Insert Ferris Bueller Quote Here

For the first time in a long while, I found myself enjoying a day where I didn't have a single commitment on the calendar. After the hustle and bustle of the past few weeks, I haven't been happier to just do my "Seinfeld"-ian thing, which was absolutely nothing.

I woke up late, showered, answered a few e-mails, got my morning coffee and brunch at the Mudspot, and then debated going to an early afternoon showing of "The Departed". (An aside: The order of showering and the answering of e-mails might actually have been reversed, but I don't want to give you the mental image of me typing an e-mail in my boxers. Ha, happy Monday!)

But -- after deciding to save the flick for another day -- I was able to indulge in one of the simplest joys, to spend an afternoon perusing the Strand Bookstore, a voluminous used bookstore just below Union Square (16 miles of books!). Usually, I do a "quick hit" when I'm in there, looking at the newest releases, the bestsellers on the front table and, my personal favorite, the mystery cart. For those who are frequent visitors to the Strand and mystery fanatics, they probably know about it-- it's located towards the back on the main floor, a single cart loaded with paperback mysteries, teeming with authors like Chandler, Hammett, Leonard, Lehane and the like. For a mystery lover like myself, it's a must-visit.

But today I did more than hit up those three quick areas. I perused the store from top to bottom. And in doing so, I picked up a book I haven't put down since I started typing this-- Luis Alberto Urrea's "The Devil's Highway". A true tale, it tells the story of 26 Mexican men who scrambled across the border in 2001 and into a harsh and deadly area of the Arizona desert; only 12 made it across. It's a heartbreaking and amazing work.

And finding a treasure like this is what a nothing day is all about.

Picking Up the Pieces

I live and die by my "to-do" lists; I feel a certain smug satisfaction when I tick off something there. Sad, right?

I used to be an organizational mess, but now, today, I am a man who makes lists in order to tread water in a cubicle culture. Thank God for my OCD finally setting in later in life.

I wish I could make the metaphor that a project even making it onto the list is akin to being admitted to a popular club with the velvet ropes and whatnot, but that would belie my professional stature.

This week, I was confronted this week with something that made me feel uneasy and a little sick to my stomach-- I misplaced my list. My carefully, well-thought-out list of objectives and goals was nowhere to be found. Crap. A small panic attack set in. I felt off. After being dejected and unslewing a string of curse words, I tried to put together the magical list anew. I could tell certain projects were missing, something was off.

I'm glad when I found it a day later...the uneasiness was soon gone.

"Boys and Girls in America Have Such a Sad Time Together"

The Hold Steady at Irving Plaza, October 1. While I may have some minor quibbles with lead singer Craig Finn's distracting, frenetic mannerisms on stage, they put on a damn good show. Seriously...they were great and wonderful, although I'm pretty sure I broke a toe somehow.

And this is how to get an audience in your corner from the start, by saying the following: "We suggest you call out of work tomorrow, because we're heading to Hi-Fi afterwards and drinking 'til we can't stand. Come join us." Genius, guys.

(Photo by Steve Rogovin)

Maybe I'll Read George Pelecanos Instead

Can someone explain to me why exactly I feel the need to get into an Elmore Leonard kick just as the fall season descends upon us, each and every year?

Coffee Makes Me Strong!

After my seventh cup of coffee yesterday, I realized that I might -- just might -- have a coffee problem. Maybe.

It's Not Beer Goggles, I'm Just Near-Sighted

While I was in North Carolina -- see post below, and I should probably add that my time there was for a bachelor party -- I did one of the dumbest things I've done in a long while.

No, nothing naughty. No pictures floating around that I'm embarassed about (I think). I wasn't arrested or anything like that. Simply, I lost my glasses. In and of itself, not the worst thing that could have happened-- but I'm still kicking myself in how it came to pass, the stupidity of it all.

The five of us there decided to rent a boat for the last afternoon were there, and brought a cooler full of beer. We made our way to a popular little area, anchoring off a small little island. (By the way, we found out that beer cans float. Pow!) So, there I was on the boat and my old roommate -- who now lives in Dallas with his new wife -- called for another beer. Per custom, I launched a beer in his general direction, ending up five feet to the right. He filled up the empty beercan with water, for weight, and rocketed it back, albeit a dozen feet to the the right of the boat. Not thinking, I dove in after it. As I was doing so, I realized I still had my glasses on. Damnit. I thrashed around to see if I could find them, but no luck. Such a dumb move.

Flash forward to a little while later, when a gal from a boat neighboring ours if I thought she was cute. I said thought she was, but I was having a problem seeing objects more than a dozen feet away. Suave.

So, I spent the rest of my time there, and the flight back, squinting heavily. Stupid beer thrown to the right.

Scratch My Back For Me?

I glance around the workplace, discover that nobody is watching me at that moment. I rub my back against the cubicle's endcap for a good 15 seconds. Ah, sweet relief...

For the past week, I've been dealing with a bad case of sunburn, which I acquired down in North Carolina during the Labor Day break. Ah, sunburn, my old friend-- you're what caused me to be known as "Lobster Boy" numerous times while growing up. Good to have you back and, now, glad that you're gone. At least for the moment.

"The Wire" Is Almost Here

I don't think I'll be going out on Sunday nights again for a while.

"The Wire" officially begins its fourth season Sunday, and every review I've seen has been absolutely glowing, with a large number calling it the best show on television. From the New York Times, to Variety, to Entertainment Weekly, to USA Today, to the New York Post...nice. I am even more enthusiastic about the new season than I was in July.

Knowing that critical reviews can help bring about another season of the drama, J. Max Robbins of Broadcasting & Cable puts it best: "The Wire, perhaps the only police drama that truly deserves to be called “gritty,” begins its fourth season on HBO...Let me be the first to begin the campaign for a fifth. A nuanced portrait of urban Baltimore, with its internecine battles among cops, politicos and drug dealers, The Wire demands a far greater level of commitment and attention from its audience than your standard escapist police procedural."

ABC, I will not forgive you one bit if your silliness with the "Path to 9/11" neocon fan-fic chokes off all the talk about the wonderfulness of this series. Seriously.

For links to even more glowing reviews, check out Jim King's site for "The Wire" here.

53 Books???

Maureen Dowd: "Bush tells journalists he has been reading prodigiously, 53 books so far this year."

At this rate, he'll read approximately 80 books this year. How is it that the most powerful man in the world, the President of the United States, is able to read at such a prodigous rate? Doesn't he have "hard work" that needs to be done, things that take precedence?

Charlie Huston is a Sadomasochist

In a period of 365 days, Charlie Huston will have published three books-- crazy. Who does that these days?

With his next hitting in less than a month, I realized I needed to get caught up with the pulp noir writer's work. I'd read "Caught Stealing" a few months back (see here), and just finished "Six Bad Things," the second in the series. His next, the final part of the trilogy and entitled "A Dangerous Man", comes out September 19.

While I seem to be suffering from book ADD lately, this taut effort -- which begins in Mexico and then crosses back over the border -- proves he is no fluke. Hank Thomspon, now a wanted man on the lam, with a string of murders to his name (the majority of which he did commit), fears for his family after several factors come into play. And it helps spin the series into a whole new direction for the third book. Well done, Huston, in pulling this pivot off rather believably.

While I said before he was comprable to a Shane Black effort, I'm going to amend that to saying he is also very Elmore Leonard-like, in how he is able to craft intriguing, zany characters and has a gift for dialogue. This book is also a little less gritty than his first, but not by much.

Definitely a good read. And, Huston, take a vacation-- c'mon now, you're making too many writers look like slackers.