Joshua Malbin

Andrew Foley’s new book Done to Death gives us two big twists on the vampire genre. The first is terrific. The second feels like gilding the lily.

At the start of Done to Death we witness a murder. A woman Tases a man with vampire teeth, reads aloud to him from his shitty vampire manuscript, tells him his book was so shitty it called for a personal response rather than a form rejection, and stakes him through the heart. Before she leaves she removes his false teeth and strings them on a necklace, alongside half a dozen similar sets.

This sequence is to me the highlight of the whole book, and I recommend to it to writers as a phenomenal example of how to launch a story. It introduces our main character through action and reveals not only her central motivation (she hates shitty vampire fiction) but also effortlessly reveals her position in life (editor of shitty vampire fiction) and a bit of her history (she’s killed at least half a dozen times before). It introduces the playful tone Foley (best known for Cowboys and Aliens) will maintain throughout the book and above all it’s genuinely funny. All in all, a stellar first ten pages.

The next fifteen pages or so of the first chapter introduce the second major part of the story: a real vampire kills and eats the director of a major vampire movie on opening night. It turns out real vampires have multiple mouths and don’t drink blood but rather eat chunks of their victims. This vampire is made because, beguiled by shitty vampire fiction, he convince a vampire woman to turn him, and it’s nothing like the books made it out to be.

Unfortunately, I just don’t like the execution of this half of the plot as much. It’s not as funny, and the vampire isn’t as compelling a character as the editor. Doubly unfortunately, it takes up more than half the space in the book. I just wanted to stay with the editor as she said mean things to bad writers and then kicked the crap out of them.

If nothing else, get a chuckle from the tag on the back cover: “Soon to Be A Major Box Office Disappointment!”

Preview can be found here.

Share on Facebook

Soap and Water chapter 20 is now posted to Red Lemonade.

Just a few words this time: I’m going to be writing a blog post for Red Lemonade about serializing your novel, and while I have a pretty good idea of what I want to say, I’m interested to hear from you guys about how you think it’s gone so far. Do you think that having more regular contact has induced you to read it more often, comment more often, or Tweet or share it on Facebook more often? Are there any of you just waiting for me to put the whole thing up so you can read it all at once? Do any of you read the e-reader versions? How do you feel about the length and frequency?

Of course don’t feel like you have to answer all of these questions, but if you have a reaction to any of them just drop me a line. It’ll help add a little color to the article.

Thanks as always for reading, sharing, and commenting. You guys are the best. E-reader versions on the Soap and Water page as always.

Share on Facebook

Soap and Water chapter 19 is now posted to Red Lemonade.

Many thanks to everyone who came out to see me read tonight. It was a good crowd, and I thought a really good lineup of readers. I was happy to be a part of it, and you all made it happen with your comments. Thanks for giving me that gift.

As always, e-reader versions are on the Soap and Water page.

Share on Facebook

The second part of Soap and Water chapter 18 is now posted on Red Lemonade. And thanks to all of you who have commented and given advice, a re-revised version of chapter 1 is now also in place. The old version is gone and so is the alternate revised version. Enormous gratitude goes out to Josh, Damian, Rachel, Tamara, and Chris for their guidance and help as I worked on it.

As I’ve been mentioning, this Sunday I’m reading from the novel at KGB along with four other writers from Red Lemonade. The event runs from 7 to 9 p.m., and KGB is at 85 E 4th St., just west of 2nd Ave., up a steep flight of stairs. See you there!

Share on Facebook

Just a quick hit to note that the new graphic novel collection of Big Questions is finally here. I reviewed the whole series back in April when the final issue came out. It’s one of the best comics of the last ten years and one of the few collections of this year you really must buy.

Share on Facebook

Deep Springs emailed its alumni this evening that the DS board of trustees decided to make the institution coeducational. I know many of my fellow-students from my era are ecstatic (they’re announcing their happiness on Facebook, that’s how I know). Some alumni, I think a minority by now, are probably angry. Me, it mainly makes me wistful.

When I was at Deep Springs I was in a minority of the student body who favored remaining all-male. Most of the arguments in favor of that position I disliked, since they mainly had to do with how romantic relationships would tear apart DS’s tight-knit community. So I developed my own argument, derived from half-understood Simone de Beauvoir, about how removing the Other from a group of men could destabilize gender for them, and that would be a good thing.

After I left Deep Springs, though, I came to half understand Luce Irigaray and Emmanuel Levinas, and decided that justice required making DS coed. I became strongly in favor of the change.

Years went by, though, and I found that I no longer passionately felt either way about it, or at least was no longer willing to make any kind of rigorous argument for either side, which I guess is not really the same thing. But I still do have disordered feelings about it, which I’ll try to list in no particular shape.

1. I do think the all-male Deep Springs allowed young men to step outside of the tight strictures of masculinity for a little while. For many of us, me included, that was a meaningful experience. Young straight men at Deep Springs were more physically affectionate with each other in a non-sexual way than I have ever seen them elsewhere, more free to be casually feminine in lots of ways. Insecurity about masculinity is basically a non-issue for Deep Springs alumni. We may be insecure about a lot of things, but I’ve noticed it very rarely about that.

2. I am sad that Deep Springs will be significantly different from the way it was when I went there. It will make me feel a little less close to a place that was highly important to me.

3. I don’t expect anyone to care about my experience of 1 or 2. I wouldn’t have wanted such considerations to make any difference to the trustees.

4. I hope the trustees took current students’ position seriously, whatever it was.

5. After some time in the real world, I have come to realize that my dismissal of the potential complications of romance at Deep Springs was probably naive. In particular, one argument people kept making was that “it would be good for kids to have to learn how to live and work closely with their exes. After all, they have to in the real world.” That is bullshit. The right thing to do with exes in the real world is get the hell away and have nothing to do with them for at least a year. After a year of non-contact, you can be good friends. Learning to limp along while half entangled in a relationship you should really sever completely is not healthy at all.

6. I have heard the idea floated that Deep Springs might double its student body to implement the coed transition. Even if the place could afford it, that would be a big, big mistake, and would upset me exponentially more than coeducation ever could.

7. There will probably be a lot more showering going on. I am concerned about Deep Springs’ water usage, especially since I found out the upper reservoir is filled from a well, not Wyman Creek. Is anybody monitoring the valley aquifer?

8. Basically I think Deep Springs will be fine as a coed institution, and I will continue to cherish it. I hope everyone else who felt ambivalently about coeducation or even opposed it continues to as well.

Share on Facebook

This half-week’s chunk of Soap and Water is now posted at Red Lemonade. This represents the first time I’ve had to split a chapter in two to keep the pieces down to a length that’s reasonable for the internet. I hope this pace of publishing continues to work for everybody; if not, please let me know.

One thing I realize I haven’t done yet is actually thank some of my most active commenters by name. So a most special thanks to Tamara, Ian, Ryan, Edie, Joshes Hudelson and Kamensky, Rachel, and Chris. You guys are inspiring and your comments are the reason it feels worthwhile to keep pushing on with this publishing experiment.

Those of you in the New York area, I’d love to see you when I read at KGB next Sunday, September 25.

Share on Facebook

It’s the curse of success for comics, movies, really any popular entertainment: if it’s good, if it sells well, they’re going to want you to make a sequel.

The first four-issue run of 27 (now available as a trade paperback) was a perfect, self-contained story. As I wrote about the first two issues, guitarist Will Garland has a repetitive stress injury in his playing hand, and in trying to cure himself accidentally makes a Faustian bargain that leaves him with a console implanted in his chest. Every time he activates it he gains a miraculous ability for three hours, but after the 27th time he does so, he will die.

Much of that first story is spent on him trying to figure out what’s happened to him and what he can do about it. In the end, he confronts the deity that gave him the console and delivers a moving, multi-page speech on what artistic creation is really about. It’s not about a muse giving you genius, he declares. It’s a process of false starts and painful lessons, won gradually over years. Genius may be given to some people, but they still have to put in the work to make their gift grow. He plans to use his miraculous abilities no more.

The goddess recedes. Garland finds himself alone in his apartment. He flips over his guitar and tries to play with his off hand.

Sounds awful. But I’ll get better. And the music I make—it’ll be mine. And it’ll be loud.

I loved that ending. It was unexpected yet perfect, a real moment of character triumph.

Except now there’s this sequel, so it’s not an ending anymore. Worse, in order for there to be conflict in this new run, author Charles Soule has to take away Garland’s victory.

Yes, Garland is playing his music at the start of 27: Second Set, but it’s much more subdued than what he was playing before, and his fans aren’t going for it. He’s not going for it either: he can feel how the music should sound with the use of his natural playing hand, and what he’s able to actually prodce with his off hand dissatisfies him. Frustrated, he breaks up with his girlfriend/manager and sleeps with a groupie, who triggers the console in his chest. He runs outside, shooting light from his hands, and lets the world—and the news—see his unearned genius.

I should say that all of this is well written, appropriate to the character, and beautifully drawn by Renzo Podesta. But it’s still all disappointing. Garland had a transcendent moment at the end of the first series; the best he can do now is get back to the same height. I can’t see how it’ll be as satisfying to watch him get there a second time.

SIDE NOTE: The main comparison I thought of here was to Buffy’s resurrection before season 6. Buffy’s self-sacrifice at the close of season 5 was a high note for the show, and while Whedon & Co. had some interesting ideas when they resurrected the show and her, most of them were directly about how that transcendent possibility was forever spoiled. Now Buffy was stuck in the hell of everyday life. So even though season 6 had some great, memorable moments (Once More With Feeling of course chief among them), it was always clear we were never going to get as satisfying an exit the second time around. And in fact season 7 was utter shite, with a final battle that left us nowhere near the high of the season 5 finale. Sometimes when you stick the landing it’s better to leave the floor.

To give one more example: if Michael Jordan had stayed retired after the 1998 Finals, after the greatest walk-off moment in sports history, we’d all remember him that much more fondly. The pathetic run with the Wizards took a lot of the shine off that final shot.

And yes, I am comparing the end of the first four issues of 27 to both of those. I liked it that much.

Share on Facebook

Soap and Water chapter 17 is now posted on Red Lemonade. Also newly posted are revisions of chapters 11 and 12 based on the fine comments you all have been giving me. Excellent ideas, everyone, thank you! A final revision of chapter 1 is also nearly complete and will be posted soon.

Thank you as always to everyone who keeps reading and commenting. Keep it up! And don’t forget I’ll be reading from the book on Sunday, September 25 at KGB, only a week and a half from now.

As always, PDFs and other e-reader versions are on the Soap and Water page.

Share on Facebook

“Normally, this is the point in the set where we’d leave the stage, go pee, come out and play an encore,” said Matt Berninger, the singer of The National. “But we’re not going to do that tonight.” A smattering of applause. Thank god, I’m not the only one who hates ritualized rock show encores. “We have to get out of here in twenty minutes. There’s even a clock.”

He picked it up and turned it around for us to see, and there it was. A big red LED rectangle, like a bedside alarm clock. Counting down the minutes left in the set.

We all cheered. I think we got it. It was a little tug at the thread, at the lie of rock and roll. The Dionysiac infinities that have to end on schedule, get rolled up and loaded out to accommodate the long-suffering Hollywood Hills neighbors who can never be transported away from the traffic and the noise, no matter how expansive the moment, how much reverb on the guitars.

I looked at the display, running backwards, and I said to my wife, “Someone better defuse that bomb.” It was the tenth anniversary of 9/11, so it was funny.

She said, “What?” She was in it. So was I, in my way.

I listened to the National from the beginning. My friend Alec started their first label, Brassland, with guitarist Bryce Dessner. I would have friendly conversations with Bryce when I ran into him at Alec’s house or saw them play, and I bought everything they put out on Brassland. The first time I saw them play live was in the smallest, shittiest room at the Hollywood Knitting Factory, in an audience that might have numbered 25. I was surprised to see how skinny a body Berninger’s deep, sad voice lived in.

My favorite song up until that point was “Slipping Husband” off of their second album, Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers. At the end of the song, Berninger repeats to the title character, “Dear we’d better get a drink in you before you start to bore us.” (Rivers of booze run through National songs.) Three times through, Berninger half-mutters, half-sings the line in his gloomy baritone. Then he unleashes it one final time in a painful, unsustainable scream. The scream is disproportionately powerful, revising every other measure of the song, claiming a vaster, darker musical space than the daylit rock and alt-country gestures that made up the rest of the corpus.

In concert, Berninger couldn’t wait to get to the scream – he let it loose on almost every song. It lost some of its power through overuse, which I mentioned to Alec. He told me to tell the singer. I chickened out.

The next time I saw them was at Spaceland, with easily ten times the crowd, after they had left Brassland and had released Alligator on Beggars Banquet. It’s still one of the best shows I ever saw in Los Angeles, or ever. Their sound was already way too large for the venue. The Dessner twins had figured out the spacious grandeur of the guitar arrangements, swirling around surprises in the rhythms and delicate orchestrations by Padma Newsome, Bryce’s partner in the indie chamber ensemble Clogs. I asked Alec if they were trying to be U2. “I don’t think that’s it,” he said. I had a limited body of musical references, but there was something in there – the majestic sweep, the inviting seriousness.

Not long after, the National went on another tour, supported by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Following a Pitchfork endorsement, buzz-drunk fans filled clubs, only to empty out after Clap Your Hands Say Yeah finished their set and leave the ostensible headliners haplessly playing to thinned-out rooms.

I read about this, with sympathetic dismay, from a beach house in Massachusetts, where my first wife and I had retreated together to get out of Los Angeles and to try and make art. I was writing and recording songs on a laptop and making my first attempt at building a screenplay. She was writing a novel and a long piece of art criticism. The beach house, empty and exposed in October, was our second stop on the sabbatical. The first stop was a commune in southern Colorado, not far from the Great Sand Dunes, where I played Alligator for her for the first time and we mostly managed never to run out of red wine.

We get possessive about bands. When they get too big, when they go from small clubs to big rooms to Saturday Night Live to Staples Center, we get jealous. “I knew them first,” we say, to no one who cares. It’s unseemly that all those new people think they’re having the same pleasure that we had when we first encountered them. It’s ridiculous. We had a personal relationship to occult knowledge; they’re nodding along to the latest hit.

For the most part, this isn’t my problem – I’m happy for my favorite bands’ success, and mostly I don’t catch on until they’re popular anyhow. (They Might Be Giants might qualify as an exception.) I would have been happy to share The National with the world. But I wasn’t entirely ready to share them with my wife.

In Massachusetts, she fell under her writing, became pained and withdrawn. I thought I could help but my emotional arsenal was limited, at the time, to a range of clownish cheer-up routines. She took a final month away from me back in Colorado, and drove back and forth between the commune and town, listening to Alligator on repeat, enduring the CD skips from the rough dirt roads. When she came back to Los Angeles, the album was all hers. My voice is similar in timbre to Matt Berninger’s baritone, but everything I said pushed her a little bit farther away, while his songs invited her deep under the folds of his black veil, into their own dark, lonely bedroom fort.

It was blindingly obvious that her experience of The National was more profound than mine. I could no longer listen to it in the same space as her. Before long, I could do little of anything in the same space as her. She moved out of our apartment. The National came through town, and I asked Alec to hold her a spot at the door when they played the Troubadour. He put me down for a plus one, and I had to explain to him that I wasn’t going.

I have a new wife now, and, happily, as far as I know, my ex has a new partner. I keep a playlist for my wife called “Ruined Songs for Heather Joy” – the tracks that I want her to have, but I can’t really give her, because they’ve been too much a part of my life up until now, too much played on the soundtrack to the last love’s end, too much placed on seducer’s mixes during the brief, manic months before I met her. She, also, is alert to Berninger’s invitation to crawl in under the black veil (and I finally understand that antic cheer is not an invitation to crawl back out). When he sings, “Sorrow found me, sorrow won,” she says that’s as accurate a picture of depression as any she’s ever heard painted. When I took her to see The National perform at The Wiltern, she fell all the way in love. I was happy to introduce her to the band. It had already been taken from me once. I barely even noticed the second time.

On the stage of the Hollywood Bowl, Berninger had left the clock to face the crowd. We all knew the show had to end. But he picked it up once more, and threw it over backwards, and time stopped so they could keep playing. They played “Terrible Love” off of High Violet. Repeating “It takes an ocean not to break,” singing and screaming, perfectly screaming, Berninger wandered out along the outer lip of the Bowl stage and into the crowd, clasping outstretched hands, surfing on the warm sea of his making. He pulled us all down towards him, through the colossal hillside amphitheater, into a room smaller than Spaceland, where we all fit.

We all crawled into the fortress together, where I remembered that the sound contained blackness but wasn’t contained by it. There was light under there. There was profound, ordinary sadness. There was triumph – not U2-sized triumph, but something more human-sized, the kind of thing you could take along with you without having to pretend all the time you were in a movie. There was tenderness, there was communion, and there were all the notes I’d heard there before I let others, lovers, listen for me. At some point, the clock must have reached zero, the bomb must have gone off, and we all got to be there forever.

Share on Facebook