As you read this, there are eight days until the official publication date of NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEED by E.J. Copperman. So you'll have to forgive me if the following collection of random thoughts has a certain obsessive bent to it. Authors tend to want their books to be noticed, and we have a finite number of avenues open to us when we want to wave our arms and yell "lookit me!" So please allow me my upcoming excesses (or tune in next week, the day before the book comes out, when I'm SURE I won't be the least big obsessed):
* It's an interesting moment when, after your publisher asks you to use a nom de plume (that's a made-up author name, for those who are French-impaired) and you've tried, at least a little, to pretend someone else wrote the book, to find this on the publisher's own web page. I don't mind it; it's just interesting.
* Writing something in the "paranormal" category gives you a real sense of perspective on sub-genre nicknames. I thought it was bad when I wrote "humorous cozies," and now I'm stuck with "woo-woo." Makes a person shudder to think what's next.
* The first three games in this year's installment of what local sportscasters insist on calling the "Subway Series" (it's not; only a World Series between two New York teams can take that title) have been the dullest since they started this whole farce 14 years ago. All the nail-biting tension of "Yankeeography: Scott Brosius."
* For those keeping score at home, Rutgers edged out Brandeis at the last moment, so my daughter will be attending her dad's alma mater starting in September. Only she's in the honors program, because she's actually smarter than me.
* It's "Copperman," not "Cooperman." I should have seen that coming.
* E.J. Copperman now has more than twice the number of friends I have on Facebook. I take this to mean not that I'm less popular, but that E.J. is a Facebook slut. Or, they think the name is Cooperman.
* I've looked over the summer movie rosters. Looks like another season to spend with Netflix.
* I'm writing this before the end of LOST airs. But there's no chance I'm watching it in real time--the damn thing doesn't end until 11:30! So don't you dare tell me how it ended.
* My children are really good people. How many people can honestly say that?
* If you want to have a good chance to write a book that could be published, stop worrying about the machinations of the plot and concentrate on who your character is. The plot can be fixed and changed. If your character's dull, that's the end of the ballgame.
* Why is it college students can't tell the difference between "your" and "you're"? I blame texting.
* I don't see how the whole books-vs.-ebooks argument has legs. There's no reason there can't be both. We have movies and TV. The real death struggle here is about format: It's VHS vs. Beta all over again.
* When I was young, I wanted to be a Good Humor man. Bring ice cream to kids. Frankly, it's still looking like a decent idea. But I'd have bells on my truck, not some stupid electronic ringtone version of Scott Joplin.
* I'm thinking of putting out ads on the Internet that read "WILL WRITE FOR FOOD."
* NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEED has not been reviewed by Publishers Weekly. Actually, that's really not such a bad thing.
* The launch party for NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEED will be at Nighthawk Books in Highland Park, New Jersey, Friday, June 4 at 7 p.m. Bring your friends. Bring your enemies. Bring the state of Oklahoma, if you can fit them all into your SUV.
* Just keep in mind: to you, NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEED represents $7.99 or less. To me, it's a career.
* No, I really don't mind that LOST and 24 are being cancelled. Frankly, I was ready for both to end two years ago.
* 7 bedrooms, 4 baths, 2 ghosts. NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEED. What's not to like?
LP-to-Digital Conversion Project Update: I have a new definition of "love." In this case, I can show my wife how much I adore her simply by pointing out that I have converted, in succession, FOUR albums by Buffy Sainte-Marie, and in order to do so, I had to listen to them. That's love, all right.
Ms. Sainte-Marie seems like a nice person, and I might even agree with many of her political stands, or at least the ones she was espousing in 1965. But listening to her yell at me for four albums, strumming her guitar as if to saw it in half and using so much vibrato you begin to wonder if she's not gargling, is the limit of tolerance. Every note screams "strident" at the top of its lungs. But the upside is that halfway through the first album, you realize that her lower register reminds you of nothing more than the voice of Ruth Buzzi, and that in itself might be amusing enough to sustain you. Although I'm making no promises.
Leading up to Buffy's stylings (including a pointless cover of Carole King's "Smackwater Jack") came a number of albums by Linda Ronstadt, who has a very entertaining voice indeed, but whose choice of material isn't always as sterling. The two albums of standards she did with Nelson Riddle are nice, but so reverent that you can hear her struggling to pronounce every consonant. Again, no arguments, but more fun when rocking out.
Carole Bayer Sager got to make some records in the seventies, when anyone who spelled "Carol" with an "e" added could ride Ms. King's box office coattails. Her debut album, creatively titled "Carole Bayer Sager" came after she'd written many songs with various partners and alone. Which makes it doubly strange that the only really memorable material on the album is the novelty "You're Moving Out Today," which she wrote with Bruce Roberts and Bette Midler, and which probably suits Ms. M. better.
Coming up: Judy Small (again, dear wife), an album of the first season of Saturday Night Live, and then a few albums by Boz Scaggs. No Buffy Sainte-Marie. That's how I spell "relief."
