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Monthly Archives: April 2014

Book Review: Modern Baptists

28 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by ghosteye3 in book review, fiction, Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

confederacy of dunces, james wilcox, louisiana, modern baptists, plot for pridemore, reviews, southern fiction, Stephen Roth, tula springs

untitled (5)Poor Bobby Pickens. His doctor has diagnosed him with malignant cancer, his half-brother, F.X., has moved in after being been released from Angola Prison, and Bobby is in danger of losing his job as assistant manager at the Sonny Boy Bargain Store in Tula Springs, Louisiana.

If that doesn’t sound particularly funny, read on for a few pages and see why Bobby Pickens (or “Mr. Pickens” as he is usually addressed) might be the most amusing Southern anti-hero since Ignatius Reilly in Confederacy of Dunces. James Wilcox’s Modern Baptists is filled with small-town dreamers: the handsome and Hollywood-obsessed F.X., the stuck-up and leggy red-head Toinette, and the big-hearted and big-boned Burma, who is about to be married but can’t shake her longing for another man.

We see all of these characters through the very shallow lens of Mr. Pickens, a chubby, middle-aged man with a bad comb-over, several layers of self-pity, and an unfortunate talent for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. We follow him through one awkward social encounter after another. Bobby Pickens is like most of us on our worst days: unsteady, unkempt, self-conscious but yet hopelessly unaware of that piece of toilet paper sticking to the bottom of our shoe. That’s every day for Mr. Pickens, and it’s sometimes a wonder he can pick himself up from the plastic-covered love seat in his elderly mother’s house.

James Wilcox wrote Modern Baptists in the early 1980s, and many critics have hailed it as one of the finest novels you may not know about. GQ magazine’s 45th anniversary edition rated it as one of the best works of fiction in the past 45 years. It certainly must be one of the funniest. Wilcox has a dry delivery that lets you in on his characters’ flaws without being heavy-handed about it. Watching two residents of Tula Springs interact is like watching a chess match between a pair of barely sober checkers players. Each has a different agenda, and each is certain that he or she is achieving it. Yet Wilcox gives you just enough information to know that no one is winning much of anything. I haven’t laughed so hard reading a book in a long time.

Bobby Pickens suffers countless indignities. The other characters beat on him like a tetherball through most of the 239 pages. In one scene when Mr. Pickens kneels with another man to pray in a darkened bedroom, you cringe in anticipation of the embarrassment that is sure to come.

Through all the defeats, however, the main character of Modern Baptists carries on and maybe even earns a smidgeon of dignity along the way. If not a hero, he at least becomes someone you can root for. That is what makes Wilcox’s book a study in humanity as well as humor.

The Story Behind the Photo (Maybe)

24 Thursday Apr 2014

Posted by ghosteye3 in fiction, humor, photo fiction, satire, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

1990s, 1991, friendship, high school, hormones, lolapalooza, love, lust, r.e.m., summer, teens

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This picture was taken sometime during the summer before senior year. We called ourselves “The Group” that summer, and we did everything together. Or maybe it’s better to say we went everywhere together: Six Flags, Lolapalooza, baseball games, the beach at Hightower Lake, the big July 4th fireworks show. Jeremy was a ticket-taker at the Omni 6 multiplex, and he let us in for free if it wasn’t too busy. The Group saw a lot of great movies that way: Terminator 2, Thelma and Louise, Bill & Ted Go to Hell, The Naked Gun 2. Okay, so maybe they weren’t all great movies.

We were smart kids, but we weren’t nerds. We had friends who were popular and accepted us, but we were never in the cool crowd. We were ambitious. We talked a lot that summer about SATs and college applications, about how great it would be to go somewhere like Stanford or Duke or NYU, anyplace far away from Cantering Hills and its suburban ranch-house sameness. We shared a few of our secrets and insecurities with each other, but there was little talk about The Group enduring past senior year. We were all headed in different directions to realize different dreams.

Things started getting weird in late August. That was around the time of the infamous Saturday night sleepover at Shawn’s house. Someone brought a case of Keystone, and I think it was Jennifer who scored a 2-liter of Purple Passion. Most of us crashed on the king-size bed in the master bedroom and, at some point during the night, Shawn and Lexie hooked up. Shawn claimed he unsnapped Lexie’s bra, but Lexie swore that wasn’t true–it was just a lot of making out and maybe a little dry humping. Nobody took their clothes off, she said. At any rate, The Group was never quite the same after that.

That was followed by Jeremy’s Big Crush on Jennifer, an obsession that lasted six weeks and one that Jennifer did not reciprocate. At one point Jeremy made her a mixed tape titled “Shiny/Happy,” which contained the usual dreary alternative songs about heartbreak and rejection. That tape sat in Jen’s Mazda for a whole year but I don’t think she ever listened to it. Everything came to a head after the Fort Mill football game. Jeremy got into a fifth of Wild Turkey and decided to T-P the big oak tree in Jen’s front yard. Unfortunately, her father woke up before Jeremy could unleash all his rolls, and he chased Jeremy down the street while brandishing a 5-iron.

The Group still hung out that fall, usually Saturday nights at the Flowery Branch access on the lake. But the gatherings were less frequent and more awkward. The end came on a chilly November night in the high school parking lot. I had just finished band practice and was heading back to my car with French horn in hand when Jeremy stopped me.

“I don’t want to be your friend anymore,” he said.

I felt a tightness in my throat. I knew what this was about.

“What are you talking about?” I asked anyway.

“The way you treated Todd,” he said. “That was cold. I talked to Shawn about it and he agrees. We don’t want to hang out with you anymore.”

Jeremy was referring to Todd Baker, the sixth member of The Group. I knew Todd had a crush on me. I had known it since the beginning of the summer when we went swimming in the lake and he kept running his hands through my wet, tangled hair. At the movies, Todd would always find a way to sit next to me and sometimes he would thread his popcorn buttered fingers into mine. I finally let him kiss me on the bus ride back from an Honor Society rally we all attended. He had thin lips and was a delicate, almost cautious kisser. We never did anything after that, but now he was pissed off because I was seeing Darren Barnhorse.

“You led him on,” Jeremy said. “You shouldn’t treat Todd like that. He’s your friend.”

“Exactly,” I said, striding toward my Volkswagen Rabbit. “We’re friends, and that’s it.”

I made it to my car and reached for the door handle, but Jeremy blocked me. He leaned in, his breath smelling faintly like a bean burrito. It was 5:30, and the sky had a purplish tint. It felt like it could rain at any moment.

“You think you’re so cool, don’t you?” he said. Then he pressed his lips against mine, hard. It was an angry kiss, but I more than held my own. I pulled away after a few seconds, or maybe it was a few minutes. Jeremy stepped aside and I got into my car and cranked the ignition. He offered a tiny wave as I backed out–not the kind of gesture someone gives you when they don’t want to be friends anymore.

I drove off with two thoughts in my brain: 1.) I had left my French horn somewhere on the asphalt parking lot and, 2.) The Group was seriously fucked.

 

 

A Promo for Pridemore

18 Friday Apr 2014

Posted by ghosteye3 in A Plot for Pridemore, fiction, my life, Uncategorized

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a plot for pridemore, amazon, author, barnes & noble, fiction, georgia, humor, kansas city, literary, mercer university press, missouri, novel, satire, southern fiction, Stephen Roth

As has already been exhaustively reported in these pages, my novel, A Plot for Pridemore, will be released in a few weeks. The book went to press on April 9, so we are right on schedule for publication at the end of May.

If you want to read my book but you aren’t too keen on buying a copy, you can enter a “giveaway” contest right here on GoodReads.com. Just click “Enter to Win” and you will be part of a digital raffle that will determine the winners of six copies of my book, which I will ship out along with a thank you note on June 14.

PlotForPridemore (2)If you ARE interested in buying my book, you can pre-order it on any of the following websites: Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, and MUPress.org. Once the book is published, you can order it in digital form as a Kindle book or a Nook book.

If you happen to live in the Kansas City area or you plan to travel here soon, I am lining up a few book signings and readings over the course of the summer. I’m having a book launch party on June 14 at The Writers Place in midtown Kansas City. On June 21, I’ll be signing books at the Barnes & Noble in the Zona Rose shopping center. And on Aug. 15, I will do a 20-minute (gulp!) reading from my book at a special evening event at The Writers Place.

I am hoping to schedule more events soon to help promote the book, including a few gigs in the South this fall. I’ll keep y’all posted. Let me know if you have any thoughts on booksellers that might welcome A Plot for Pridemore to their stacks. I am willing to try anyone and anything (as long as it doesn’t cost too much).

Live From New York, It’s Saturday Tripe!

10 Thursday Apr 2014

Posted by ghosteye3 in media, Uncategorized

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jimmy fallon, late night TV, lorne michaels, nbc, saturday night live, television

Have you ever sat in church, listening to the same pastor you’ve listened to for four years, and thought to yourself, why am I here? I’ve heard this sermon at least six times before. Why am I going through the motions like this? I could be at home in bed or eating chocolate chip pancakes right now.

The evil genius behind the most unoriginal show on TV today.

The evil genius behind the most unoriginal show on TV today.


I had a similar feeling last weekend as my wife and I sat down to watch our weekly recording of Saturday Night Live. About halfway through the show, I thought to myself, why are we doing this? I don’t even enjoy this show anymore. In fact, I don’t think I’ve enjoyed it in at least two years.

As we know, Saturday Night Live has gone through all sorts of incarnations in the almost 40 years it has been on the air. There have been bad seasons and good seasons, and just so-so seasons of Saturday Night Live. The problem with the show now, in my opinion, isn’t the cast or the guest stars. It’s the plotting and the writing. Saturday Night Live has become more formulaic and devoid of innovation than ever before.

Here’s a summary of the formula:

1. Opening political sketch that usually runs for five minutes before the first joke.
2. Guest monologue with a cutesy song-and-dance number that includes a cameo of Lorne Michaels.
3. Game show parody.
4. Talk show parody.
5. A music video parody that hasn’t been the same since Andy Samberg left.
6. Musical guest.
7. Talk show parody.
8. Weekend Edition.
9. My wife or I usually fall asleep.

Anyway, last Saturday night, after watching about an hour of this, I stood up and declared, “Saturday Night Live sucks. I’m not going to watch it anymore.”

My wife did not disagree.

We have started recording Jimmy Fallon instead. So far, I think he’s been pretty funny.

They Always Bring Food

08 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by ghosteye3 in fiction, humor, Uncategorized

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author, casseroles, death, family, fiction, food, insurance, marriage, mourning, plot for pridemore, Stephen Roth

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Cynthia had been gone less than a week when the casserole ladies starting showing up at Frank’s door.

Deborah Rhinehart was the first one. Frank had just dropped the last batch of relatives off at the airport and was looking forward to spending some time alone. Pulling onto the gravel drive, he spotted Deborah’s beige Chrysler New Yorker parked in front of his house. He thought about shifting into reverse and heading back into town, but it was too late. Deborah was already trotting toward his pickup, a deep glass dish brimming with chicken enchilada casserole in her hands.

“Frank, I am so sorry,” she said as he stepped out of the truck. “This was so sudden.”

Frank nodded, not knowing what to say. Cynthia had battled cancer for two long years. That didn’t seem very sudden to him. He knew Deborah meant well. She was a portly woman in her early 60s with a quick, gleaming smile. Her husband, Emmett, died of a heart attack six years ago. He collapsed behind the register of that liquor store his family had run for more than 60 years. A hell of a way to go.

“If you ever need someone to talk to about it, you know I’m a pretty good listener,” she said, offering up a cautious smile. “I don’t know exactly what you’re going through, but I think I have an idea.”
untitled (2)
“Thanks, Deborah. I really appreciate it.” He took the casserole, which was still warm, and gave her a half-hug with his free arm. He had no idea where he would put the dish. The refrigerator was crammed with food from four days of eating, drinking and reminiscing with family members after Cynthia’s funeral. He might just eat the casserole tonight. Enchiladas were not his favorite, but they smelled good.

His next visitor appeared the following day, a Wednesday. Sandy Richardson was a slender, emotional woman who did a lot of communicating with her hands. Frank knew the minute he opened his front screen door that Sandy would insist on coming into the house and having a chat. Frank took her green bean casserole, which he had sampled many times at church picnics and other gatherings, and set it on the kitchen countertop. He returned to the living room with two cups of Folger’s Black Silk Blend.

“Shit, Frank. I don’t know what to say,” Sandy said, already tearing up. “Cynthia was a great woman. A great woman. The service last week was just beautiful. She would have been so happy. She was so happy.”

Frank smiled and looked down at his coffee. He knew Sandy well. They even dated for a short while in high school until Sandy caught him at the Highway 65 Drive-In with Tamara Brewer and kicked out one of the tail lights on his Pontiac. That was a long time ago and it was a story both of them enjoyed retelling every once in a while. Still, Sandy was crazy as bat shit. Both Frank and Cynthia knew it, as did Sandy’s longtime husband Trent. He put up with her antics for four decades before finally keeling over a couple of years ago while changing a car tire. Folks said the massive stroke was due to Trent’s chain smoking, which was probably a symptom of his turbulent, up-and-down marriage.

“I just want you to know,” Sandy Richardson said, placing a well-manicured hand firmly on Frank’s knee (it almost looked like a claw). “I’m here for you. Always have been. Always will be.”
untitled (3)
After 30 more minutes of tears and sudden, unnerving laughter, Frank ushered Sandy out the door and returned to his newspaper. He had barely gotten through the business section where there was another knock on the door.

“Are you home, Frank?” He recognized the voice. He could curse himself for not shutting the front door.

“Hello, Brenda,” he said, smiling and lifting the massive dish of three-cheese lasagna from her hands. “You are too kind.”

She walked into the house without being asked, which was Brenda Fink’s typical way of operating.

“God, Frank, it is so dark in here,” she said.

“Well, Brenda,” he said, “I am in mourning.”

She cocked her head and fashioned a concerned look. “Oh honey, I know. I know she meant the world to you. I am so, so very sorry.”

“Thank you,” Frank said. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“That would be wonderful,” Brenda turned on a couple of lamps and picked up the scattered newspaper to make herself a place on the couch. She was a tall, athletic woman who liked to wear bright-colored lipstick and pencil skirts that accentuated her legs. Everyone at Frank’s insurance agency was a little bit afraid of Brenda Fink, who was the office manager. She was twice-divorced and childless, yet Frank and the staff often called Brenda “Mother” because that’s the role she played at the agency. She kept the books, hired and fired, maintained Frank’s calendar and led all other administrative functions while her boss spent time with his clients. She planned the office Christmas party, remembered everyone’s birthday, and brought in donuts and pulp-free orange juice every Friday.
untitled (4)
When Frank returned with the coffees, Brenda pulled a fat manila envelope from her pocketbook and plopped it on the coffee table.

“Sympathy cards,” she said. “I have another bag full of them at the office. I sorted through all of them and brought you the best ones.”

“Thanks,” Frank said, pulling out a greeting card with a water-colored rose on it.

“So when do you think you’ll be coming back?” she asked.

Frank tipped back his cup and took a sip. He had been thinking about that. Frank was 62 and didn’t want to run the agency much longer. He had always planned on retiring at 65, but Cynthia’s painful decline made him wonder if he wanted to wait even that long.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe a week from now?”

“Brenda smiled. She was sitting across from Frank, cup and saucer balanced on her well-sculpted knees. She moved the coffee to a side table and leaned toward her boss, the little gold crucifix on her necklace dangling over her freckled chest.

“Frank, you take as long as you need.” She clasped both of her man-sized hands around one of his. “You know I’ll keep things ship-shape and in good working order while you’re gone.”

She rose, brushing lint from her skirt. “I take good care of you, don’t I, Frank?”

He picked up her cup and saucer, and shuffled into the kitchen. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon and he was still in his pajamas.

“You do, Brenda,” he said, dumping the cups into the sink with a considerable clank. “You’re top-notch.”

She smiled and nodded at Frank, turned on her orthopedic wedge heel and headed out the door.

He watched her cross the yard, rev up her car and speed off, a cloud of gravel dust in her wake. He closed the front door, locked it, then returned to the couch and his business section.

Remembering The Paper

03 Thursday Apr 2014

Posted by ghosteye3 in entertainment, media, my life, observations, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

journalism, kansas city, kansas city star, memoir, mexico ledger, michael keaton, newspapers, reporting, ron howard, the paper

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I saw the above movie by myself in a multiplex theater in Columbia, Missouri in 1994. I was less than a year removed from journalism school and working as a general assignment reporter for The Mexico (Mo.) Ledger. I remember The Paper as a good, not great, Ron Howard movie that aptly portrayed a big-city newsroom during the pre-Internet 1990s. There were a few inspiring scenes about scrappy newspapermen and women making a difference, including one moment in which Michael Keaton, who plays the managing editor, actually has to stop the presses to keep an errant story from running. “Should I say it?” he asks a colleague on the press room floor, slyly acknowledging that shouting “Stop the presses!” is one of the most hackneyed lines in movie history.

Of course, Michael Keaton does say it, and I left the theater reassured that the trade I had chosen had some value and honor, and that I could, in fact, make a difference myself. I also left with the nagging desire to get the hell out of Mexico, Missouri.

In the fall of 1994, I got my chance. I interviewed with The Kansas City Star for a position as a community reporter. The job entailed covering suburban city council meetings and writing features about things like 120-year-old oak trees and high school valedictorians. Still, it was a chance to work for a big newspaper in a city of 2 million people. “Well, you want the job?” the gregarious bureau chief asked me on the second day of my interview. I couldn’t say “yes” fast enough. I practically flew down the Interstate back to Mexico (Mo.) to collect my things and cram them into a one-bedroom apartment in suburban Kansas City.

Like most metro dailies at that time, The Star was the only game in town when it came to news coverage. It had merged a few years earlier with the morning Kansas City Times, and the combined papers were owned by media powerhouse ABC Capital Cities. The Star was in the process of launching “community newspaper” inserts for different parts of the metro area to essentially run the suburban papers out of business.

Even though there had been rumblings for years about the decline of the big daily newspaper, The Star was a well-financed, profitable, regional force. It steered the flow of information in the city. Stories that appeared on local news stations were usually lifted from the pages of that morning’s Star. Occasionally, I would cover a city council meeting where a big zoning issue was being debated, and a TV reporter would slide up next to me and whisper, “Are you with The Star? So what’s going on here?”

Was the pace at The Star as frenetic, unbalanced and exciting as Michael Keaton’s newsroom in The Paper? Not really. But there was still a sense that what I did for the newspaper was important, even when it was just writing up school notes from the Shawnee-Mission District. Once in a very long while, I might see my byline on page A1. Then for a whole day I got to hear radio DJs and news anchors talk about my story. It was pretty exhilarating stuff.

I worked almost two years as a community reporter for The Star,  then left for a health care reporting job in Florida. Many of my Kansas City friends remained with the newspaper and were promoted to other beats. When I returned to Kansas City, I attended a few parties with my old friends. You could spot the Star people at these gatherings because they were always huddled together in a corner of the kitchen, talking about the latest office gossip. Sometimes, an older Star employee would chime in with some gripes about meager pay and incompetent managers. After a while, I stopped going to the parties because I didn’t have much to contribute about the inner politics and machinations at the big newspaper.

Today, all but a couple of my newspaper friends have left that business for new careers, mostly in communications and public relations. The Star, like almost every other major daily newspaper in the United States, is a thinned down version of itself.  The pages are shorter and there are fewer of them, all in the interest of saving money on ink and paper. There are periodic layoffs and constant speculation about when the newspaper will stop printing in favor of an all-digital product. The people who remain in the newsroom spend a good deal of their time posting story updates on Twitter because that is the new medium for instant, breaking news. The Star has to compete in social media because today’s consumers don’t want to wait until tomorrow morning to read the news.

A friend of mine mentioned The Paper in a Facebook thread the other day. I hadn’t thought about the movie in years, but I suddenly have the urge to see it again. In my mind The Paper seems quaint, almost antiquated, about a faraway time when big city newspapers were as burly, complex and industrious as the cities themselves, when a paper’s influence and power went far beyond ink on a page.

What a difference 20 years makes.

 

 

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Thru-hiking. Truck-driving. Miles.

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I have people to kill, lives to ruin, plagues to bring, and worlds to destroy. I am not the Angel of Death. I'm a fiction writer.

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Five More Minutes.....

I am a mother of five active, sometimes aggravating children that drive me crazy, provide me with lots of entertainment and remind me constantly about the value of love and family. I am married to my best friend. He makes me laugh every day (usually at myself). I love to eat, run, write, read and then eat again, run again…you get it. I am a children's author, having published four books with MeeGenuis (The Halloween Costume, When Santa Was Small, The Baseball Game, and The Great Adventure Brothers). I have had several pieces of writing published on Adoptive Families, Adoption Today, Brain Child, Scary Mommy, and Ten To Twenty Parenting. I am also a child psychologist, however I honestly think that I may have learned more from my parents and my children than I ever did in any book I read in graduate school. This blog is a place where I can gather my thoughts and my stories and share them with others. My writing is usually about kids and trying to see the world through their eyes, a few about parenting, adoption (one of my children is adopted) and some other random thoughts thrown in… I hope you enjoy them! So grab a cup of coffee, or a glass of wine, depending on what time of day it is (or what kind of day it is) and take a few minutes to sit back, relax and read. Please add your comments or opinions, I know you must have something to say, and I would love to hear it. Thanks for stopping by. Anne Cavanaugh-Sawan

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