I hadn't gone to a book reading in a while.
Chris Kaye, a writer whose acquaintance I made in the last year, sent word about a reading he was scheduled to give - at an Irish pub in Murray Hill. He has an essay in a book, titled, What Would MacGyver Do?: True Stories of Improvisational Genius in Everyday Life. (Not sure about the use of the question mark followed by the colon to separate the title from subtitle there.)
Chris' essay is called, "Sic Transit Rodentia," and in it he recounts the tale of an enterprising mouse who occupied his NYC apartment, much to his then-wife's horror. I won't give away more than that. If you're interested, hit Amazon. I'd read the essay well before the book was published, and it's solid. Chris and I have discovered our mutual dislike of the gerund, and writers' over-reliance on adverbs. Is that pointy-headed enough?
I arrived at the pub minutes before Chris read. He was first up. We exchanged quick hello's before he was called up to the microphone.
The shepherd of the collection (ah, collections: anathema to most publishing imprints anymore) was an editor of Esquire Magazine. Following Chris, two other contributors to the volume would read.
The crowd of not more than twenty-five people, most bespectacled in dark-rimmed glasses (yes, me too, guilty), turned to the back of the wood-plank-floored room, those standing gently moving their weight from one foot to the other.
Chris' clever essay hit the mark with scattered chuckles and laughs among the group - which turned out to be friends and family.
The second writer to read, Susan Burton, a young blond-bobbed (bespectacled, yes), read her essay, "A Girl's Guide to Mending the Unmendable."
(Let's just say that the improvisational genius as given in the subtitle suggests a wider toolkit application than actual, physical items at any of the writer's disposal.)
Miss Burton was introduced as a contributor (I think I heard it right, apologies if not) to National Public Radio's "This American Life," the radio show adored by literary types, and that airs quirky, literary, often comic, and often poignant stories. It was a platform for David Sedaris before he became a rock star.
Her story was about how she got over a hometown summer love. I didn't start when she described riding her a mountain bike along the foothills, but I did jerk-to when she mentioned a semi-organic supermarket called Alfalfa's. (If it's the one I'm thinking of, it's a Wild Oats now.)
Boulder, Colorado.
Then she mentioned rich white wives who shopped there, with their multi-carat diamond wedding rings.
Bang. That's Boulder alright. Boulder, the town of remnant hippies, who get up in your face and in their smug, self-satisfied, sanctimonious ways, preach to you about how to live your life. Those, coupled with wealthy residents, who would just as soon keep the Mexican laborers living outside Boulder city limits. Classic N.I.M.B.Y.
Those attitudes drove me nuts during the three-plus years I lived there (running an imprint of yep, an NYC-based book publishing company). The mountains are glorious, the sunsets over the ridges are jaw-dropping for the grandeur of red and orange colors behind the shadow of the Rockies. But the people there? With the exception of a select few friends, European ex-pats, the serious outdoor professionals, and another subset of professors or researchers at the university, the population of that town (make no mistake - that place is a town) made me grind my teeth.
Anyway. Miss Burton held forth, her story self-conscious and youthful, sounding more like an unfinished work than a fully-realized piece.
The last reader, Stewart Engesser, was introduced, and among his attributes (something about science - I wish I had listened better, dammit), the final was that he drove all the way from Maine. Now, anyone who has lives in the great United States west knows that long drive is defined by one that exceeds ten hours. Maine to New York? Heck, that ain't nothing.
Mr. Engesser was laugh-out-loud funny: his story's set-up was pitch-perfect, and his clever turns of phrase maintained that tone right up to its ending. It's called: "Como se Dice Acetylene Torch?" (imagine the Spanish language use of one upside down question mark at the beginning of the title, and and upright one at the end), and is about an almost hapless auto-breakdown on the Henry Hudson Parkway (em, more commonly, the West Side Highway), after a long night of drinking - in a seersucker suit (ah, Bill Styron's Stingo).
I didn't stay much longer afterward. Apparently, an NPR journalist was there to interview Mr. Engesser, something I learned that Mr. Engesser arranged himself - he's promoting another of his works.
And I thought: Missed opportunity for the publisher. Where was the publicist? Why hadn't the publicist used the opportunity, "MacGyver'd" the situation to get wider promotion, interviews with the other two writer-readers, right there and then, for NPR?
Alas. My take-away is this. I love book publishing. The industry was so good to me for more than two decades. But there, in that dark-lit, booze-patina'd pub, all I could think, was: "How quaint."
Perhaps the book will sell out it initial print run, whatever that may be. Perhaps it will make it into a second printing. But more likely, it will be a nicety, a lovely little book that never stood the chance of reaching a mainstream audience, for all its mainstream title, and for all its talented, well-connected, contributors.
Chris Kaye will produce killer screenplays. I have a strong feeling about that.
Maybe Miss Burton will write whatever is supposed to be the next "it" after chick-lit.
And Mr. Engesser should be on camera, or behind one. Oh wait, he does that already.
Here's hoping. For more.
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