As many of you know, I like to indulge in a little political satire once in a while.  I was getting pretty psyched leading up to the Republican National Convention, hoping to be inspired.  But how do you satirize something so absurd as McCain’s vp pick and the continuing soap opera to follow?  I just hide and watch waiting for the next revelation.  I love how they keep saying Obama’s got no relevant experience, when he taught constitutional law for twelve years, but seeing how the Republicans have been treating the Constitution lately, they might consider that an impediment.  A good abstinence only education and experience shooting wolves is more important in a world leader after all.

Where have I been? I had surgery on Monday, a radical prostatectomy for cancer diagnosed in April. Yeah, I’ve had a lot on my mind. The surgery, performed by Dr. William R. Morgan, went textbook perfect, and I’m recovering nicely at home after spending two nights at St. Mary’s Hospital in Richmond. I’m sure some character in a future novel will get to sport a catheter for a while, a most interesting device… The nurses were absolutely fantastic—Sue, Vernon, Rhonda, Kamari, and Shawnta—angels all. I can’t say enough about the excellent, compassionate care I received. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Anyone who’s read my books knows I’m not always a fan of the police. The Richmond cops, however, have found themselves in the news lately because they had their pictures taken with sexy women. The “public outcry” (tirelessly orchestrated by the “hard-hitting” local news) has been droning on for days. If these cops had had their pictures taken with puppies, kids, old farts like me, foreign visitors, ANYONE, no one would say a word. What nice cops, building good relationships with regular citizens. But these citizens were “scantily clad” in “sexy poses.” (No nudity, no naughty bits). This begs the question—what’s wrong with sexy women? Or is it all women who are suspect? Maybe it’s sex we don’t like, though these photographs are hardly sex. There’s no hanky-panky going on, nothing to suggest anything but some folks having fun. I commend the officers for being human. The photos are at a site called TheDirty.com which strikes me as more than a little arrested, self-righteous, and hypocritical. Real news outlets that have been exploiting it are way worse. The ads they run are sexier than these pictures.

After getting my second plagiarism in three assignments, I came out of class yesterday to find my bike stolen. A 3-year-old Schwinn Super Sport, blue with turquoise end bars I added myself, it was a sweet ride, a much-loved gift from Sarah. Locked outside the Student Commons with a clearly inadequate lock, it was stolen some time between 9:45 and noon in broad daylight. My new helmet was secured by the same lock.

In other news, however, I just reread Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World for class and enjoyed it even more. So poignant, so silly, so delightfully done. One positive thought about the bike—I had a moment when I was triple-checking where I left the bike, when I thought, I wonder if this is Alzheimer’s? My dad had early onset at 62; I’m bearing down on 61… So it was a relief, really, to verify it was stolen, and I wasn’t losing my mind. May the thief go on a hunting trip with Dick Cheney.

I wasn’t there. I wanted to be. I’m a devoted Dylan admirer. I even like some of the Christian stuff, if you can believe it. His recent memoir, Chronicles, Volume One, was one of the best memoirs I’ve ever read by anyone. The song and performance selection here is dead-on. All the actors’ performances are good. Cate Blanchett is way cool. Hell, I even got into Richard Gere looking for his dog in Riddle. I “got” it all. I know enough Dylan minutiae to write my own multi-actor exercise in the self-conscious, but it felt too much like Trivial Pursuit: The Dylan Edition. It’s the victim of its own conceit. By giving us a half-dozen distilled Dylans, the film oversimplifies him instead of portraying his complexity. What’s fascinating about Dylan, about any of us really, is that he is who he is, a single person who changes and evolves. I’d be curious what someone relatively unfamiliar with Dylan might make of this film. I would imagine it would be unbearable. It had its moments, many of them, just enough to keep me watching until the end, but though there was a powerful, moving story to be told, buried under the busyness, it was emotionally flat, quite unlike Dylan’s art. I fear more to come. All those guys who used to mine Dylan’s garbage are probably putting together a traveling exhibit. The film makes clear the media have always stupidly mythologized Dylan, then jumps down that same rabbit hole.

People often ask me what it’s like to be a published author. Ed Schubert sent me this link, and I have to share: Book Launch 2.0

The good thing about being as obscure as I am—nobody begs you to write a sequel.

I just finished Elizabeth Hand‘s terrific novel, Generation Loss. What a wonderful writer she is! Her dark narrator is pitch perfect, her examination of the obsessive relationship between the artist and his art, unflinching and thought-provoking, and her evocation of place—a Maine island in winter—chillingly (in all senses) effective. It’s also a great page-turning read without car chases or stupid shoot-’em-ups to distract from the psychological horror of the tale. It’s not fantasy or sf, but manages to be other-worldly just the same. I highly recommend it.

That’s the question in a survey much reported today. They didn’t ask me, but it’s made me think. My dad who was brought up in a Catholic orphanage/school spent summers with a foster parent who sampled the more out-there religions of her day—Jehovah’s Witnesses, Christian Science, Holy-Rollers, a séance or two. He summed up his own religious beliefs to me one boozey evening as “a devout nothing.” Mom was what I call suburban protestant. She believed in God, prayed, liked Christmas, believed in Heaven but not in Hell, except maybe for Ronald Reagan after he took away my aunt’s disability benefits when he was governor of California. (My aunt had polio as a kid and was wheelchair bound most of her life).

So that’s the hand I was dealt, so to speak. I went to a Presbyterian kindergarten and 1st grade so I could start school with my peers, having missed the public school cutoff by one day. We learned catechism. We talked about sin and salvation. I hated it. My parents hated it. They were new to the south and hadn’t adjusted for the more conservative protestantism to be found there. I quit going to church when they quit going, when I was 9 or so. This was followed by a serious fit of pantheism in the woods near our house in Irving that resurfaces from time to time. Then I threw myself into investigating religions at the age of 13 or so. This culminated in my converting to Judaism (Reform) when I was 14. That was one seriously weird kid. Anyway, that endured into my undergrad days when the God idea began to grow a little thin for me, especially the Biblical one. I delved into existentialism (both Christian and atheist), an eastern sampler heavy on Taoism and Zen, and other stops along the groovy highway, though I was always suspicious of anything that went by an acronym, like TM. In middle age, I found a congenial wiccan group, but such groups are fragile. For a while, raising kids who wanted to go somewhere, I did a stint as a Unitarian. It’s a great place to meet liberals, but church is church.

All this time, I never had any trouble with the belief that life is meaningful and wonderful. I wasn’t seriously worried about suddenly committing evil deeds because I quit believing. So I dropped the God rope and feel much better ever since. The bastard’s got a helluva pull. So in answer to the question, I guess, like Dad, I’ve become a devout nothing. Like Mom, I like Christmas, don’t really like going to church, and don’t believe in Hell. I don’t pray like she did, don’t believe in God (though I do write about Him in stories I imagine she would like). For the most part, she’d approve of my religious practice. So I guess the answer would be no. I’m still practicing my parents’ religion.

“Realism is the art of being superficial—seriously.” —James Branch Cabell

Which is not necessarily a bad thing. Balzac’s wonderful. I’ve been working on a story for Richmond Noir, a collection of mysteries set in Richmond by local writers. It’s been great fun, but it’s the first realistic thing I’ve done in ages—set in a straightforward contemporary Richmond. It almost seems like cheating. I don’t have to think about the way the world works; I don’t have to invent it or make sure it’s consistent. It’s so easy. I may have to do more of this!