An Old Post Revisited

repost from my old defunct blog

Whereupon I almost meet Steven Brust

Posted:Tue, 02 Oct 2012 04:37:07 -0700

I find life full of odd coincidences. It's starting to make me convinced of, well, something. Don't ask me what though. Haven't gotten to figuring that out yet. But I do have weird coincidences and the sheer addupability of such things has to imply some sort of weighted correlation. When I figure out what it is all implying I suppose some sort of action will be necessary, but I haven't arrived at a conclusion about the coincidences.

Take for example - yesterday I was in Union Square to meet a friend who ultimately cancelled our meeting at the last second leaving me nothing to do but wander about. And, right now, there is a death metal band touring Eastern Europe reading Steven Brust novels.

See. Weird, right?

And it's a very good death metal band. A professional one. One with a twenty-five year career, critical raves and rabid fans in those odd nooks of the globe that adore that music. Like Eastern Europe. The bassist / vocalist, Ross, is one of my lifelong friends. We had played together in bands during high school and he made a successful go of it whereas I tried for a few years and hung up the six-string for other sideways approaches to an accidental life.

But one enduring aspect of our friendship for decades is turning each other onto cool stuff - usually music, history and books. He's a huge fantasy genre reader and history buff. He turned me onto George R. R. Martin years back. I'm more of a scifi & non-fiction history/politics guy in general. Give me a book about how South American Liberation theologists are rethinking the legacy of Antonio Gramsci and I get my jazz on. Or something with all the shiny futury smart bits about lobster aliens manipulating economic space algorithms, spice flows and street rocket surgeons finding their own uses for things. You know Peter Watts, William Gibson, Charlie Stross smart. That I dig. But elves and swords? I can only stomach so much. The only writers I like in that field are Michael Moorcock (what, a drug-addicted, god-hating albino swinging the ultimate sword of doom because he's fucking depressed? Oh, we're spelling 'tyger' with a 'y' today? Oh hell yes, heap some of that anti-hero pudding on my plate and high!) and Steven Brust.

Ah yes, back to the coincidence.

There I was walking south in Union Square trying to figure out if I was hungry or not and then cowboy hat, long hair, black t-shirt, vest, mustache. Yes, just like that. I took a few more steps and neurons fired saying, "Hello? Pattern." I stopped, which is something I don't advise doing on a NYC street as a general practice. Others will infer you are a tourist or a newly arrived NYU student and the last thing a New Yorker wants to imply to other New Yorkers are that you aren't a New Yorker. We have our pride. But because the location I was at was in front of a NYU dorm I figured I could pull off the stopping thing. Which I did. So I tuned around and walked north and it was NYU students stopped, Staples, Vietnamese noodle shop, cowboy hat, long hair, black t-shirt, vest, mustache, McDonald's, tourists and…dammit. I had to stop again. This time in front of a Starbucks, which was ok, because I pretended to connect to the Starbucks wifi. And then I was all "Holy shit, I think that IS Steven Brust eating at a Vietnamese noodle shop in Union Square."

But, it can't be. He simply can't be here. That makes no sense.

I was thinking very fast now. If, IF, Steven Brust was in NYC and he was hungry…I mean, he IS a socialist…by all rights he should be eating at a Vietnamese noodle shop with a giant red communist star on it. It makes sense - you're Steven Brust in Manhattan and you're hungry and you find the restaurant with the giant communist star on it and eat there. It would make some sort of sense to Steven Brust to do exactly that. Perfectly fucking logical. I mean I go there for the pork chops and glass noodles, but heh I'm not a full on socialist. At least, that's how I was putting the scenario together. OK, so I'll walk back AGAIN and if it is him I'll saunter up to his sidewalk table and say something, um, clever or pithy. No, don't go with 'pithy' my brain says, go with simple. Yes simple. "Excuse me are you Steven Brust?" That's what I'll go with. I turn around and I walk slowly South now.

I came across Steven Brust's 'Jhereg' novel in 1983 and I was all of fourteen and the book was sitting on the spinning rack with the giant "SCIENCE FICTION" signage above it. I saw the dragon lizard thing on the cover and was thinking it looked cool. Turned the book around and read something about an assassin. Hell, I was fourteen and who at fourteen does not like assassins with weird lizard dragon things. In my defense, it was 1983 and I was weird. And there was no internet. I liked girls too. And guitars. But I still had a thing for dragony lizards and assassins. So I took the book out. I never returned it. I loved it as only a smart-ass fourteen year old who likes lizardy dragon things could like a wicked smart story with a smart ass assassin in it.

Fast forward a few years and it was 1987. I was in college, getting my Political Science degree and stumbling through my first failed adult heartbreak and I was reading Brust's 'Teckla' and by god if it wasn't the best thing I had ever read. I mean a marxist communist peasant revolt in a fantasy setting while the lead character walks around depressed because of marital problems? But it caught me at the exact moment where it fucking resonated - where I'm reading Marx and getting my heart broken. It felt absolutely 100% true. Especially the heartbreak bits - which is hard to pull off in any genre if not nigh impossible. I was playing in a metal band and the bassist, Joe, was a huge fantasy & scifi genre reader and we would spend hours driving to jam sessions discussing Motorhead and Hawkwind and Brust and Zelazny and Moorcock, but we both adored Brust. I seem to develop good relationships with fantasy/scifi genre reading bassists for whatever reason. Coincidence again.

Between then and now I've read everything Steven Brust has written. No, devoured it. I'm not a fan I'm an evangelist. Earlier this year I had jury duty and ended up having a few days of good conversation with a fellow jurist who wasan author and litery agent for young adult vampire novels. Oh god, at every turn I was like "What? You actually like elves and you've never read Steven Brust? Really. You must read Brust. Yes, yes, vampires, teen angst I get it..yes..oh for god sakes read some Brust. Oh for godsakes woman he wrote a book with Emma Bull!" The Emma Bull bit got her. And a month ago I found myself having dinner with my old friend Ross the Death Metal Bassist, talking books and I said "Wait? You've never read Brust? Seriously?" The next day I went down to the Strand and bought the first three 'Jhereg' books for him and his bandmates and mailed them out to him right before they left for tour. You know, touring musicians need something to read. We've been in deep email conversation about how cool the books are as he's rocking Eastern Europe.

And now here I am walking southbound on the Broadway side of Union Square. And it's cowboy hat, long hair, black t-shirt, vest, mustache and then momentary eye contact. And I freak out. I keep walking. I think I have to turn around and go "OH MY GOD IT'S YOU, STEVEN BRUST!" I'm a New Yorker. We don't do these things. I worked in the radio industry. I carried a vodka addled Kiss drummer to his limo after a radio interview. I built houses for billionaires. I hung a Picasso on a wall. I get pissed if a celebrity is in my favorite restaurant. It's 'fuck that guy, who does he think he is and why is he at my favorite table.' You're an actor/rockstar whatever..fuck you, it's a job and you got lucky. But Steven Brust? I turned to jelly.

By now I feel like a complete creep and moron. We made eye contact. I can't turn around now. It'd be all - you know, creepy and weird. I'll just keep going and convince myself that was in no way Steven Brust. It was just another guy in a cowboy hat, long hair, black t-shirt, vest, mustache that looked like him eating at a noodle shop with a giant red communist star on it's signage. I mean, it's NYC and there has to be what, tens of guys that sport that look.

I turn eastward and head home. The second I get home I rush to my desk and fire up the internet and the twitters and see if maybe it was him. Sonofabitch it was him. I consider strapping the two small children on and setting off back across town looking for him again, like Ahab looking for a whale. The nigh three year old would be bouncing on my back while screaming "Where are we going Papa? Slow down!"

"Brust! We're looking for Brust! Keep your eyes sharp kid!"

"Brust? What's a Brust?"

"Now a what! A who!"

I decided that it would be a fool's errand and just end up sending a text message to Eastern Europe.

"Dude, guess who I just saw? Steven fucking Brust."

"No fucking way!"

"Yeah. He was eating noodles in Union Square."

"Really! So are we! With bratwurst!"