I joined the New York Times Book Review Book Club. I need to discover new authors. I only read books written in the last century. Maybe the New York Times Book Review Book Club, which isn’t an official organization, just something mentioned at the end of the New York Times Book Review podcast, will give me some good recommendations.
I purchased a copy of Yrsa Daley-Ward’s The Catch: A Novel (2025, Liveright) from my local Barnes & Nobles. The New York Times Book Review Book Club will discuss it at the end of this month. The clerk smiled when I interrupted her Barnes & Nobles Rewards Club spiel and presented my Barnes & Nobles Rewards card. I miss Brand Books on Brand Blvd. in Glendale. It smelled like dust, mildew, and crumbling paper. It didn’t have rewards cards. The proprietor was in his eighties. His name was Jerome. I spent a cumulative total of many months there, and lots of money. I sold him lots of books, also. He asked me what the hell was Paschal Beverly Randolph’s Eulis: A History Of Love, Its Wondrous Magic, Chemistry, Rules, Laws, Modes, Moods and Rationale; Being the Third Revelation of Soul and Sex. 1896, Third Edition, self-published by Mr. Randolph, which Jerome was selling for $25. My mind was blown. I never thought I’d see this early of a copy, ever.
I’m three chapters into The Catch. I only have time to read a chapter a night. It’s really, really good, so far. It’s the story of twin sisters in London, one of whom may or may not have seen their long-lost mother on a bus. I gravitate to fiction that has little or no plot. I like books the authors of which challenge established narrative norms. The Catch checks these boxes, from the esoteric first sentences, a desperate attempt to escape convention on behalf of the author, to her milk toast editor, who I can imagine had to constantly reel her in.
What I’m trying to say is, it’s not Ulysses, or Gravity’s Rainbow, but it has something.
I took my wife to our local emergency room last night, not for anything life-threatening, but for something that could be life-threatening, and she needed to be examined immediately, not wait months. I haven’t had to go to a hospital emergency room in a long time. Nobody there wants to be there. Everyone waiting to be examined is hurting in different ways, but are hurting the same. There was a guy who had been in a car accident and came in holding an ice pack to his face. There were several elderly people in wheelchairs accompanied by family members. One of the elderly ladies couldn’t remember anything. One had recently passed out. One woman said she couldn’t move and was constantly crying and moaning in pain. A young man tried to console her. A quiet young woman sat with her head in her hands while hooked to an IV. Her friend read a book next to her. A young couple both wore masks. I couldn’t figure out what was ailing them. A hefty bald guy, who reminded me of the beautifully falsetto-singing inmate from the Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder film Stir Crazy, came in and wiped down his seat before sitting down. He talked to his mother on the phone and said, “I love you, too.” There was another young couple, the woman of which was had trouble walking. Her husband held her arms. Two wealthy-looking women with face work sat down near me. One of them stood up and accidently dumped the contents of her purse on the floor. They both laughed, picked up the items and left. The triage nurse came out and called one of their names.
The attending doctor was funny and kind. I liked his eyes. He told jokes and reassured Lisa that everything was going to be OK. He told us that, because of his schedule, he only eats one meal a day. The rest of the day and night he lives off diet coke and coffee. He seemed to be in his forties. The nurses were all young and had tattoos. One had a tiger face on the back of her upper arm. Another’s right forearm was completely covered in flowers.
A man around my age was in the treatment room with his wheelchair-bound father. “His feet are leaking,” he explained. “He REALLY doesn’t want to be here.” The entire room laughed. No one wants to be here.
Lisa and I waited in the main reception room while she got an IV with antibiotics. An old neighbor of ours walked out of the emergency double doors. “Mark? Hello!” I said. This is the last place I’d think of seeing anyone I know, even randomly. He moved away a few years ago. His young son was friends with our son and used to be at our house often. He told us his mom recently recovered from cancer. His ex-wife, the mother of his son, died of cancer in February. His son was taking it the best he could. Mark had been experiencing chest pains, sent his kid to relatives in San Diego, and got checked out. His son has already lost one parent. After all day and fifteen tests, Mark was cleared to leave. There was nothing wrong with his heart. He could go home. He asked how we were doing, how’s work, am I going on tour soon? He promised to send his son over so our kids could hang out. The nurse took Lisa’s now-empty IV away. She got her two prescriptions and we went home, too.
This morning I was awoken by a crow conflagration. The birds were everywhere, squawking and raising a ruckus. One of them slammed into our bedroom window. I got out of bed and looked outside. I saw a lot of crows. There was a juvenile hawk standing alone on our fake backyard grass.
I ran down and tried the best I could to shoo the crows away. They were attempting to attack the hawk. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The crows were protecting their nests. I couldn’t tell if the hawk had been injured. He stared at me. After a minute or so he lifted up to the edge of the wooden gate separating our backyard from our neighbor’s backyard. The crows kept swooping. The hawk let out a bunch of poo or pee onto our fake grass. I think it was thanking me. It saw an opening, let out a loud bellow and flew between the two houses, towards the sun, crows trailing behind.
Today is Canada Day. I’ve been listening to Classical FM 96.3 out of Toronto. They’re only playing Canadian composers, or music related to Canada. Right now it’s Prokofiev’s Symphonies Nos. 1 & 5 performed by the Orchestre Symphonique de Montréal. In between pieces the DJ talks about her love for Canada, the importance of saving Canadian jobs and preserving Canadian business, of preserving indigenous Canadian culture, and how much she hates Trump. Today, in 1867, The British North America Act (today known as the Constitution Act) created Canada. I hope that, of all the artificial land boundaries, the Canadian boundaries remain intact until the end of time.
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