Now that I am no longer gainfully employed, I am looking around for easy ways to make a buck, and someplace I saw a medical study looking for subjects, for which I even qualified, so yesterday, I got on the T and rode to a major hospital for a one hour interview which would pay $50.00.
The interview was more or less on health habits with particular emphasis on alcohol, drug use, and that sort of thing. I live such a staid life these days that it was almost shocking to review my sorry past history from high school and college and young adulthood. One example: when I lived in Houston and we were taking anyone to the airport or picking them up, we always mixed up a pitcher of martinis to take along in the car. Times long past, and the crazy thing is that one looks back on such episodes and thinks, "that couldn't have been me. Nope, no way." And yet it was.
Now I am older and wiser and absolutely amazed that I survived my misspent youth. I hope you misspent yours, too. We can compare notes sometime.
Without apologies,
Grapeshot
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Update on Friday Night on the Red Line
The Sunday paper had a brief blurb about the "incident" Friday night on the MBTA tracks at Broadway. The story is that a homeless man fell in front of the train. He had lived at the Pine Street Inn for a long time. It doesn't sound like a suicide, but who knows?
If you are free from addictions and have a warm place to sleep and food in your belly, be thankful.
If you are free from addictions and have a warm place to sleep and food in your belly, be thankful.
Take A Lover in the Afternoon
Now that my cheap shot has your attention. . .
Two more rejections for Promiscuous Mode. Mixed messages for the book: like the writing, don't like the writing. Like the character, don't like the story. Can't think where to sell it. Several agents has said this and I find it most mysterious.
Promiscuous Mode is a mainstream rather traditional mystery with the de riguer flawed narrator, an amatuer sleuth who gets unwillingly sucked in to the murder. When I started writing, and lordy it seems like a long time ago, I looked around to find something in a character's life that hadn't been done to death. Drugs, booze, addictions, weird families, gay, straight, in drag, serial killers, off-beat occupations you name it. What to do?
I came up with a challenge, and maybe it has turned into an albatross. We all know there is now and has always been a double standard for women: would you rather be called a stud or a slut? Q.E.D.
My character has what I call the "Emma Bovary Syndrome." Yes folks, she is something of a slut. But a nice slut, understand. I tried to make her sympathetic and believeable, and like the technology, this problem of hers often drives the plot but it is only one of a number of devices.
I haven't shouted her "flaw" from the rooftops; however the synopsis is always straightforward about the protag's proclivities. Love that alliteration.
Now I'm wondering if the new "love that dare not speak its name", to whit the "A" word, is the reason agents are skittish about trying to sell it. This is 2006. Hard to believe. Don't know what to think.
Suck it up is always an option.
An agent still has the entire manuscript and I am going to screw up my courage and email him today. Stay tuned.
Aloha,
Grapeshot
Two more rejections for Promiscuous Mode. Mixed messages for the book: like the writing, don't like the writing. Like the character, don't like the story. Can't think where to sell it. Several agents has said this and I find it most mysterious.
Promiscuous Mode is a mainstream rather traditional mystery with the de riguer flawed narrator, an amatuer sleuth who gets unwillingly sucked in to the murder. When I started writing, and lordy it seems like a long time ago, I looked around to find something in a character's life that hadn't been done to death. Drugs, booze, addictions, weird families, gay, straight, in drag, serial killers, off-beat occupations you name it. What to do?
I came up with a challenge, and maybe it has turned into an albatross. We all know there is now and has always been a double standard for women: would you rather be called a stud or a slut? Q.E.D.
My character has what I call the "Emma Bovary Syndrome." Yes folks, she is something of a slut. But a nice slut, understand. I tried to make her sympathetic and believeable, and like the technology, this problem of hers often drives the plot but it is only one of a number of devices.
I haven't shouted her "flaw" from the rooftops; however the synopsis is always straightforward about the protag's proclivities. Love that alliteration.
Now I'm wondering if the new "love that dare not speak its name", to whit the "A" word, is the reason agents are skittish about trying to sell it. This is 2006. Hard to believe. Don't know what to think.
Suck it up is always an option.
An agent still has the entire manuscript and I am going to screw up my courage and email him today. Stay tuned.
Aloha,
Grapeshot
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Friday Night on the MBTA
Anyone who reads this blog regularly knows that as a writer, I believe in getting out into the world, and taking a look around. If you are out in the world somewhat beyond your comfort level, that is even better.
To backtrack a bit, yesterday we had one of those typical Boston weather days: 54 in the morning, followed by rain, wind, more rain, more wind, power goes out, mercury plummets like a pregnant paratrooper, as we used to say back in the dark ages when I was in high school.
We had tickets for a concert at Symphony Hall. Power still out. Took shower before hot water disappeared. Hair dried with towel and sort of brought into style with a butane curling iron. I don't "dress up" for symphony hall, but neither do I go forth in car wash clothes. Wore a leather skirt and a very heavy cashmere sweater with a 40 degree coat. Lightweight hat and gloves. After all, we just had to catch the subway and be deposited at the doorstep of Symphony Hall. Great concert with rousing chorus, soloists, Mozart's Birthday music and everything fine.
Caught the 2-car green line back to Park Station with a horde of other people. Moderate wait for the red line back to Quincy Adams. Train arrived, got on with plenty of others. We go two stops, almost to Broadway, and the train stops. Dead. Not unusual. Someone says words, "medical emergency. We will be here for a while." O.K. Nice and warm on train. Can read program notes from concert.
Significant Other notices the people in the car ahead of us are leaving. Hmmmm. We appear to be in the tunnel, not the station. Finally, T employee tells us to go thru and exit the car in front, go up the stairs and wait.
We follow orders, and discover we are actually in the Broadway station, just. While we are leaving, notice a huge force of MBTA police at the front of the train. Didn't even know they had that many. Fireman coming down stairs. Medics, more police arrive, along with the stray words "in front of the train."
Meaning someone jumped or was pushed in front of the train, which is why so many emergency personnel are in the station. We are herded out of the station into the cold. Outside, fire trucks, police cruisers, ambulances surround the station.
We wait there, in the cold, contemplating what would cause some poor soul to fling himself in front on a subway train at 10:55 on a frigid February evening. No reason and lots of reasons. A stretcher is carried downstairs but never comes up. Medical emergency is something of a sugar-coated whitewash by now.
The magic words, "shuttle bus" are heard and after a long wait, one arrives. We just follow the crowd which seems to know where to wait and what to do. The bus takes us to JFK station where we hope a train will be waiting.
Hopes dashed. No train for a long time. By now feet freezing and fingers feeling frostbitten. Unroll neck of sweater to cover neck and lower face.
Finally, finally, a train lumbers in. Lots of people by now, as several shuttle buses have deposited the late night commuters at JFK.
Inside, the train is warm. We defrost. At North Quincy a young couple gets on. He wears a t-shirt (dirty) and jeans; she has pants with fabric flames at the hem (pants one would wear at Burning Man) and asweat shirt zipped down to reveal nothing under it. The outside temperature is 29 degrees.
Druggies.
I steal a look and notice the sores on his face. Probably meth. Saw the TV special last week. She appears to go to sleep, wakes again and starts a noisy argument over a bag that she thinks she should have. He is the reasonable one, telling her they never had the bag. Offers a few places they can go. She yells words that cannot be printed in a newspaper. They both look so young.
Finally the train gets to Quincy Adams and I exit through the door where I can avoid passing in front of them and the ever-loudening argument. Can't imagine where they will spend the night. Don't want to.
Sometimes, you see more of the world than you wish to.
To backtrack a bit, yesterday we had one of those typical Boston weather days: 54 in the morning, followed by rain, wind, more rain, more wind, power goes out, mercury plummets like a pregnant paratrooper, as we used to say back in the dark ages when I was in high school.
We had tickets for a concert at Symphony Hall. Power still out. Took shower before hot water disappeared. Hair dried with towel and sort of brought into style with a butane curling iron. I don't "dress up" for symphony hall, but neither do I go forth in car wash clothes. Wore a leather skirt and a very heavy cashmere sweater with a 40 degree coat. Lightweight hat and gloves. After all, we just had to catch the subway and be deposited at the doorstep of Symphony Hall. Great concert with rousing chorus, soloists, Mozart's Birthday music and everything fine.
Caught the 2-car green line back to Park Station with a horde of other people. Moderate wait for the red line back to Quincy Adams. Train arrived, got on with plenty of others. We go two stops, almost to Broadway, and the train stops. Dead. Not unusual. Someone says words, "medical emergency. We will be here for a while." O.K. Nice and warm on train. Can read program notes from concert.
Significant Other notices the people in the car ahead of us are leaving. Hmmmm. We appear to be in the tunnel, not the station. Finally, T employee tells us to go thru and exit the car in front, go up the stairs and wait.
We follow orders, and discover we are actually in the Broadway station, just. While we are leaving, notice a huge force of MBTA police at the front of the train. Didn't even know they had that many. Fireman coming down stairs. Medics, more police arrive, along with the stray words "in front of the train."
Meaning someone jumped or was pushed in front of the train, which is why so many emergency personnel are in the station. We are herded out of the station into the cold. Outside, fire trucks, police cruisers, ambulances surround the station.
We wait there, in the cold, contemplating what would cause some poor soul to fling himself in front on a subway train at 10:55 on a frigid February evening. No reason and lots of reasons. A stretcher is carried downstairs but never comes up. Medical emergency is something of a sugar-coated whitewash by now.
The magic words, "shuttle bus" are heard and after a long wait, one arrives. We just follow the crowd which seems to know where to wait and what to do. The bus takes us to JFK station where we hope a train will be waiting.
Hopes dashed. No train for a long time. By now feet freezing and fingers feeling frostbitten. Unroll neck of sweater to cover neck and lower face.
Finally, finally, a train lumbers in. Lots of people by now, as several shuttle buses have deposited the late night commuters at JFK.
Inside, the train is warm. We defrost. At North Quincy a young couple gets on. He wears a t-shirt (dirty) and jeans; she has pants with fabric flames at the hem (pants one would wear at Burning Man) and asweat shirt zipped down to reveal nothing under it. The outside temperature is 29 degrees.
Druggies.
I steal a look and notice the sores on his face. Probably meth. Saw the TV special last week. She appears to go to sleep, wakes again and starts a noisy argument over a bag that she thinks she should have. He is the reasonable one, telling her they never had the bag. Offers a few places they can go. She yells words that cannot be printed in a newspaper. They both look so young.
Finally the train gets to Quincy Adams and I exit through the door where I can avoid passing in front of them and the ever-loudening argument. Can't imagine where they will spend the night. Don't want to.
Sometimes, you see more of the world than you wish to.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Who Takes A Trip Can Tell A Tale
Somehow Grapeshot in Florida doesn't sound as dramatic as Ephengenia in Aulis and that is a good thing.
Blond woman on cell phone can't seem to say goodbye to whomever she is talking to when going thru airport security. Still in shoes and jacket with stuff (lots of STUFF, naturally) not in bins. Big line waiting. Security person says, "everybody turn off your phones." She is the only one using a phone, but doesn't think it applies to her. Then again, she is on the phone and can't hear the announcement.
Man in seat 22D belongs in 10A. How could anybody be off that that much? I don't know.
Toward evening, in a hot tub in Boca. Significant Other and I relaxing. Another couple also entubbed. Very tan young thing joins us. Eyes diamond studs in woman's ears. "Are those real," she asks. Hushed silence, while we all wait for an answer.
"Yes."
"How big are they?"
Another silence.
"I'm not sure."
"Where did you get them?"
"St. Martens."
Long conversation (I was mute) about jewelry shopping in St. Martens. Sweet Young Thing tells tub denizens that her husband bought her a Seven (7) caret ring for their anniversary.
La Di Friggin Da! How about them apples?
In CVS buying a new travel hair brush. Long, long line. Older (but not ancient) woman trying to swipe debit card. No luck. Line grows and grows. Still no luck. Clerk at photo counter says, "next person" and I am there in a flash. Complete my transaction. Woman has still not been able to swipe card. Line very very long. Clerk still patient. I wonder if she is still standing there.
We had a cold spell and my hostesses windows were still boarded up from Wilma. Big gap between plywood and windows letting 40 degree air in. We stuff with newspapers. Place warms up. Lots of buzzards (vultures) swarming around where I have never seen them before. Maybe they came to eat the animals, etc. killed by Wilma and stuck around. Not much carrion there now. I bought honey at the nature center, which had many trees and plants destroyed, but they are still truckin.' Sad to see all the tree damage. Lots of plants have new growth and recovery, while slow, is steady.
My mom swore by a flower food called "Super Bloom," and I have never seen it in the Boston area, so when I head south to Florida or Arizona I always pick up a couple containers. Can't find any in the usual places this year. Panic time. Drive to a nursery in Pompano Beach where they have it. Place has so many plants it's impossible to reach the fertilizer. Man says they have moved the plants inside in case of frost. He says, "It's too cold here; I'm moving to Florida."
I will be the gardener with the spectacular blossoms this summer.
Hoping the 8 days of mail we pick up at the P.O. tomorrow will have some good news apropos Promiscuous Mode. Wouldn't that be ducky?
Off to watch some new Olympic sports.
Grapeshot
Blond woman on cell phone can't seem to say goodbye to whomever she is talking to when going thru airport security. Still in shoes and jacket with stuff (lots of STUFF, naturally) not in bins. Big line waiting. Security person says, "everybody turn off your phones." She is the only one using a phone, but doesn't think it applies to her. Then again, she is on the phone and can't hear the announcement.
Man in seat 22D belongs in 10A. How could anybody be off that that much? I don't know.
Toward evening, in a hot tub in Boca. Significant Other and I relaxing. Another couple also entubbed. Very tan young thing joins us. Eyes diamond studs in woman's ears. "Are those real," she asks. Hushed silence, while we all wait for an answer.
"Yes."
"How big are they?"
Another silence.
"I'm not sure."
"Where did you get them?"
"St. Martens."
Long conversation (I was mute) about jewelry shopping in St. Martens. Sweet Young Thing tells tub denizens that her husband bought her a Seven (7) caret ring for their anniversary.
La Di Friggin Da! How about them apples?
In CVS buying a new travel hair brush. Long, long line. Older (but not ancient) woman trying to swipe debit card. No luck. Line grows and grows. Still no luck. Clerk at photo counter says, "next person" and I am there in a flash. Complete my transaction. Woman has still not been able to swipe card. Line very very long. Clerk still patient. I wonder if she is still standing there.
We had a cold spell and my hostesses windows were still boarded up from Wilma. Big gap between plywood and windows letting 40 degree air in. We stuff with newspapers. Place warms up. Lots of buzzards (vultures) swarming around where I have never seen them before. Maybe they came to eat the animals, etc. killed by Wilma and stuck around. Not much carrion there now. I bought honey at the nature center, which had many trees and plants destroyed, but they are still truckin.' Sad to see all the tree damage. Lots of plants have new growth and recovery, while slow, is steady.
My mom swore by a flower food called "Super Bloom," and I have never seen it in the Boston area, so when I head south to Florida or Arizona I always pick up a couple containers. Can't find any in the usual places this year. Panic time. Drive to a nursery in Pompano Beach where they have it. Place has so many plants it's impossible to reach the fertilizer. Man says they have moved the plants inside in case of frost. He says, "It's too cold here; I'm moving to Florida."
I will be the gardener with the spectacular blossoms this summer.
Hoping the 8 days of mail we pick up at the P.O. tomorrow will have some good news apropos Promiscuous Mode. Wouldn't that be ducky?
Off to watch some new Olympic sports.
Grapeshot
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Get Out Into the World and Look Around
When I rode the "T" (MBTA or Massachusetts Bay Transit Autority) a lot, I had T stories. There was the elderly gent, well-dressed, except he had on a ladies hat with fruit and flowers, red cherries and stuff. There were the bums (is that word politically incorrect? dunno), obviously drunk and belligerant who boarded the red line train at Park Street. It was dead winter and cold and one of them wore a fur vest with nothing under it, nothing but dirt that is. Don't think I've ever seen such dirty skin. In our car, EVERYONE got off at the next stop, practically running from the train. The odd thing is, I think I may have seen the same man on the red line recently. Could it be?
Wednesday evening, on the way home, a young man was reading "The Guy's Guide to Pregnancy." Obviously, he was fascinated, and sometimes he smiled. Next to him, a young lady read over his shoulder, even more fascinated.
Last night was a warm (55 degrees) Friday, and all the young folk were out in force in groups. Six Asian girls on the T ride in, laughing and giggling and kidding around. Oddly, not a cell phone in site, but one had a bag of girl scout cookies.
On the Green Line, packed subway car going into Boston at 11:00 p.m. Girls going dancing. Wonder how they got home.
In Park Street, six African-American girls, all with fur lining their hodded parka were practicing a dance that looked like a German Shuhplatte, but it must have been something else. A big crowd of handicapped folks, each with an escort. They had been to the Celtics game.
A threesome en route home, all with doggy bags from The Cheesecake Factory. Two of them were people of size who looked like they would have been able to finish just about any helping. Wish I knew the story behind that.
We heard a nice Mozart woodwind concert at Jordan Hall Friday night. Happy Birthday Amadeus.
Don't sit home in front of the boob tube. Get on the bus or the subway and see the world. It will surprise you.
Aloha
Grapeshot
Wednesday evening, on the way home, a young man was reading "The Guy's Guide to Pregnancy." Obviously, he was fascinated, and sometimes he smiled. Next to him, a young lady read over his shoulder, even more fascinated.
Last night was a warm (55 degrees) Friday, and all the young folk were out in force in groups. Six Asian girls on the T ride in, laughing and giggling and kidding around. Oddly, not a cell phone in site, but one had a bag of girl scout cookies.
On the Green Line, packed subway car going into Boston at 11:00 p.m. Girls going dancing. Wonder how they got home.
In Park Street, six African-American girls, all with fur lining their hodded parka were practicing a dance that looked like a German Shuhplatte, but it must have been something else. A big crowd of handicapped folks, each with an escort. They had been to the Celtics game.
A threesome en route home, all with doggy bags from The Cheesecake Factory. Two of them were people of size who looked like they would have been able to finish just about any helping. Wish I knew the story behind that.
We heard a nice Mozart woodwind concert at Jordan Hall Friday night. Happy Birthday Amadeus.
Don't sit home in front of the boob tube. Get on the bus or the subway and see the world. It will surprise you.
Aloha
Grapeshot
World of Mirrors
Currently, I am working on two novels: Festival Madness is the work in process, and I think I'm about 40,000 words into it. Remember us technical types like to quantify things. I wrote the entire middle, and went back to the beginnning and did the first murder, the FBI raid, and some of my character's angst. Now I need to do some nuts and bolts stuff to put all the underpinnings in place while moving the plot ahead, and I'm not terribly inspired. So....
Cut to the 2nd project, World of Mirrors, the East German book. Tried like hell, and couldn't get anyone interested. We are talking about 45 agents and editors taking a pass. I finally found a small press who actually read it, said they liked the writing but thought it would be better about 25,000 word shorter (it's not really long) and to scratch all the food, scenery, etc.) Thought about that, decided I could cut quite a bit if my character's back story wasn't influencing the book so much. Decided to take this novel out of my series, change the names to protect the guilty, and do some serious (but not 25,000 words) cutting. Well, guess what? When you change the character's name and back story, even age, the whole character changes. What she wants certainly changed. So now besides cutting out food, etc., I'm having to make some major changes to dialogue, etc. And I still had to put some back story in, so now I'm even-steven with the word count, hoping still to do massive cuts later. This is an interesting experiment, no matter how it comes out.
No, I have not heard from any of the agents. I have ideas for two short stories that I'm dying to write.
Completely bogged down in trying to get half a dozen collections of "stuff" read to sell on EBAY. This is, like work. What now, well, as always, suck it up.
Fondly,
Grapeshot
Cut to the 2nd project, World of Mirrors, the East German book. Tried like hell, and couldn't get anyone interested. We are talking about 45 agents and editors taking a pass. I finally found a small press who actually read it, said they liked the writing but thought it would be better about 25,000 word shorter (it's not really long) and to scratch all the food, scenery, etc.) Thought about that, decided I could cut quite a bit if my character's back story wasn't influencing the book so much. Decided to take this novel out of my series, change the names to protect the guilty, and do some serious (but not 25,000 words) cutting. Well, guess what? When you change the character's name and back story, even age, the whole character changes. What she wants certainly changed. So now besides cutting out food, etc., I'm having to make some major changes to dialogue, etc. And I still had to put some back story in, so now I'm even-steven with the word count, hoping still to do massive cuts later. This is an interesting experiment, no matter how it comes out.
No, I have not heard from any of the agents. I have ideas for two short stories that I'm dying to write.
Completely bogged down in trying to get half a dozen collections of "stuff" read to sell on EBAY. This is, like work. What now, well, as always, suck it up.
Fondly,
Grapeshot
Thursday, February 02, 2006
American Vertigo
American Vertigo
One of the advantages of no longer working an 8:00 – 5:00 job is that I can nip into town for special events. Yesterday, it was Bernard-Henri Levy discussing his new book, American Vertigo: A Journey in the Footsteps of Toqueville.
There was a big crowd at the First Parish Church in Cambridge, mostly middle aged but with a nice selection of young people, and part of the audience chatted to one another in French.
BHL, as he is sometimes known, is so typically French that he is almost the archetypical Frenchman. Notice I did not use the word "icon." We don’t use that word anymore due to its having lost all meaning.
Levy wore his (according to the press) normal speaking outfit of black sport coat and white dress shirt opened a few buttons. His hair is longish and just a little wild, comme il faut. He speaks with a pronounced French accent and used a lot of words that are the same in French and English. One had to pay close attention and really listen. He loves Boston, has always loved Boston and the crowd liked him. He is emotional, but not excessively so, humorous and used no jargon, although he is a philosopher and could even be forgiven for a soupcon of jargon. This in itself was very refreshing.
He also seems terribly honest, but not in a talk-show spill-your-guts kind of let-it-all-hang-out honesty, but a more modest, even sincere honestly. He said that when the editor of the Atlantic approached him with the idea of following Toqueville’s steps, he wanted to decline because he thought he would be compared unfavorably to the great Toqueville who is still the standard for a European trying to understand America.
At the end of his talk he took some questions, and I think the audience might have sat there all night if book signings and schedules had not been so pressing.
Someone asked how he had traveled about, with the exception of being on Kerry’s campaign plane for a while. By auto, he answered, because how else can you have any idea of this country until you cross it at 65 miles per hour instead of 650 at 40,000 in a wide body. He mentioned Kerouac. My heart beat faster. “The road is life.” You don’t get from the purple mountain majesty to the amber waves of grain in an instant.
Anyone who hasn’t traveled the US by car doesn’t have a clue. Train in the next best. Foot or bicycle would be even better given time and energy.
So Levy is a sensible imaginative passionate person (and speaker) and I will definitely buy his book, but before that I am going to read Toqueville and maybe Kerouac, too.
One of the advantages of no longer working an 8:00 – 5:00 job is that I can nip into town for special events. Yesterday, it was Bernard-Henri Levy discussing his new book, American Vertigo: A Journey in the Footsteps of Toqueville.
There was a big crowd at the First Parish Church in Cambridge, mostly middle aged but with a nice selection of young people, and part of the audience chatted to one another in French.
BHL, as he is sometimes known, is so typically French that he is almost the archetypical Frenchman. Notice I did not use the word "icon." We don’t use that word anymore due to its having lost all meaning.
Levy wore his (according to the press) normal speaking outfit of black sport coat and white dress shirt opened a few buttons. His hair is longish and just a little wild, comme il faut. He speaks with a pronounced French accent and used a lot of words that are the same in French and English. One had to pay close attention and really listen. He loves Boston, has always loved Boston and the crowd liked him. He is emotional, but not excessively so, humorous and used no jargon, although he is a philosopher and could even be forgiven for a soupcon of jargon. This in itself was very refreshing.
He also seems terribly honest, but not in a talk-show spill-your-guts kind of let-it-all-hang-out honesty, but a more modest, even sincere honestly. He said that when the editor of the Atlantic approached him with the idea of following Toqueville’s steps, he wanted to decline because he thought he would be compared unfavorably to the great Toqueville who is still the standard for a European trying to understand America.
At the end of his talk he took some questions, and I think the audience might have sat there all night if book signings and schedules had not been so pressing.
Someone asked how he had traveled about, with the exception of being on Kerry’s campaign plane for a while. By auto, he answered, because how else can you have any idea of this country until you cross it at 65 miles per hour instead of 650 at 40,000 in a wide body. He mentioned Kerouac. My heart beat faster. “The road is life.” You don’t get from the purple mountain majesty to the amber waves of grain in an instant.
Anyone who hasn’t traveled the US by car doesn’t have a clue. Train in the next best. Foot or bicycle would be even better given time and energy.
So Levy is a sensible imaginative passionate person (and speaker) and I will definitely buy his book, but before that I am going to read Toqueville and maybe Kerouac, too.
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