DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

I loathe politics, but I enjoyed this book as much as Tarloff’s more recent The Man Who Wrote the Book (which I heartily recommend, as well).

Face-Time recounts the story of a Presidential love affair, told from the perspective of the woman’s boyfriend — himself the lead speechwriter for the President. While work-related love triangles are probably somewhat common, having the “boss” figure be the President is (we hope, anyway) uncommon. The book presents a deep investigation into love, trust, power, guilt, and I suppose politics although you needn’t understand or even like politics to enjoy the story.

There are only a handful of characters, and the plot is simple. The narrator is an intelligent man with a wry sense of humor, and Tarloff’s outstanding writing shines throughout. The dialog is impeccable, and even better, the narrator’s internal analysis (which probably represents a significant percentage of the text) is fascinating and heartfelt.

This would probably be an uncomfortable read, if your spouse has been unfaithful. The narrator’s pain is so pure, so evident, that at times I felt like I do when someone talks about grisly oral surgery or, even worse, prostate procedures: empathy can kill! Tarloff sets up wholly wretched situations but populates them with likeable, even admirable characters, whose justifications and rationalizations are completely reasonable. It’s impossible for the reader not to project himself into the story, to ask “what would I do?”

This book should probably be required reading for couples prior to marriage!

Patronize these links, man:

• Amazon (paperback)

This is an absorbing thriller. I dislike the title, which is clearly a marketing ploy and which has no meaning within the context of the story, but it’s quite likely Sandford didn’t write the title.

Silent Prey features ex-cop Lucas Davenport, an engaging, three-dimensional character familiar to readers of the other Prey stories (which I haven’t read, but will now). He’s clever; he doesn’t take B.S.; and he doesn’t take himself too seriously either. He’s tracking a Hannibal-like psychopath introduced in Eyes of Prey, Michael Bekker, through a series of grisly murders in New York City.

All the requisite plot-twists are in place to keep the reader guessing, up until the very end. I enjoyed this book and recommend it to fans of the genre — including cop dramas, investigative procedurals, mysteries, thrillers, etc.

Patronize these links, man:

• Amazon (paperback)

I am only slightly embarrassed to share with you the following irrational and complicated fear: I am deathly afraid of being suspended far above the ground by a cable. Or, more specifically, I’m deathly afraid of falling, especially after having been temporarily and unsuccessfully suspended far above the ground by a cable.

This is not a fear of heights. I ride elevators and airplanes without issue. I peer over the edge from roofs of tall buildings, peaks of mountains, and bridges with no problem. I’ve ridden up the Gateway Arch many times, leaned heavily on the thin metal walls 630 feet above the plaza, and felt the structure sway in the wind. And I’ve even ridden the aerial tram at Sterling Vineyards a half-dozen times with barely a quiver.

On the other hand, I quit a snow-skiing class after only a half-day because the instructor expected me to ride a chair lift that went about a mile into the air. Yeah, right!

And I nearly squeezed fingernail dents into the metal seat on the Kölner Seilbahn, the sky-tram that lifts riders way too high over the Rhine River in Cologne, Germany, in tiny cars that are much too small to die in if you know what I mean. This virtual tour only hints at my pain. (browsing tip: “nächstes Bild” means “next picture”)

So it was with some trepidation that I agreed to ride the Jasper Tramway, an aerial tram up the side of Whistlers Mountain, in Jasper National Park. Face your fears, I muttered to myself behind nervous laughter and transparently false bravado, as all the blood drained from my head to leave me dizzily contemplating the climb of packed tramcars into the afternoon sky. I had a long time to contemplate, too — the line ahead of us was the season’s longest. I stood there for an hour, watching a dozen groups of 30 people ascend to maddening heights over the mountainside, imagining grisly deaths from falling and the snap of the 8800-foot cable whipping down the mountain, clearcutting acres of old-growth spruce and perhaps beheading a few hundred tourists as well.

I knew I could handle it — really, all you have to do is stand there. Like I said, it’s an irrational fear, not that that knowledge keeps my pulse steady when I’m equally certain I’m about to plunge two hundred feet into the asphalt parking lot. If I can walk on fire, I remember thinking, I can certainly handle this.

And so I did. The ascent was uneventful, and I arrived safe and sane at the top, breathing normally, with all my fingernails intact. It was, after all that, a non-event.

Queueing up for the ride back down the mountain, I was proud to have no residual fear. I even planned to film the descent through an open window in the car. Yet while I waited, I shifted the video camera from one hand to the other to notice a palm-shaped pool of nervous sweat on the side of the case — a wet handprint that belied my newfound nonchalance. Maybe I’m about to die after all! I thought in a moment of panic.

Of all the places in the world where people are often confused and/or lost, airports contain the highest concentration of people who are looking somewhere other than where they’re walking.

Visitor confusion is easily explained: tight schedules, crowds, a lack of legible signage, etc. But people are confused in lots of places, and this doesn’t always result in effectively blinded automatons who’d as soon run you down as step around you. The difference, I’ve decided, is momentum.

Because in addition to the melange of obvious distractions, airports suffer from a population burdened with heavy luggage: suitcases, duffle bags, briefcases, trunks, backpacks, sample cases, diaper bags, coats, purses, cameras, pet carriers, and so on. When saddled with gear, many people apparently believe that walking in any direction is preferable to stepping out of traffic, determining where to go, and only then continuing.

The only explanation I can think of for this behavior is that too much energy would be required to stop and restart forward motion: in an attempt to prevent a dramatic loss of energy (which might be needed later when elbowing through a crowded aisle to lift 300 lbs of carry-on crap into the overhead compartment), many travelers opt to continue in their original direction until faced with a compelling need to turn — e.g. a solid wall, a fellow traveler, or a sign elsewhere indicating once and for all that one’s ultimate destination lies over there.

There’s a related, and equally regrettable behavior type that is evident at airports: folks that stop in the middle of the corridor and slowly turn 360 degrees to figure out where to go next. This is an energy-saving play, too, although it’s interpreted differently: walking in the wrong direction is a waste, whereas stopping and starting is just a necessary evil. The problem, of course, is that everyone walking behind these folks has to stop short or hop around, or traffic backs up. (In ideal cases, everybody stops short in a straight line, until someone at the back end isn’t quick enough and knocks the whole line down like dominos.)

So anyway, I stepped off an escalator at SFO last Saturday and was nearly toppled by a man with two heavy suitcases. He was walking straight at me, but his head was turned 90 degrees to the right. “Am I supposed to be over there?” he was thinking. “I’d better keep walking this way until I’m sure.” I was able to step around him, but unfortunately caught his eye, and his attention, just before he marched up the down-escalator, which I’d have liked to see.

I stood still, watching for a few seconds, marveling at this guy’s thoughtlessness — he just assumes everyone else is looking out, making room for him — when some other jerk shoulders around me, muttering “Don’t stop in the middle of the corridor!”

Imagine the nerve!

I just received an invitation to my 20-year grade school reunion. I think I’d be happier to be listed in the “missing in action” group than the “invited classmates” group — some 33 people who I haven’t thought of or heard from in the ten years since the last reunion, which I attended after a fit of ill-advised nostalgia.

It’s not that I had a bad time at the last reunion, so much as the fact that I haven’t been in contact with any of those people since then. I’m sure if I went to this gathering, I’d soon glow with the same warm and fuzzy feelings I had ten years ago, although in that case, I think I had one too many cheap canned beers first. (There’s something about drinking lukewarm Budweiser in one’s grade-school cafeteria that lends a surreal quality to any social gathering. Perhaps they should hire out for dramatic presentations, wedding receptions, and the like.)

I have to admit, my first thought upon opening the invitation was to send back the reply envelope empty. Heh.