Chris Dungey's Blog

OMG, a bounty of riches have recently been cast my way in the form of casting decisions! First, Billy Bob Thornton was piced as the lead baddie in the FX version of a favorite film, "Fargo." Now I learn, in preparing to kick out a brief review for the recently completed reading of "London Fields," by Martin Amis, that Billy Bob is in production of a big-screen version of THAT! Out-#!!&@!#king-standing! He'll play the narrator, Samson Young. Wonder who they'll use for one of literature's foremost louts ever, Keith Tallent. Review coming soon, when I've composed my impressions.

That was Sunday night, as per always, on Showtime--including the first four seasons, of which I was ignorant. The most recent touching episode has stayed with me, however, even through two great Detroit Tiger ballgames, football (OK, soccer) replays on YouTube, and an unexpected two days of bachelorhood. There is a lot going on with Jackie's addiction to pills, of course, and I can nearly relate, though it's been 36 years since I had a drink. And, her relationship with the oldest daughter can grind at your gears if you've ever had an adolescent in the house, let alone an adolescent blaming you for divorce. But the heart-rending aspects of the show usually emanate from the Emergency Room and this episode was no different. I won't spoil it in case some may wish to catch up. But, Nurse Jackie has taken the place of House, for her ability to reliably jerk my tears.

Well, I guess there are certainly worse things one can be hooked on. I used to watch the stock-market, wondering how my 401K would do on a particular day and then checking my GM Benefits site the next day to see if I made a few bucks. Of course, with a new, first-time book out, I'm checking the Amazon Kindle dashboard and the CreateSpace dashboard a couple times each day to see if anyone wanted a taste. Wow! One apiece today! I'll be rich in no time! But the most frustrating pot I watch (remember your parents telling you that "a watched pot never boils?")on a daily basis is the Duotrope New and Updated Listings. I love to see those fresh, fledgling publications make their first call for submissions. Maybe they're just the market for my stuff. Maybe they won't be jaded. Maybe they'll be anxious to fill out that first issue. But....this time of year, it slows down. It can go three or four days without changing. OK,then. Let's see how Fidelity is doing.

I made my semi-annual drive to Bishop Airport, Flint, late this afternoon to collect elderly parents from Florida. As they stepped out into the misting 50 degree afternoon, clouds hanging like bruised udders, they wondered, again, why they have the homing instinct for Michigan. It is a puzzlement. One which I doubt I'll ever have to ponder. They did so much better at managing their money than I have. It earned them a winter home in a (mostly) friendly climate. I was the grasshopper, fiddling while the industrious ants gathered in for the long nights. I'm not complaining. I love the change of seasons, But after five days of rain, winds groaning around the windows we thought we could finally unseal, I'm ready for a little paradise. And not the sarcastic kind.

Well, I sold books at choir rehearsal tonight. I gave them the "starving-artist-friends-and-family" rate, just to sell books. I needed a boost in morale. And, I tried to warn them that some of the material might be kind of raw and that I hoped they wouldn't think too ill of me by Sunday morning. I write K-Mart realism, trailer-park realism, I told them. They bought five copies anyway. I know a few of them are quite liberal so maybe it'll all be cool. Still, I kept thinking that maybe I should get them to sign a waiver, listen to a disclaimer perhaps: Oh, the Seventies were a different time; the main protagonist gets sober and cleans of his act in the end; none of it is autobiographical anyway! Well, I might give them a discount but I won't sell out my characters. I love choral music. I would miss it. But not as much as I'd miss writing life as it is.

I believe we may be the only country in the world to refer to "football" as soccer. Of course, that's to avoid confusion with our own grid-iron version. Part of the reason I love to watch the Barclay's Premier League on Saturday and Sunday morning is to hear the accent of the commentators and their wonderful expression. A pass is said to be "optimistic" if it had little chance to get through. The sliding tackle meant to trip an opposing player rather than merely secure the ball away, is thought to be "cynical." Now that the season is over in England, I'll have to content myself with the rather less artistic "football" being played in MLS and NASL here in the states. And maybe the World Cup will ease me through the withdrawal. In any case, as I read my way through the work of Martin Amis (London Fields,currently, and Lionel Asbo before it) I find the same colloquial flavor and even some references to teams I know. A great help, innit? Well, enough for now, if it ever stops raining here in Michigan, I'll get out and groom the "pitch."