Essays
My new novel, After Death, is here!
I heard some fool on TV, in the course of predicting the weather, say that we were in “the dog days of summer,” and he made it clear that he believed this was a bad thing. As a devoted dog person, I fail to see anything negative about dogs or about anything related to dogs. They are man’s best friend and even better friends to women because women generally smell nicer.
Consequently, I took offense at this “weatherman,” such a deeply personal offense that I am no longer able to watch a weather report or talk with anyone about the weather even thirty-two years later. At times, I still seethe with indignation. Nor am I any longer able even to consider the weather when deciding what to wear in the morning, so that I have been frequently soaked to the skin for the lack of a raincoat. In Aspen, I nearly froze to death after a day of skiing while wearing only cargo shorts. In Florida, I once walked out the door in a tuxedo, straight into the teeth of a raging Hurricane. All because of that dog-hating creep.
The worst thing was that this vicious individual, brandishing his microphone in what I found to be a threatening manner, was reporting from the beach, where he invited parents to participate in horrific—if not satanic—activities. “Bring the kids down here,” he said, “and throw the little tykes in the ocean. If you don’t surf, you can still have a lot of fun watching surfers be snatched off their boards by sharks.” He said all of this in a jolly tone of voice, with a terrifying grin, as if forcefully drowning your children and watching people be devoured by Great Whites were perfectly respectable summer activities.
And then—I shudder to speak of this even after the passage of so much time—still leering maniacally, he announced that the annual dog-eating contest would take place that very evening and that the previous year’s winner had “scarfed down fifty-six of those tasty babies.” I was so outraged and sickened that I couldn’t take time to find the remote control. I turned off the TV by throwing my bowling ball, which I happened to be polishing at the time, through the screen.
If one of you reading this is considering becoming a weather person on TV, I implore you not to venture into that demonic line of work. Consider becoming a writer, and trying to give pleasure to readers instead of burdening audiences with the twisted views acquired while being educated in meteorology. I try my best to give pleasure to the public, and I think you will enjoy reading my recent novel, After Death, which has been in stores less than a month as I write this.
The story is about friendship and courage and the Singularity, with a lot of surprises. It’s suspenseful, with some pretty scary villains (though none so disgusting that they would eat puppies). I hope you enjoy the heck out of the rest of the summer.
