MAD ABOUT BOOKS
Volume 7, Issue 9
October 12, 2004
Coming to you from Shaoxing, China
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
Madness and Bombast
Book Review -- Who Moved My Rice? by Michael LaRocca
An American Redneck In Hong Kong
Who Moved My Rice?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I could tell that my parents hated me. My bath toys were a
toaster and a radio. --Rodney Dangerfield, 1921-2004
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
MADNESS AND BOMBAST
Copyright 2004, Michael LaRocca
Let's Do The Time Warp Again.
http://www.madblast.com/view.cfm?type=FunFlash&display=3162 is
a clever, catchy send-up of some folks we've been hearing a lot
about lately. In this animated video, The Rocky Horror Picture
Show becomes The Presidential Horror Show.
speaking of the election, I registered quite a while back, and
wrote about it here. Exactly 3 weeks before Election Day, I got
a notice. "Oops, rule change, overseas voters have to register
again." From North Carolina, a "battleground state." If we start
with the assumption that most overseas voters are Kerry support-
ers, a conspiracy nut could probably tie this into how the Jesse
Helms political machine stuck it to Harvey Gantt. Me, I'll just
note that some overseas voters need more than three weeks to
send a fax or a snail mail back to the US and get an absentee
ballot in return. I don't recall it having chads.
Last issue, I mentioned some questions that commonly appear in
my email. I didn't include the ones I answered long ago over
at http://freereads.topcities.com/freebooksonthenet.html but
that was deliberate. I wrote "How To Get Published" specifically
to save myself some typing, so why type what I don't want to
type just to show you that I don't want to type it?
{Uh oh, Michael's speaking Chinglish again. Stop it!}
But, here's another quite common question I forgot to address.
It's where folks want me to endorse them. Write their forewords
and/or use my connections to get them published.
Folks, I have no connections. Nobody knows my name. They don't
shout "Norm!" when I walk into CHEERS. Getting my "seal of
approval" ranks right up there with "endorsed by that homeless
drunk sleeping in your gutter."
Even if I did have such guanxi (I use the Chinese term because
it actually means something over here), it wouldn't matter. I
could be Jesus Christ saying, "It's better than my Beatitudes"
and no editor would care. If he's gonna publish it, it has to
pass his test. Editors publish what they think they can sell,
not what somebody else thinks they can sell.
A "name" author, which I am not, can get it read. But guess
what? So can you. Or an agent, in the case of butthead editors
who proclaim "no unsolicited manuscripts." I like the word
choice, by the way. Authors are "soliciting," although I hope
most of us haven't quite taken it to the street corners yet.
("Psst. Hey buddy, wanna me to read you a manuscript?")
Finally, I'm comparing two prologues. In REDNECK, I tried to play
the "dumb white guy in China" card with the title, but that's not
really the book. For the most part, I was sitting in a Hong Kong
flat and remembering what came before. In RICE, though, there's
that dumb white guy, finally able to write about a place as
overwhelming as China.
Three years can change an author, eh? For one thing, he quits
using so many words. For another, something that had never
occurred to me until Dr Bob pointed out in his review, which is
down below. The angst is gone.
And so it begins...
Please vote for this Ezine at the Cumuli Ezine Finder.
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This newsletter is copyright (c) 2004 Michael LaRocca. It may be
reprinted freely, in whole or in part, if a credit to
http://freereads.topcities.com/archive.html is included. To use
columns by guest contributors, please ask them for permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
WHO MOVED MY RICE? by Michael LaRocca
Reviewed by Dr. Bob Rich
The best writing takes you THERE. You read the words, and are no
longer within your own environment, but have been hijacked into
the author's world.
Michael LaRocca's writing is like that. In a few bold verbal
brush-strokes, he had me in China, sharing his delight and
wonder, his respect for his hosts and his amusement at their
differences. All I know about China is through having had
expatriate Chinese friends, and because I read widely. Having
read Who Moved My Rice? makes me feel as if I'd been there, and
been shown around by this friendly and wise guide.
Everything I've ever read by Michael has been autobiography,
and none the worse for that. I think most writers, even those
producing the most bizarre fantasies, write about themselves.
Michael is just more up-front about it. Having read his earlier
work, what I noticed was that the angst is gone. This book was
written with joy, from a place of serenity and contentment,
and that's where his words took me.
So, if you want to smile, if you want to learn about the people
and ways of this ancient and great land, if you want to make
friends with a thoroughly decent 'American redneck', you must
read this book.
Dr. Bob Rich, http://bobswriting.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AN AMERICAN REDNECK IN HONG KONG
Copyright Michael LaRocca
Prologue
A long time ago, in a land far far away, a high school English
teacher told me, "write from your heart." I stared at him like he
was an idiot. Why, I wondered, should I do that? My life story is
boring. No one wants to hear it.
(A coincidence. Many years earlier, this same teacher told Rod
Serling the same thing. Mr. Serling listened, I suspect.)
The teacher was Harold Givens. He taught English 4AP at
Chamberlain High School in Tampa Florida when I met him. If
you've ever seen that episode of THE TWILIGHT ZONE called "The
Changing of the Guard," where the retiring English professor is
visited by the ghosts of his former students, I just know that
was about Mr. Givens. (Nope, I'll never call him Harold.)
Most writers begin by writing their own life stories, then
progress to the more imaginative realms. I took the opposite
course. I wrote wild, imaginative stuff that lacked the human
element. Many years later, I looked at the old "slush pile" and
saw what was missing. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
In the eighties, I fancied myself a writer of short stories. I
churned them out, mailed them to publishers, and was rejected
hundreds of times. In the nineties, I gave up. Better to chase
money, a house, the "American Dream."
In December 1999, I sold my house in North Carolina, divorced my
wife of ten years, entrusted my lovely dogs to Daddy, and visited
Hong Kong to meet my "Internet friend." Not long after, I quit my
job of eight years via email. Some time later, I married my
"friend."
Until the wedding, it was not legal for me to work in Hong Kong.
To those readers who slave away full-time at some unsatisfying
job, and I presume that means most of you, it sounds ideal. At
first, it was. But then came the boredom. I've always been a bit
hyper. Oh, what to do during those long lonely hours? I cleaned
the flat, I fixed the appliances... But, what next?
When I was nine, I used to sit around with the kids in the
neighborhood and tell them stories I made up. They were
enthralled. As a teenager, I got serious about writing and won
some awards. But since then...
I finally dusted off the old childhood dream, with quite a bit of
encouragement from my lovely wife-to-be, and returned to writing.
I revised all those short stories, wrote quite a few new ones,
and whipped up an anthology called THE CHRONICLES OF A MADMAN.
The "slush pile" also contained two novels. I edited the mess of
them both. One wound up as a novella, which I added to THE
CHRONICLES OF A MADMAN. It belongs there. The other, VIGILANTE
JUSTICE, stands alone. The hero, quite simply, is my ideal of
what my little brother (the cop) would have been like if he
hadn't killed himself at age twenty.
Meanwhile, the wife-to-be was insisting that I write my own life
story. Why did she fall in love with me before we ever met? My
beautiful stories, she said. After ten months, I finally listened
-- I can be a bit thick -- and wrote about the first twenty-six
years of my life. The resulting novel is the best thing I've ever
written. It's called RISING FROM THE ASHES, and it's about how
Mom raised two sons alone.
Mom left her first husband when I was two. She left her second
one when I was seven. When I was sixteen, she married for love.
One year later, that husband was killed by a drunk driver. After
a few years she married again, for companionship.
In between her second and third marriages, Mom was beaten, raped
and stalked. She fought a long hard battle against alcoholism.
But she never gave up on the one thing that gave her life meaning
-- her two sons.
Her youngest, my little brother, killed himself on Mom's
birthday. Four years later, she died of a burst aneurysm on her
birthday. Leaving me, for all practical purposes, a man with no
family.
I sold four books in 2000. All were published in 2001. Meanwhile,
I just keep writing. I am a writer. It's as simple as that.
Mom died in 1989. I wrote about her in 2001. The question in my
mind... should I write about the years in between? As a "serious
novel," it'd be quite boring. But after a few months of
unconsciously thinking about it, I saw that I had the makings of
a humorous anthology. "What a long strange trip it's been," to
quote the Grateful Dead.
This isn't a sequel. You don't need to read RISING to enjoy this,
and you don't need to read this to see what happened after RISING
if you don't care to. Both stand alone, two completely different
works.
"What you know makes you unique in some other way. Be brave. Map
the enemy's position, come back, tell us all you know."
Words of advice from Stephen King's ON WRITING. That's what I'm
doing here. The seventeen-year-old writer I used to be hadn't
gone out and lived yet. Now I have. This is my life. What I saw,
what I did, what I felt. I was a "character" in RISING, but
really it was about Mom. In this book, and this book only,
Michael LaRocca stands on center stage.
When Barry (little brother) and I were children, everybody knew
that he was endowed with good looks and common sense. Michael had
"book smarts," but otherwise he was dumb as a brick and ugly to
boot. (My wife's objecting already, I can tell.) We had a "wicked
stepmother" to remind us daily just how much better Barry was.
Was I jealous of young Barry? Of course. I looked up to him. Why
not? He was bigger. But here's the part I didn't realize until
after his death -- he looked up to me as well.
I never stopped loving Barry. If I'd told him that, maybe he
wouldn't be dead now. Or, maybe he would. It's one of those
questions we just can't ever answer. Those who have lost a loved
one to suicide know what I mean. The rest, I sincerely hope,
never will.
Meanwhile, Mom gave her all to raising us. I fear that those who
read RISING will think I made it up. "No woman can be that good.
Everyone thinks their Mom is a saint, but..." Trust me -- Mom
was.
Daddy ain't a bad guy either. I didn't really get to know him
until after Mom died, and it's all laid out right here in this
book. When parents divorce, it's never the kids' faults. I wish
all kids knew this immediately, instead of having to figure it
out twenty years down the road.
This book begins after Barry's death, shortly before Mom's death.
Mom's final dream, the only one that went unfulfilled, was to
have grandchildren. Barry married first, so the pressure was on
him. Shortly after his death, I married the only girl who'd ever
consented to go out with me. Thus, the pressure was on me. But my
first wife (Lisa) and I had agreed long in advance never to have
children. Sorry, Mom.
It is impossible to be a married person in rural North Carolina
without being asked, "Do you have kids?" And if you don't, you
will be asked "Why not?" Let me answer that one right here.
It's not, as Lisa often suggested, that I don't want kids because
a stepfather beat me. I just happen to believe that raising
children isn't something you jump into lightly, something you do
because that's just what married people do.
Don't make a baby and then expect the teachers and the baby-
sitters and the television to raise it for you. Entertaining,
educating, and raising a child is a twenty-four hour job. If you
don't have the energy to make that kind of commitment, then don't
make that baby. I lack that energy, plain and simple, and I tip
my hat to those who have that energy. Like Mom did.
Lisa's reasons weren't so noble. "Babies cost too goddamn much."
Do you sense an incompatibility between us? If so, you're
brighter than I was when I married her. I was twenty-six, she was
twenty-one, and Mom was thrilled. After a five-year engagement.
(Do the math if you must -- I robbed the cradle.) Lisa and I were
friends first, the way all marriages should be, but we were never
more than that. It took us ten years to figure that out.
I'm not going to write about the marriage. You've read it all
before, perhaps even lived it, and reading about it really would
bore you. I'm just gonna tell you a little bit about me before
Mom died, then drift into stories about dogs and cats, horses,
pigs, and finally Hong Kong.
This isn't so much a novel as a collection of vignettes. Or short
stories, as I try to avoid words like vignettes. It's a departure
for me, but every book I write is a departure from the ones
before.
Speaking of departures, a large portion this book is set in Hong
Kong. I grew up in North Carolina, moved to Florida at age
thirteen as the result of an adventure on the road with an
escaped convict, then moved back to North Carolina at age
twenty-six. At age thirty-six, Hong Kong. Culture shock and all
that. Two years later, I'm sitting in a flat in Hong Kong and
writing this.
I've done so many things in my life, and thought "Mom would be
proud" or "If only Mom and Barry could see me now." But, they
can't. They are dead. Does the pain ever fade? Absolutely. Does
it ever go away? No. Nor should it.
To anyone who's ever lost a loved one, I recommend writing. Not
necessarily publishing, but writing. We've all heard the advice
-- talk to someone. But hell, it's so rare to find someone who
you can really tell everything to. (I've found that person in my
current wife, and I know how lucky I am.) But when you write, you
can say anything you want. Then, if you really don't want to
share it, you can just hide it away or throw it out.
"A good chuckle is sometimes better than a belly laugh." That's
what one reader claimed. I hope so. The most serious part is this
right here, the prologue. Then maybe the third and fourth
chapters. The rest is just silliness.
So, just read and enjoy.
ISBN 1-59105-011-1 / 1-59105-036-7
http://www.booksurge.com/product.php3?bookID=NBIP00001-00046
(Paperback)
http://www.ebookad.com/eb.php3?ebookid=14362
(E-book)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
WHO MOVED MY RICE?
Prologue
My cat is from Hong Kong.
My wife is from Melbourne, Australia.
Before I moved to Asia, I lived in a place called Watha, North
Carolina, USA. Population 98.
How, you may wonder, did this old redneck wind up teaching
English in Hangzhou, China?
Or maybe you just wonder why we brought a cat with us. Everyone
in Hangzhou wonders the same thing, as do fans all over the
world. Fans of the cat, that is. She was featured in the SPCA's
A-Cat-A-Day Calendar for 2002 (she got three days), and friends
in Hong Kong have shipped her Japanese cat food.
I spent thirteen years in North Carolina, all up and down the
east coast. Then thirteen years in Tampa Florida. Then 10 years
in Watha.
I had a great job. I owned a beautiful house that Daddy and I
built. We drew up the plans over the kitchen table as we
emptied a case of beer.
I had the love of two beautiful ladies. One was a mostly-black
Border collie mix and the other was a black half-dachshund/
half-Doberman. (That's not a typo.)
So you may wonder how I wound up selling my house, giving away
my dogs, flying halfway around the world, and quitting my job
via email.
(Years before that, we had an employee quit by fax. I joked then
that I'd be the first to quit by email. When I said it, I was
only joking. Really.)
It started with a holiday. My first in over twenty years. It was
a one-month holiday in Hong Kong. (China with English subtitles,
I thought. Wrong!) There, I met a lovely Australian lady who was
teaching English. We fell in love and I never left. Instead, I
married her.
The hardest thing about leaving the US was giving up those dogs.
I love dogs. More importantly, I love those dogs. But I gave them
to Daddy. He gave them to a buddy who has a three-acre spread
with many cows. The border collie, Daisy, was born to herd cows,
and she taught her trusty sidekick, Bebe the Wonder Weiner, how
to do the same.
Okay, you're wondering how I could mention giving up my dogs
ahead of leaving my family. My brother killed himself when I was
22. Mom died of a burst aneurysm when I was 26. Both these events
happened on Mom's birthday. Part of moving back to North Carolina
and building that house with Daddy was getting to know him again.
He's my family now, and I gave him my dogs.
I spent a little over two years in Hong Kong. While my wife
worked her butt off as a teacher in a system that could stand an
overhaul, I stayed home and turned myself into an author. A
childhood dream. I couldn't legally work in Hong Kong at the
time, so I used the Internet to work in America.
I wound up publishing four books. My least favorite of the bunch
was an award finalist. My favorite sold less than 50 copies. Go
figure.
I became an editor for several North American publishers. I
became a book reviewer and a judge for the Dream Realm Awards. I
briefly became a reporter and editor for an English-language
educational magazine in Hong Kong.
Then, finally, my wife and I decided we'd had enough of the Hong
Kong rat race and moved to Hangzhou. Now we're both teachers. I
still edit for some US publishers in my spare time. Sometimes I
telecommute back to Hong Kong as a legal transcriptionist. My
wife's been teaching all her post-university life. I'm learning
from her by osmosis, or something.
I'd always wanted to be a teacher when I grew up. I can't say
that I've grown up yet, but at the ripe old age of 40 I'm a
teacher.
When I was an elementary school student, there was such a thing
as a scholastic scholarship. Fine by me. My grades were quite
good. But by the time I finished high school, the only
scholarships available were based on financial need.
There were four of us in the household, and three of us had
full-time minimum-wage jobs. Yes, I was one of the three.
Meaning, we were too poor to afford university but too rich to
get financial aid. So, I went to a tech school instead and picked
up an A.S. Degree in Electronics Technology. I used it six years
later, at a wonderful job that lasted about a year and a half. I
haven't used it since.
So, to make a long story short, this old boy isn't qualified to
teach in the US. But in China, since I speak English as my native
language, I can teach it. And I do.
Which is more boring? Teachers talking about teaching to
non-teachers, writers talking about writing to non-writers, or Al
Gore in Speedos? I don't know, but rest assured you will see none
of those here.
Okay, I wrote two paragraphs about writing, so now I'll write two
about teaching. None about Kim Beasley in Speedos.
I have taught Oral English, a veritable trial by fire. No papers
to correct, but lots of preparation and lots of classroom
resistance. "We are Chinese. We do not speak in class." I
overcame their shyness, and mine, and am glad I no longer teach
that subject. Advanced Audio-Visual, which involved selecting
movies my students would like and which I could watch six
consecutive times without getting bored out of my skull, then
showing the DVDs and discussing them afterwards. And the grand
prize, Advanced English Writing for 18 months and counting. Lots
of papers to correct there -- 154 a week for 16 or perhaps even
32 weeks -- but I still love it.
My students have finished secondary school, what people in the US
would call high school. They're attending the Zhejiang University
of Science and Technology. And they're stuck with me. A crazy old
redneck out of small town North Carolina. The Deep South.
There are a number of excellent books about China. Authors such
as Nien Cheng, Peter Hessler, Bill Holm, Nicholas D. Kristof and
Sheryl WuDunn, and Xinran come to mind. They are observant,
knowledgeable, literate, and analytical. They bring understanding
and intelligence to a difficult subject.
I don't.
According to reporter Jimmy Breslin, who interviewed the
gravedigger on the night John F. Kennedy died, "The bigger the
story, the smaller your focus." China is a subject too big for
this ole boy to focus on, so I'm not even trying. I'm writing
about hot beef noodles, cold beer, cats, veterinarians, loud
noises, and learning to mime because my spoken Chinese is
downright pathetic.
It's possible that you'll come away from this mosaic having a
feel of what our lives are like here, and how much this country
has changed me. I don't promise it. I'd be happy if you laughed
once every few pages, even if you're only faking it.
This mosaic may also strike you as a bit chaotic. To me, Hangzhou
is like that. Heck, I'm like that. Again, I don't promise you
that this book is 100% accurate. It's just what I saw, what I
felt, what I thought.
My wife and I are having lots of fun. This is our story. Mostly,
it's my story. Many of these articles originally appeared in my
free newsletter, Mad About Books, which evolved from a monthly to
a weekly. In reading them again, I have to laugh at how naive I
was when I first arrived here.
And, don't forget, this story involves a cat. A very special
Calico cat. She sits on my shoulder to watch me pee. Her name is
Picasso. She's a work of art. To know her is to love her.
So kick back, grab a coffee or a beer, and enjoy. I know I have.
Michael LaRocca
August 9, 2003
ISBN 1-59201-031-8
http://www.booksunbound.com/bsmr.html
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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