where'd you hear about this book? a review of sorts

Lush Life, by Richard Price

I went into Barnes & Noble after work a few weeks ago to kill time before a movie. Sat on the floor and looked through the photo books for awhile. Diane Arbus. Nick Veasey. 

Wandered by the noteworthy fiction table and scanned some titles. Picked up Lush Life, the author's name looked vaguely familiar but I couldn't place it. 

I put the book back and asked the girl at the customer service desk if they had a guidebook for my camera. She had left her car lights on and was in a rush to run out to the parking lot and turn them off. 

"Ummm," she said, "he can help you." 

Pointed to a paunchy, balding guy in his late twenties. 

I asked about the guidebook. Turns out they didn't have it in stock. He said they could have it in in a day or two. Had to backpedal and say I wasn't really sure if I wanted it. Felt awkward and cheap. All I wanted was to read the section on shutter speeds. 

Went back to the photo section and looked at Nick Veasey again.

I walked back by noteworthy fiction. Picked up Lush Life, still couldn't place Richard Price. Started to read the back. 

"Hey, did you find your camera book?" 

Customer service girl was back. 

I told her I decided not to get it, felt cheap again. Held up Lush Life and asked if I could pay for it there at the customer service desk. She shook her head and pointed to the front counter. I thanked her for all her help and hustled out of there. 

Reading the back as I walked, thinking maybe I would ditch it on the new releases table on the way out. 

On the back, Michael Chabon calls Price "our best, one of the best writers of dialogue in the history of American literature." This is like Ray Allen saying someone has a sweet jumpshot. I decide to actually buy the book. 

Pay in cash, no bag, thank you, have a nice day. 

Reading the book at home and the first chapter is called "Fishing Hole on Delancey." I remember who Richard Price is. First time I heard his name was on The Moth where he tells the real Fishing Hole on Delancey story of doing ride-alongs with the NYPD while researching a book. Apparently, Lush Life. 

I remember what an incredible story that episode was and high-five myself for making such a good choice. 

Rest of the book is a slam dunk. It's like reading a season of The Wire. Storylines for victims, perps, and law enforcement all bleed in and out and onto each other effortlessly. Really nails 'the Dickensian aspect.' I'm almost-smiling and almost-crying on every other page it seems like. 

Fuck, The Wire was such an awesome show and this book is almost as good!

Turns out Richard Price was a writer on The Wire. 

RE: Tedium

Bliss - a-second-by-second joy and gratitude at the gift of being alive, conscious - lies on the other side of crushing, crushing boredom. Pay attention to the most tedious thing you can find (Tax Returns, Televised Golf) and, in waves, a boredom like you've never known will wash over you and just about kill you. Ride these out, and it's like stepping from black and white into color. Like water after days in the desert. Instant bliss in every atom.

-David Foster Wallace, from his notes for The Pale King, a novel on transcendence, boredom, and the IRS.

Excerpts from The Pale King give us a glimpse into the uber-boring world of an IRS office and offer some interesting strategies for coping. Whilst checking forms for accuracy, IRS clerks pause to envision soothing tropical paradises and frequently clench and unclench their butt cheeks. 

Whether this an actual practice by IRS agents discovered during Wallace's extensive research and preparation or an entirely fictional creation could not be verified by my own cursory Google search.

*Wallace hung himself in his garage before completing The Pale King, casting serious doubts on the validity of his insights into how to cope with the tedium of human life. 

** Wallace was also an accomplished tennis player and scholar of the game. Read an article he wrote on Roger Federer (one of his last completed works).

On this day in history...

Pour one out for the old boy! James Joyce died sixty-eight years ago today.