbye to you. Speaking of gym locker rooms, the door to the men's locker room at our gym opens at an angle that reveals the room to the whole gym. All they had to do was put the door hinges on the other side, but no -- found this out the hard way, looking up as I was drying my body to see everybody working out through the doorway. And one other thing: at the gym's co-ed sauna, you are required to be nude. "No Clothes or Swim Attire Allowed."

* People do things on bikes you wouldn't believe. Multiple dogs, children swinging off baskets or balanced on handlebars, texting on cell phones, lighting cigarettes or joints, carrying three bags of groceries, giving rides to one or even two friends, who sit on the back looking bored -- or stand up on the rear bar. The postmen and police ride bikes. We saw two cops commandeer a couple bikes while chasing a suspect. They later returned the bikes and thanked the owners. Saw a woman pulling a homemade wooden cart behind her bike. In the cart, a toddler and a puppy, hugging each other.

* Different priorities in government. A smoking ban is coming next year, and folks are wondering what will happen in coffeeshops (hash bars). And the government panel said the other day that they are planning on screening the employees off -- not the patrons -- behind smoke-proof glass, with customers free to smoke throughout the shops. The problem? It might discourage people from working there because it would make it difficult for employees who so desire to smoke on the job. They are looking into solutions. You would think I'm kidding. You would be wrong.

* Stores close at 6. All of them, except restaurants. It means you have to plan ahead. It also means you don't have the elderly working nights at round-the-clock product-mausoleums such as rural Wal-Marts (there are of course no Wal-Marts here because of the labor laws). "Everyone should go home to their families at the end of the day," is how one Dutchman put it to me. On Thursdays -- "Shopping Evening" -- stores are open till 9. Sundays, everything (except bars and restaurants) is closed, actually closed. There will be a pharmacy open in every town, that's it. Monday mornings, things open an hour, hour and a half later than usual. For obvious reasons.

* When they talk about the weather, they are supremely confident: "Tomorrow it will be 26 degrees by 3 o'clock." "Next Saturday it will rain in the morning."

* All banking is electronic. No checks, just automatic withdrawal. When a company hasn't set up automatic withdrawal yet -- the water company, for example -- they send you a bill in the mail. You write your bank account number on it, sign it, and drop it back in the mail. No postage needed. All bills come with prepaid envelopes. No ATM fees, no matter which bank's machines you use.

* You buy your rock concert tickets at the post office.

* At the library, there are information booths with stuff for youth, about drugs and teenage pregnancy and so on. But they are not propaganda -- they puncture myths on both sides of the debate. No, LSD does not cause DNA damage. No, despite the anecdotal evidence that abounds, marijuana is actually not linked to long- or short-term memory loss once the effects subside. Not that the Dutch need worry about these things as much as the U.S. does -- both drug use and teenage pregnancy levels are far below U.S. levels. Also at the library, you pay for Internet and borrowing DVDs. Equivalent of four bucks to borrow a DVD.

* You can buy beer at 16 -- not that I've ever seen anyone carded, ever. Our local cafe is always full of high-schoolers who are well-behaved and friendly -- and drinking. They are learning to drink moderately in a social setting, instead of getting shitfaced on their own in secret somewhere and driving home (you can't drive here till 18, and you can't afford it anyway with gas at $6 a gallon). The news item in the states a few weeks back, about the mother facing two years in jail for serving alcohol to her son's 16-year-old friends ... was greeted with dumbfounded uncomprehension by the Dutch people we mentioned it to (it was no doubt happening all over town as we were talking). Ditto the teen in Georgia doing ten years for consensual oral sex with a 15-year-old. Absolutely incomprehensible here.

* Occasionally, a grocery store runs out of something. I mean. actually. runs. out. There is no diet iced tea today. You are to shrug and drink something else. Once there was no milk.

* You are required to get liability insurance, which pays for your lawyer and settlement if someone tries to sue you, for tripping them on the sidewalk or something.

* The default is dogs are welcome in shops, even restaurants. In places where they are not welcome, you will see a "no dogs" sticker, one of which says, "Alas! I cannot come in!" with a picture of a crying dog.

* If a restaurant is doing renovations, they remain open and everyone works around it. You wince at the hammer blows, duck under the ladders, squeeze past the drywaller, belly up beside the thirsty electrician.

* When you sell your house, you take everything with you: appliances, fixtures. We heard of someone who took their wood floors. We still don't have light fixtures because they took them, and I'm afraid to rewire, not knowing the wire colors yet. Need to get on that.

* Cheese comes in three types: Young, Mature, and Old. All are yummy, but Old is the yummiest.

* The Daily Show is not daily. It's a one-hour best of, shown on Sundays -- on CNN (think about that for a second). In case you were wondering, there is no Fox News Channel, at least not from our cable company. We do get Comedy Central -- with "The Office," "South Park," "The Simpsons," and -- strangely -- "Third Rock from the Sun" and "That Seventies Show." We get about 50 channels, with 10 in English. On Dutch local news, they will find a way, even if they have to go out of their way, to show nudity.

* And we spied this at a nearby corner:

Marilynne reviews Annie Dillard

Marilynne Robinson has a review of the new Annie Dillard novel The Maytrees in the Austin American-Statesman (a reprint from the Washington Post -- couldn't quickly find it on the Post site). Calls it a "classic of cosmic realism." Anyone read the Dillard book or plan to?

Reading is fun-damental

It's that time again. What are you reading, loving, loathing? What has blown your hat off lately? My recent list is this:

Lost City Radio: Daniel's book is sweet. Read it and be proud of him.

The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter: An amazing Southern Gothic read from someone obnoxiously young.

The Exquisite: Diverting, but not as substantial as I had hoped.

The Raw Shark Texts: WTF? How was this such a hit last year -- or maybe that was just on this side of the ocean? Overhyped and disappointing.

The Norton Anthology of Short Fiction, 1978, Ed. R. V. Cassill: I'm about 450 pages into 1400, just going in alphabetical order by author. Two priceless gems unearthed so far: "The Egg" by Sherwood Anderson, which is hilarious, and "The Biggest Band" by R. V. Cassill himself, which is hilarious (who knew? Anyone read one of his books?).

The Collected Stories of Richard Yates: Going slow, maybe one a week, don't want it to end

The Assault by Harry Mulisch: Need to brush up on Dutch writers, and this was a hell of a start

Supernatural by Graham Hancock: Because I am a shark, and it is a bucket of chum

The Wapshot Chronicle: Abandoned this for the second time. How it is possible to be bored by and indifferent to something by Cheever, I don't know, but I was, I was, I was

The Possibility of an Island by Michel Houellebecq: I've talked about this before, but it bears repeating -- an honest, bruising book

The Name of the World: About a third the way in and liking it much better than Resuscitation

Poetry: A Pocket Anthology R. S. Gwynn ed.: Strictly a greatest hits collection. My bathroom book, but I'm not making much headway somehow. Too much roughage? And I didn't know Queen Elizabeth wrote, uh, poetry

The Interloper: Will be reviewing this for Please Don't, about which more to come.

P. S. There is a play about Paul Engle in the works.

in mali: a collection

bamako:
the sky yesterday was dirty white and the air felt heavy and physical, like the whoosh of heat on your cheeks when you open a hot oven. except it was constant. in the afternoon the water comes out of the cold tap hot and everyone stays inside. the buildings are squat and square. mangoes the size of your head on every corner; on every corner people sitting on plastic woven deck chairs pouring tea from one pot to another, and back again, chatting and pouring, a tiny charcoal stove burning to the side.


the worst thing you can say to a Malian is, "You are a bean-eater." They do not like farting.


Some favourite words in Bamabara (and their literal meanings)...
aeroplane = "sana kuru" (a flying canoe)
green = "bin kene" (the colour of fresh herbs)
bicycle = "nege so" (iron horse)
a maid/houseworker = barakaden (child worker!)


A note to the US Ambassador to Mali:
the american embassy here is a fortress and no one, citizen or non, is allowed in except on Thursdays. it makes me wonder what the real purpose of such an embassy is? are there oompaloompas in there making long-range chocolate bombs to send into the Sahara?

De griep

...is what the Dutch call the flu (and the "g" sound is to be made as if you're hacking up a lung). I have recently recovered from a flu that lasted two weeks. Every day I woke up and started drinking Citrosan, which is what they call TheraFlu. The brew would take the edge off the aches and pains, but often not even enough to enable reading. I basically writhed on the bed or couch for two weeks. I would be freezing cold, teeth chattering, and then all of a sudden hot and sweaty. The thing went into my ears and eyes, too. I will spare you the details. Anyway, that's why it's been so quiet around here lately.

In other news, here is a picture of some bike carts we got for the dogs. My brother was worried about their "stricken" looks, but they'll get used it, I just feel sure, given how much the suckers cost (more than we got for our car when we left).

Antoine Wilson's The Interloper

The Interloper has been released and is getting raves ("...It's like leaving a party with a designated driver, only to discover as you swerve down the driveway that your new friend is drunker than you are. Or worse, completely insane." -- LA Times, "As assured and sumptuously written as any first novel I've encountered... clever and compelling.... This is writing at its very best." -- TC Boyle).

Workshop grad, Public Space contributing editor, and sometime commenter here, Antoine Wilson has begun a LA/NY tour of readings (but Prairie Lights in September). There's a nice interview of Antoine here and a picture of him acting like he's eating fish tacos.

2007 Eurovision Song Contest

Click that picture to brighten your day. That's Verka Serduchka.

I'm late with this, but last Saturday was the Eurovision Song Contest, an annual televised pop music event event now in its 52nd year. This time it was held in Helsinki. To watch it, we went to a dinner dance party in Amsterdam hosted by The Undutchables, an employment agency for foreigners like us. The party, held in the sanctuary of an old ex-church, featured a buffet, massages, and a "silent disco," in which folks wore headphones with music playing and danced around in an otherwise quiet room with others who were also wearing the headphones. We didn't do it, but it looked like fun.

In the main hall, two huge screens loomed on either side with the volume up very loud -- so loud, in fact, that it was hard to talk to people, especially given that we didn't know anyone there, so we ended up focusing on the Eurovision Song Contest. The show holds a special place in our hearts, because for the 2000 contest we got very drunk watching it at a bar in Galway, Ireland, nearly ruining the next day's trip to the Aran Island of Inishmaan, where I had planned to propose to traca da broon at Synge's Chair, a seat-like formation somewhere along the rocky shoreline -- but we couldn't find the Chair and we got kind of lost and we were kind of bickering about which rock wall would lead us back to what passed for the town, so, at length, on our return I ended up proposing inside the only place that was open, a large pink hotel/pub. (Incidentally, Ireland has won the Eurovision Song Contest seven times -- two more than any other country.)

Anyway, it's one show they should televise in the States (do they? I've never seen it there) because it has it all: schlock, glitz, kitch, and razzmatazz -- plus sincere, traditional, heartfelt singers belting out their best in what will probably be their one moment of fame. Bands qualify for national heats, and the winner in each country is entered in the contest, but not all of them end up qualifying. Some two dozen acts were chosen for this year's, and at the end of the evening, after all of them have performed, the viewers in all eligible countries phone or text in their votes for the winner. One brilliant, simple rule: You can't vote for your own country.

Famously, ABBA won the contest in 1974 with "Waterloo," launching their career (check out that guitar, btw). Last year, the semi-Satanic Finnish metal band Lordi won with "Hard Rock Hallelujah." This year, many acts were merely okay, not bad, your standard pop songs -- and then Ukraine came on. Everyone was immediately hooked on "Dancing Lasha Tumbai" by Verka Serduchka, a bizarre cross-dressing character of Ukrainian comedian Andriy Danylko, who created an out-of-control spectacle that is much better experienced than described. (According to Serduchka, lasha tumbai is Mongolian for "condensed milk" -- "I want to see (Mongolian) condensed milk.")

Serduchka's outrageous flamboyance created a sensation in the room. I predicted easy victory. However, when the voting was finished, he/she had been narrowly edged out by the Serbian entry, "Molitva" a ballad sung by the obviously talented Marija Serifovic, which was admittedly "better" in terms of actual musical quality, and she probably deserved to win ... but man, at the end of Ukraine's performance my jaw was hanging open and I began cheering wildly. Because that is how it's done, mm-kay? That is a three-minute show. Of course it's silly. But it's also a little scary. And just try to get it out of your head.

I also liked Bulgaria's entry, "Water," a lot and had them as my number two. As far as the lamest goes, I'd give that honor to the UK -- Scootch''s "Flying the Flag," which is, yes, instantly, insanely catchy, but may as well have been a British Airways ad (the song starts about 40 seconds into the clip).

Creating bestsellers

Nice article in the NYT about the financial side of publishing and the difficulty of predicting which books will sell, using Curtis Sittenfeld's Prep as an example of somebody doing something right.

Donnie Osmond is a grandfather

Saw that on TV, checked it with Wikipedia, and ... it seems almost inconceivable, but it is fact.

Free audio of poets reading their work

Want to hear Allen Ginsberg reading "A Supermarket in California" in 1956? How about James Tate reciting "Shut Up and Eat Your Toad"? Check out PennSound, a project at the University of Pennsylvania. It's not complete by any means, but there's enough to put a dent in the available space on your iPod.

Ethan and the cinema

In case you missed it, as I did, Ethan Canin's story (one of my favorites) "Batorsag and Szerelem" was made into a movie called Beautiful Ohio, directed by Chad Lowe and starring William Hurt and Rita Wilson. Ethan also wrote the screenplay (his fourth to be produced). Here's a local newspaper's interview with Ethan in advance of the film's screening at the Sarasota Film Festival. (Anyone seen it?)

While we're on the topic, he also has another film in production, which he also co-wrote, based on his stories "The Year of Getting to Know Us" and "Star Food," called Rockett.

LA Times on Best Young American Novelists

Interesting article in today's LA Times about the Granta list of Best Young American Novelists. Iowa is very well represented. Daniel and Yiyun (whom I haven't met, but everyone raves about) are there, as are ZZ Packer (see Yiyun parenthetical) and Kevin Brockmeier, who was exceedingly gracious when I met him at last year's Virginia Festival of the Book. I knew Rattawut in Ann Arbor when he was in the MFA program at Michigan. Cool guy. And then there are several other people who may or may not have gone to Iowa. No idea.

Anyhow, the article says lots of inflammatory things that I'd like people to comment on now, please. I'll start. An editor at FSG says something that I completely disagree with an am tired of hearing. It was bad enough when The Atlantic jumped on this bandwagon. My question: what are people basing this on exactly? I want to know.

Lorin Stein: "The readership has fractured, and reads less, and spends more time e-mailing. And it makes less sense to talk about novelists now — the really creative writing is being done in other genres" such as the personal essay, reportage and criticism."

Also: some of these people like Jonathan Safran Foer are super famous, and some I've never heard of previous to the list. Anyone adore any of these authors?

OK bye.

Time for a Riot

Sir chad sent me this link the other day, and I had to share the fury. Yes, it's Fox News and it's bad and you'll want to look away. But, seriously, don't turn it off before the final line.

So it goes.

Book recommendation: The Possibility of an Island

I don't often do this, but once in a while a book is so well written (and translated) and stays in my mind so solidly for days or, in this case, weeks, that I feel it would advantage others to be tipped off to it. Such a book is Michel Houellebecq's The Possibility of an Island.

The book has an interesting and unusual plot, but what got me is the narrator. The nastiest, most unlikable one I've encountered since Notes from Underground or Lolita. And yet ... and yet ... did you not secretly, with a perverse shiver, sorta kinda like Humbert, did you not connect via humilation with the Underground Man? I had similar fights with myself over Daniel1, the ex-comedian who sets down his story in most of the book, and Daniel24 and Daniel25, his clones, who finish things up 1000 years later.

Love and lust and growing old among the ruins of moral bankruptcy in the West -- all the Daniels bring down blunt hammers on these topics. I just love honesty in a narrator. There is not a moment of relief here, not a chipper falsehood in sight, not a whiff of sentiment. Yet having Daniel1 be a famous former comedian allows Houellebecq to have some serious fun -- one of his hit sketches is called "We Prefer the Palestinian Orgy Sluts." Add to this a UFO/cloning cult, a nymphomaniac actress, and a scheme by which humans become replaced by neohumans who have replaced eating with photosynthesis and sex with "intermediation," blend it all up good with a rich cynicism that is somehow actually refreshing, and top it off with healthy sprinkles of good old French libertinism, and you have, in my opinion, a tasty -- yet nutritious -- read.

John Updike prissily slammed the book in the New Yorker some time ago, which should only whet your appetite (I could not understand any of his objections). Other critics can't seem to get enough of this precocious writer. I think he has his finger correctly on the pulse of the times. Diagnosis: Species-wide suicidal madness. Prognosis: Terminal. Prescription: Brutal candor.

Oh, and here is the European cover, which is oh so tackily ooh la la, and which, when I brought it out at pubs and cafes, did of course make me feel a bit dirty.



Come on, now, surely you've been reading and want to also share what's getting you worked up nowadays?

Alas, poor Vonnegut

So it goes.

In my teens, I read everything up through Jailbird. His simple writing style, combined with the fact that he was from Indianapolis, made me believe (secretly) that I could become a writer, too. Then in college I decided I had outgrown him and stopped reading his books. Many years later, he came to talk to us at Iowa. He walked into the crowded room, made his way to the table in front, pulled an ashtray from his rumpled coat pocket and clanged it on the table. "You can't smoke in here," he reminded us. "But I can." He told us that the thing writers do is important. He told us we have a responsibility to the people of the world. "Do something worthwhile. Do something that helps us all." He was quiet and intense and earnest. This was not long after September 11.

The world is poorer today. I feel like pouting.

He once wrote down some rules for writing a short story. They are sensible. Here they are:

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things -- reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them -- in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

Rebecca Johns interview

Fellow Goat Rebecca Johns, aka The Lovely Becky, has just returned from the 2007 PEN/Hemingway award ceremony in Boston, where her novel Icebergs was honored as a finalist -- meaning the book was judged to be one of the top three by a first-time novelist. We sat down with her, put our feet up on the Internet, and chatted over this delightful news and other topics. Let's listen in:

EG: Being a finalist for the PEN/Hemingway award must have been tremendously exciting. How did you find out? How do you think this will affect things for you?

RJ: My editor called me the last week in February with the news. I think she was as excited as I was. Of all the editors I spoke to during the time the book was up for sale, she was the one who "got" the kind of book I wanted to write, who believed in it and me, so I think it was a validation for her as well.

As far as how it will affect things, I really don't know. I'm curious about that myself.

EG: Icebergs was recently released in the UK. Have you had feedback from Scottish or British readers yet? How have Canadians reacted to an American writing a Canadian story?

RJ: I have heard from Canadian readers about the book, and their reactions have been very positive. No one's seemed surprised that an American would write about Canada, but then, others have done it before me. Annie Proulx's The Shipping News was set largely in Newfoundland, and Stef Penney, the British author, wrote The Tenderness of Wolves without once having been to Canada. My Canadian relatives all seemed to enjoy the book, and they're as loud and opinionated as I am, so believe me, I would have heard if they'd been displeased.

The British reviews have been extremely positive. It's been interesting to see the book come out there and in Australia and how the process has been different in each place.

EG: The book concerns a family that emigrates from Scotland to Canada, as your own ancestors did. How much of the book is based on your family? What was it like writing about characters from your own family? Is it harder or easier to base characters on people you know (or knew)?

RJ: My grandmother was an emigrant from Scotland as a girl, but aside from her father, who appears in the story pretty much as I remember him, the rest of the characters took on very distinct personalities of their own early on, and that made them easier to write about. The demands of fiction required this change: I discovered I could not write about people I had known and loved well, because they weren't my creations. I couldn't make them behave the way I wanted. In the end the two families in the novel were vastly different from mine in makeup and circumstances. The last generation of the Dunmore family, coming of age in 1999, is completely unrecognizable from my own. I think that's the way it should be, though. I was inspired by people in my own life, as most writers are, but with any luck the end result is art masquerading as life instead of the other way around.

EG: The story takes place in three distinct time periods. How did you decide on that structure, to skip across the years like that?

RJ: The structure was suggested by the very first piece of the novel I wrote, which started out as a short story and is now Chapter Two of the novel. There was a significant jump of time at the end of the short story between the present events and a distant future in which Dottie was an old woman, looking back at that heady time in her life with a sense that something had gone off, that some potential had been lost. The other people in workshop (you included, G!) thought the jump was too sudden, and it was, so I spent the next three years filling in the things that happened in-between. The final scene of the book is almost identical to the final scene in that short story version.

The three-part structure seemed to work because of the three generations of family that ended up in the book. I wanted something that would be large in its scope but intimate in its details, and the three-part structure allowed me to have my cake and eat it too, so to speak. At least, I hope it did.

EG: Icebergs must have taken a ton of research. What kinds of things did you do to research your book?

RJ: I had to do quite a lot of research on two things: B-24 planes and Newfoundland, neither of which I'd ever set foot inside. I had a bunch of old newspaper clippings of my grandfather's plane crash that my grandmother had kept, and I thought those would be enough to help me write the crash scene, but it wasn't--I ended up needing far more detail than I ever thought I would. There is only one B-24 in the world that still flies, and it came through the Midwest in the summer of 2003, so I took a half-hour ride in it out over Lake Michigan and back. That part of the research was fun. So was the trip I took to Newfoundland the next summer, to the Gander air base and St. John's. I saw my first iceberg there. I tried to go on a whale-watching tour, but it was too early in the year for that, so all I managed to find were Arctic birds and a little seasickness. But Newfoundland is unlike any other place I've been to, and it was definitely necessary to have gone. I couldn't write the ending until I'd been there.

Mostly I wrote the scenes I wanted first and went back later to fill in the blanks with research. This method was more efficient than trying to do all the research first, which could easily have taken me ten years.

EG: You've had some odd jobs. Did they "build character" -- or were they struggles you just wanted to get through?

RJ: You mean my stint at McDonald's when I lived in Manhattan? I don't know if that built character, but it certainly got me used to humiliation. After having hookers come in to laugh at you in your little hat and uniform, I have found that book critics just don't seem as threatening.

I worked there the summer after I graduated from college, when the country was in the middle of a recession and no one was hiring. There was a day that summer when I literally wandered Manhattan with $1 in my pocket trying to decide if I should buy something to eat or a lottery ticket. That was a very bad day. I ended up buying something to eat, and the next day I walked into Mickey D's and got a job, because I never wanted to have that feeling again.

I've done all kinds of jobs over the years. I've worked in libraries and waitressed at pizza places and clerked at hospitals and been a stringer for national magazines and written at third-rate newspapers and done almost everything short of selling blood and sex. And each job seemed like the only thing to do at the time. I have to work, though--when I have too much time on my hands I end up wasting it.

EG: How did the workshop affect your writing or your sense of yourself as a writer? What do you feel like you took away from your time in the program?

RJ: I came to the Workshop as someone who already had a career and a mortgage and a marriage, and it was no small thing to pick up and move here and leave most of that behind [not the marriage--ed.], but it also meant I came to Iowa already with a strong sense of what I wanted to accomplish while I was a grad student.

The reason I decided to apply to the Workshop in the first place was that even though I'd written two novels and a bunch of short stories in my twenties, I felt like I had little control over them. I had ideas that I loved, but they seemed to appear on the page too haphazardly to be meaningful. I needed more understanding of craft, and I was right in assuming that the Workshop would provide the guidance I needed in that area. Workshops can't do everything, but they can do that much. Ethan Canin was helpful with things like using flashbacks and writing better dialogue; Sam Chang taught a great class on structure; Marilynne Robinson looked for moral and meaning; Frank Conroy was all about precision in language. Now when I sit down to work I feel I can make better narrative choices, or at least make them consciously, with an understanding of what I'm getting myself into.

EG: We hear you're working on something new. What can you tell us about it?

RJ: I was so exhausted from writing Icebergs that it's taken me a while to figure that out, but lately I'm starting to get back into it, and I might have a couple of things in the works. Surprisingly, because I've never thought of myself as a short story writer, I feel like I might be on the verge of a collection. But of course there's always another novel to write. It's still in the beginning stages, though, so I don't want to ruin the mojo by talking about it too much right now. Mojo is a terrible thing to waste.

Trendy But Casual

The illustrious, inimitable, incomparable Paula Morris has published her third novel, Trendy But Casual, with Penguin New Zealand, which you can (and really ought to) order here, and which has been described as a "sassy and sparkling novel ... a parody of chick-lit novels, a satire of the PR world and a very funny comedy of manners -- or should that be bad manners." She has also started a blog for the book. Let's hear it for T. Middy's shorty!

Worst Poet ever (in pictures)

It's only too bad there aren't any samples of his poems here....

Poetry from Guantanamo

This fall, the University of Iowa Press will publish Poems from Guantánamo: The Detainees Speak.

A sample:

Just as the heart beats in the darkness of the body,
so I, despite this cage, continue to beat with life.
Those who have no courage or honor consider themselves free,
but they are slaves.
I am flying on the wings of thought, and so,
even in this cage, I know a greater freedom.

Abdul Rahim Muslim Dost scratched that one on a styrofoam cup with his fingernail.
(Via DailyKOS diary)

Finding a writing community

One of the things we worried about a little in leaving Iowa and moving here was that we would really miss being with writers, and that if there even were people writing in English in Holland they would be far-flung and hard to find. (I was all set to start stalking Harry Mulisch, who I had heard frequented a local pub here in Haarlem, but it turns out he moved to Amsterdam long ago.)

Then traca de broon found Words in Here, and I wrote to Robert Glick who met me at a cafe in Amsterdam and started recommending some European writers, such as Michel Houellebecq, whom I had never heard of but whose novel The Possibility of an Island I am now halfway through and really digging. I delivered a standard list of American writers he should be reading, and several of the names were unfamiliar to him. So already a substantial exchange has begun. His group publishes a literary magazine called Versal and runs workshops. T and I went to their monthly get-together at this lovely bookshop last Thursday and then down the street to a cozy bar for more talking and pizza and beer and pool playing.

The participants were poets and fiction writers and a few others simply interested in writing. The ones who showed up that night come from Australia, California, Curacao, Montana, France, South Africa, Holland, and Germany. Some are beginners, some are published -- but the main point is they all live here and have found each other.

P.S. The photo for this post has nothing to do with writing. It's the new statue of the "unknown sex worker" that was unveiled in the red light district during an "open day" this weekend. We were there, but the little square by the Old Church was too crowded to actually get a look -- yes, the statue stands proudly in the courtyard around the church. This photo is the first look I've had of it.

What a difference an ocean makes

Which do you think is the cover for the U.S. edition of Time this week (Apr. 2, 2007), and which is the cover of the edition on sale down the street here?

You are allowed one guess.

Got a hankerin' for Austin?

cek, whom Google is messing with in terms of logging in and returning as a contributor, asks that the following be put up:

If anyone's interested in moving to Austin for a year for a creative writing
teaching gig at Texas State University in San Marcos (twenty minutes outside
of Austin), email me directly (cristina at cristinahenriquez dot com) and I'll give you more info.

war on terror the board game

http://www.waronterrortheboardgame.com



I have yet to play this, though I hear there is a spinner that is spun before the game begins to determine which countries are The Axis of Evil.

Definitely check out the Secret Messages if you have a minute!
Cheers, Fid

YouTube Awards

You can vote for best people-powered videos for a couple more days (till March 23). If you've ever wondered, "What's good on YouTube?" -- this is your one-stop link to see the best of 2006 in various categories. It should go without saying that it's way better than the Academy Awards was. Some really amazing stuff. (And with no TV yet, it's filling a void.)

This one, just as one example, in which this guy takes a picture of himself every day, in the same way, for more than six and a half years, and then flows them all into one long stream. Something very affecting about it. His eyes. His hair looks like it's underwater. The video quality gets better and better (he probably went through a few cameras). You can tell when he hasn't shaved for a few days, when he's moved to a different apartment, when he's on vacation. I felt a real sadness. By the end of not even six minutes I felt like I knew him. Nice work, Noah, whoever you are.

The dike thing

From Time magazine, June 19, 1950.

He looked up and saw a small hole in the dike through which a tiny stream was flowing. Any child in Holland will shudder at the thought of a leak in the dike! . . . That little hole, if the water were allowed to trickle through, would soon be a large one, and a terrible inundation would be the result. Quick as a flash he saw his duty . . . His chubby little finger was thrust in almost before he knew it. The flowing was stopped! "Ah!" he thought, with a chuckle of boyish delight, "the angry waters must stay back now! Haarlem shall not be drowned while I am here!"

Haarlem was not drowned. The little boy stayed at the dike all night, too cold even to whistle and attract the attention of passersby, until he was found in the morning and the hole was plugged. Thus, in Hans Brinker or, The Silver Skates (1865), Mary Mapes Dodge told the legend of the sluicer's son who became "The Hero of Haarlem." The practical Dutch pointed out that the story was not true and technically quite implausible. But Americans visiting The Netherlands invariably asked to see the place where the little boy had put his finger in the dike.

Haarlem shuffle

The first picture is a side street around here, and the second is Gedempte Raamgracht, our street.

Click here for a live view of the Grote Markt, the big square here in Haarlem. It updates every five seconds, but you have to refresh the page yourself. The big church on the right, St. Bavo's, is awfully impressive. Mozart once played the organ there. At least once a day I walk or bike through that square. You may get lucky and see me! That would make you, as I mentioned, very lucky.

Today is my birthday. I'm 39 -- again.

I'm okay, Eurokay

That's something I tore from yesterday's paper.

I'll try to steer clear of the hassle stuff and focus on the surprisingly fun -- actually too fun -- week I've had, though at the beginning there was a last-minute drama involving vets and certificates and the USDA office, but at the end of the journey the dogs were fine, even though I tipped over Luka's crate at Schiphol airport. Hilariously, customs didn't question any of the paperwork that we had unexpectedly spent the day chasing all over Massachusetts.

From the airport Tuesday morning, Tony, my ride, drove us to the house, where I met the sellers, a tall couple who make hanging cradles for babies, and the two real estate agents again, and I "inspected" the house and signed stuff in Dutch, and then their little girl ceremoniously handed me the key (they had clearly practiced it). That first day, which was the second day because I hadn't slept on the plane, was hell on the dogs and me, and we kind of clung to each other during the afternoon, and went to Poop Hill many times, which is what we call the grassy canal bank at the end of the street that is a "Losloopplaats," a "loose run place," but which functions as a toilet. Angry ducks flap at the dogs from the water. I sure as hell am not ready to let the dogs "loop vrij en spelen" -- "run free and play" -- as the sign urges me to. Buses, bikes, scooters, cars, little old ladies, other dogs are all over the place. Not to mention the canal itself, which looks like a swimming pool to The Real Grendel.

I took them home and, although exhausted, to avoid going to bed yet (it was seven) I went and got something to eat and then went to the nearest bar to the house, a typical little cafe on a cobblestone corner, with lit candles on each of the four empty outdoor tables, even though a light rain was falling. Inside I could see seven or eight men, obviously regulars, and one woman, sitting at the bar. I walked in and went up to the bar and ordered a beer.

When they heard my accent, they immediately switched to English. "The bar is new -- Erik made it! He put it in just today!" Erik sat to my right. Erik, after hearing my name, started reciting a poem by La Fontaine, something about "Corbeaux"? "So you are the crow," he said when he was done with his French, "and you have a piece of cheese, and the fox below says, oh crow, you sing so beautifully! Sing me a song! And when you open your mouth to sing, you drop the cheese, and the fox eats it."

"Pretty much."

After two hours he said, "Go get your dogs."

"Yes," I agreed, standing up. I could feel a drop of beer glittering on my bottom lip, which was twisted in sudden determination. "Yes, they need to become citizens, too."

I went home and got the excited dogs. Brought them back to the bar. Let them off leash. They walked around sniffing the Dutch people. Erik praised them. "We made it!" I kept saying to them, and rubbing their heads. Before long, they were looking sleepy, though, and when I wasn't sure I could stand up much longer, I took them home and blew up the inflatable mattress. See, all our furniture is in storage -- not that we brought our bed. But the blow-up mattress worked, and first things first, such as the closing the following morning, which went off without a hitch.

But then began a series of banking, Internet, telephone, mobile phone, customs, city registration, insurance, credit card, and washing machine challenges. Those were three dark days. And rainy.

By Friday night I had kicked jet lag. I finished my business for the day and at dusk went to three of the the four bars, one by one, that were open on a nearby square called the Botermarkt (the Butter Market, where butter was once marketed). I had a small glass of beer at each one. Then I decided to check out the coffeeshop on the corner -- Cafe Easy Going -- for the first time. The sign outside had a picture of a tired turtle. I asked for the "mildest, lightest" thing they had and puffed on it tentatively at one of the two booths, a black leather seat curved around an aluminum table.

It was a small place -- more or less a living room with a non-alcoholic bar where you buy weed. Riddick was playing on a flat TV on the wall, and underneath it four Dutch youths were playing foosball. The "buzztender" was a straight-backed blonde young man. I sat at that aluminum table and watched that movie, which was subtitled in Dutch, and I vowed to really begin learning Dutch all over again. But the volume was too low, so I saw the Dutch but couldn't quite connect the English dialog I couldn't hear. And the foosball table was loud, and the guys were laughing and groaning and saying, "Alsjeblief! Alsjeblief!" (Please! Please!)

I kept reaching for a beer. Which they don't sell. One drug at a time, people!

Random folks came in. Kids, late teens, early twenties, and a couple of older fellas. And it was just freaking wonderful. The movie had these praying mantis aliens, and Riddick's eyes were weird, and I was finally relaxing. But I kept reaching for my beer -- which was not there. How could it not be there? But it wasn't. I tried to ignore my increasing thirst. I could have bothered the buzztender, who was watching Riddick, too, for a water or tea, but darn it, it was Friday night and I had just moved to another continent, so when the flow of people in and out was properly calibrated, I stood and said, "I keep reaching for my beer" and put on my coat.

"You should have one!" the barman said.

"You're right! I believe I will."

It was nine-thirty or so when I went to the one bar I hadn't yet gone to. I sat at a table out on the clear plexiglass-windowed, awninged patio and watched the Botermarkt. Think of a nighttime brick square, with bikes rolling down the middle of it, groups of young people gathered around a parked scooter eating fries with mayonnaise and laughing, people toting home bags and takeout orders, scooters zooming by exactly when it gets too quiet, a closed-up fishmarket cart from earlier in the day. That was the Botermarkt.

So then last night I was at Mulligan's, an Irish bar in Amsterdam, meeting people I hadn't seen in a long time -- Tony and two other guys from Donegal, Liam and Kevin. Tony is married to Dorinde, and Liam is dating her twin sister. They were watching the Ireland-Scotland rugby match. Extended sentences in English were very nice to hear again. I believe I talked their ears off. I believe I talked about philosophy and religion and science and politics. And they did, too! And the pints kept coming.

When I finally said I needed to go back to the train station, to get back to Haarlem and the dogs, they said they had to go to the station, too, and surely we could just drop by a coffeeshop on the way. We went outside, and they got on their bikes.

"You're riding with me," said Liam.

And then, dang it, I was on the back of a bike being piloted by a drunk Irishman through the streets of Amsterdam. At night. "Who are you?" Liam kept screaming back at me, pedaling faster. "Get the fuck off my bike!" I had no idea where we were headed. I couldn't see around him. There was nowhere to put my feet, so I just held them up. For a minute I was shrieking with laughter, then I was I grasping the bones of his hips with my eyes closed. When he stopped, I staggered off, stiff, sore, stimulated, lucky to be alive. I looked around -- we were right in front of a coffeeshop and right across the street from the train station.

"I can't believe you just drove me to the station on your bike!"

"I can't either!"

We went inside. They indulged, but I did not. Loud techno sounded. Finally, we went across to the station and said goodbye. I found my train and waited on the platform. Late at night the trains are less frequent. I was lucky and got one quickly. I sat down in my seat and leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes. Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World" popped up on my mental iPod. I forgot that I had my real iPod in my coat pocket.

Next thing I knew, I jerked awake. The train was in some station. It looked like Haarlem's. I jumped onto the platform as the doors were closing. It was Haarlem's.

Today, the dogs let me sleep in till eight. We went to Poop Hill. And then I took a train to Zandfoort, the nearest beach town, and had a strong, tiny coffee and reread "The Diamond as Big as the Ritz" on an outdoor patio. All I'm missing is traca (pronounced "trassa") de broon, who is off to San Francisco and still more than a week away from arriving here. Thank God for Skype.

You are all welcome to come and stay. Not at the same time.

New Blogger issues

Because I finally decided that I would rather switch than fight, I finally switched this to the new Blogger Beta. As you can see, some of the Contributors are gone. That's because Google, which owns Blogger, is now forcing people to sign in with their Google account. Contributors will come back, supposedly, as they sign in with Google accounts.

If you can't sign in to post or comment, or are just confused, try going here and signing in with your Google account (a Gmail account is actually a Google account, so that works). If you don't have one, the page should prompt you to create one.

If you just don't want to get a Google account for whatever reason, you can still log in, for now, using your old Blogger account by going here. I think this will also prompt you to convert to a Google account on your way. You should do it -- maybe. Give it the old once over.

I'm sorry for the hassle. I put this off as long as possible so that the first wave of bugs would be worked out before switching this blog. Progress -- it eventually swallows us all.

AWP+NYC+2008=AWESOME?

Anyone interested in putting together an AWP panel once more? The proposals are due by May 1 -- and yes, the conference is in NYC, which is excellent. Jan 30-Feb 2. Should be a good time.

See ya, guys!

Have fun doing the Double Dutch.

Keep Holland real.

For the life of me, I can't figure out how to post an MP3 -- so here's a version I can post -- although it involves visuals.

Just close your eyes, I suppose.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vbpURBJA4uA

Icebergs named a Hemingway Foundation/PEN Award finalist

The lovely Rebecca Johns and her debut novel, Icebergs, have been named a finalist for the 2007 Hemingway Foundation/PEN Award. She joins fellow Goat Daniel Alarcon as a PEN/Hemingway finalist.

The PEN New England site hasn't officially posted the news, but former Dallas Morning News book critic Jerome Weeks announced it on his blog, BookDaddy. So I'm breaking the news here.

Unconfessed by Yvette Christianse was the other finalist, and Brief Encounters with Che Guevara by Ben Fountain took home the prize.

Last post from America

Tomorrow, due to an ill-timed mandatory California business trip on the part of traca de broon's employer, the two dogs and I are embarking on our move to Haarlem, The Netherlands -- alone, to be followed by Ms. de broon two weeks later.

Our bare house is there, ready to move in, though it will be "several weeks" before our furniture, etc. is released from Customs. The money for the mortgage has been transferred, I think (have not heard back from the bank). The dogs have had certain shots and have certain certificates filled out. I am mostly packed, I think. Nearly a year of stress and uncertainty is finally lurching toward a spectacular, frothing crescendo. What could possibly go wrong?

Stay tuned.

Lecture on Sunday

Passing along a note from T-Bone, who, having switched her account to Google, is unable to post here anymore. This is Google's way of "nudging" us toward the New Beta of Blogger. Anyway, she says, and I quote:

If any of you are lucky enough to be in the I.C. on Sunday, you can check out my boss (aka KPC), at his Presidential Lecture. - T-Bone

Enter the Barrelhouse Power Ballad Contest

Details are here. You have till April 1. If you win, they're gonna record it and post it on the site, dude!

Daniel Alarcon reading tonight

Our illustrious compadre will be reading from his new novel Lost City Radio, 7pm, Prairie Lights. It would be cool if an IC resident could post a summary of how it went for those of us who can't go...

How many Bush administration officials does it take to change a lightbulb?

Ten.

1. One to initially deny that the light bulb needs to be changed.

2. One to attack the patriotism of anyone who says the light bulb needs to be changed.

3. One to blame Clinton for burning out the old light bulb.

4. One to explain how the administration has actually had a strong light bulb-changing policy all along.

5. One to tell the nations of the world that they are either for changing the light bulb or they are for darkness.

6. One to give a billion-dollar no-bid contract to Halliburton for the new light bulb.

7. One to arrange a photograph of Bush, dressed as a janitor, standing on a stepladder under the banner "Light Bulb Change Accomplished."

8. One to resign and write a book about how Bush was literally "in the dark."

9. One to smear #7 on FoxNews.

10. One to change the wrong light bulb.

Author unknown - found on the Internets

Youthful scribblings

I discovered the following piece while sorting through my files in preparation for our impending move. It is not dated, but the handwriting style suggests my late teens, placing this somewhere in the mid 80s -- probably 1986, when The Fly came out. I was struck, on rereading it, by certain themes that have stayed with me and was helpless to resist indulging in a bit of Freudian self-analysis. The pre-Saunders Saundersesque style, which I figure must have been the Vonnegut at work in my lizard brain, is also notable and recalls a whole absurdist period in my writing which I had nearly forgotten about. It is a cliche-ridden waste product of a flabby mind blasted to ruin from tens of thousands of hours of television and, probably, a multi-drug hangover. But I decided to type it out and post it in the hopes that others may be inspired to come forward with their own early writing efforts. The more glib, awkward, juvenile, or ridiculous, the better!

Mrs. Mason's Animalizer

One day George stormed into his parents' bedroom. "I've decided I want to become an animal," he told them.

Mrs. and Mrs. Small were performing the experiment again. His father detached the nozzle, pulled off his safety goggles, and looked at his son with rare curiosity. "Interesting. You'll need an Animalizer."

Mrs. Small popped her cherubic face out of the hatch and said, "Old Mrs. Mason down the street has one."

So the three of them marched down to Mrs. Mason's house.

"Yes, but which animal?" inquired Mrs. Mason. "It's important."

George hadn't spent much time thinking about this part. He scratched his head. "Oh, I don't care," he said finally. "A moose maybe. Or a cricket."

Mrs. Small spoke up. "Are crickets animals?"

Mr. Small cleared his throat and announced firmly: "They are insects."

Old Mrs. Mason led them along a long dark narrow hallway. George noticed a peculiar odor.

"If you notice a peculiar odor," Mrs. Mason called over her shoulder, "that is my husband's decaying corpse. Five days now. Haven't had a free moment to bury him. Everybody wants the Animalizer these days."

They continued in silence for another few hundred feet. The path seemed to follow no predictable course, but George felt that they were gradually descending into the earth. The air was getting colder.

"How did the old boy go?" asked Mrs. Small.

"Natural causes. Ah, here we are."

Old Mrs. Mason flipped on a light. They were in a large room with green walls. In the middle of the room stood a contraption which resembled a refigerator covered with an intimidating snarl of pipes and wiring. Reverently, Mrs. Mason said, "Behold the Animalizer. Young man, I believe you selected the noble cricket?"

George nodded.

The old woman pulled a lever and adjusted some knobs. The Animalizer began to emit a low electric hum. Then she opened the door. "There isn't much time," said said. "Bid farewell to your parents and step into the machine."

"Is it safe?" inquired Mrs. Small.

"Of course it's safe!" snapped Mr. Small.

George addressed his parents. "Mother, Father, I thank you for taking care of me during my youth. I thank you for nurturing in me those attributes that I have so admired in you: steadfastness, an ardent sense of adventure, and a respect for God and country. I hereby pledge to maintain those high standards in my new life as a cricket."

Mrs. Small burst into tears. Mr. Small gently gripped George's shoulder. "Son," he said gravely, "Godspeed to you!"

"It is time," declared Mrs. Mason.

George stepped into the Animalizer, and Mrs. Mason closed the door. She quickly began working upon the console, snapping circuits closed, manipulating sensitive antennae, and fine tuning slide controls.

Mr. Small was visibly impressed and became extremely excited. His eyes darted over the apparatus, settling at last on a large red knob near his hand. "What does this one do?" he asked, turning the knob sharply to the right.

"Fool!" cried Mrs. Mason, lunging at him. The low hum rose steadily in pitch. Mrs. Small quivered and threw her hands up to cover her face. The noise of the Animalizer grew into a deafening buzz. The machine was wobbling. There was a burning smell. Mr. Small, panicking, spun the red knob frantically in the opposite direction.

Old Mrs. Mason regained herself and hobbled swiftly to the main power switch and threw it. The Animalizer shut down with a whine. The door swung open, and smoke poured out. A gruesome figure emerged. It was a hideous six-foot cricket with George's head fastened atop the black hard shelled insect body. Mrs. Small screamed.

The George-cricket sprang forward, tore off his father's arm, and began to gnaw on it.

"I deserve this, I deserve this," George's father repeated over and over as he died.

Incredibly Evocative Lines

Right now, I have a favorite Hold Steady line I bellow on my way to work every morning -- namely, "she was a really cool kisser and she wasn't all that strict of a Christian" -- I adore this line -- it takes me back to all sorts of events in my life, and whatever weird, scary, or wonderful feelings I was having at the time.

A few nights ago, Lump and I were talking about other great, evocative lines that are in some ways inherently meaningless, but are ultimately so meaningful they almost knock you over. Although I'm sure there are plenty from poetry, as is our wont, we were talking about music and how much we like "I feel like a stray from your cannonball days" by Ryan Adams and "I've got a hurricane in my pocket, but no one will believe me" by Drivin' n Cryin' -- two lines that immediately shoot us back to our late teens/early twenties, when life was scary, brutish, chemically altered, and completely about possibility. "Cannonball days" -- is that not a perfect description of those times?

So, oh sage writers of the Internet, what are some of your favorite lines?