TLS Weekly Stolen Book Review: "The Birthday Party," by Stanley Alpert

Imagine this: The Long Shot regularly reads the book reviews of carnivorous, pepper-tongued Michiko Kakutani. Today's entry is the work of Michiko's more subdued colleague, William Grimes, who suckles "The Birthday Party," a memoir by assistant federal attorney Stanley Alpert. The book begins on Mr. Alpert's 38th birthday, during which he is plucked from a Greenwich Village sidewalk by three young black thugs driving a Lexus. The kidnappers plan on forcing Alpert to drain his checking account, but when they discover he has $110,000 in a savings account, they bring him back to his apartment (accompanied by three prostitutes - yes...), tie him up, and wait until the bank opens the next day.

Rotate street abduction into compendium of NYC paranoia (train crumple, germ release, airplane crash, edifice collapse, sewage eruption, rat bite, roach in ear canal, home entry, gas fire, careering FreshDirect truck, rampaging cop, spitting bum). Grimes loves "The Birthday Party", bless his heart, and he gives us a peppery [ref., Michikotian] glimpse at what (presumably) makes it so fucking great:

"There are many tense moments. Sen, without warning, begins raving, screaming out sick, violent fantasies of murder and mayhem. “I remained frozen in sheer terror, silent and unflinching, hoping he would not act,” Mr. Alpert writes. Gradually, he realizes that Sen is singing along to a Busta Rhymes rap on the radio."

America is Dying

The Long Shot took this picture yesterday as he rode in a Sikorsky S-76 helicopter from lower Manhattan to the American Airlines terminal at JFK airport. Then he turned around and flew back, having caught a glimpse at how the fatter half lives: from office playground to steaming mug of gold-flaked cappuccino at the Ambassador's Lounge in less than half an hour.

At right wing: Reign of Blood

The Long Shot went to a New York Rangers game last night with his cousin, Elizabeth. It was a pretty normal scene: Hefty, slick-haired mooks in hockey shirts belting out arcane chants about long-retired players and the utterly uninteresting grudge between the MSG faithful and those pests out in Nassau County. In short, baby-eating fans of the lowest order.

However, once the game started, TLS felt something different. Something Other. And then we saw it:


A closer look reveals the Prince of Darkness.


Happy birthday, ER.

Suspicions confirmed

When I was wee lad, my parents knew there was something wrong with me, psychologically speaking. They brought me to Boston Children's Hospital where a soon-to-be noted child psychologist named Melvin D. Levine performed what is called, in the parlance of doctordom, a "bevy of experiments"*. Of this "bevy", I sadly remember just one: Dr. Levine asked me to draw something, and I drew a crude picture of a custom van, with A-Team racing stripes and a round window on the side. The results were inconclusive, until now. From today's New York Times:

"A bevy of experiments* in recent years suggest that the conscious mind is like a monkey riding a tiger of subconscious decisions and actions in progress, frantically making up stories about being in control."