Ben Greenman, who I get to needle and prompt at Vroman’s tonight, is on book tour for his new novel “Please Step Back.”

And to let the world know what a book tour means for Ben Greenman, he penned this Tour Rider that’s up at McSweeney’s.

Bookstore agrees to provide and maintain three (3) backstage preparation rooms. They shall be comfortable, well lit, and entirely free of books other than the Author’s books. Rooms must be climate-controlled to dry heat so that the Author’s reading voice (which will henceforth be referred to as his “instrument”) does not get scratchy or phlegmy. Employees of the Bookstore must never use the word “phlegmy” in the presence of the Author, as it may make him vomit, which would damage his instrument. The same goes for the word “vomit.”

Allrighty them. See you there, my clear-throated friends.

I love me some LA times festival of books. I’ve been soaking in it all day, and I think the panels will be great, the stages, the crazy big campus, the authors riding on golf carts, the nighttime events, the quiet mornings, great great great.

But then it’s over, and our literary lives in LA must go on. Mine, fortunately, will be going on at Vroman’s, where I’ll be interviewing Ben Greenman at 7pm on Tuesday, April 28.

Greenman — I can’t call him Ben yet, I haven’t met him. Although I will, at the festival, where I’ll be moderating a panel he’s on — hang on, focus. Ok. So. Greenman is an editor at the New Yorker, and he’s the author of a pile of books playing with pop culture and the brilliant booklike project “Correspondences.” I’d call his new book, “Please Step Back,” a kind of musical fable. It follows the path of Rock Foxx and the Foxes, a band which bears no small resemblance to Sly and the Family Stone.

Writing about music is insanely hard — like dancing about architecture or swimming about politics — but Greenman succeeds, I think, using resonant, uncomplicated metaphors and carefully-weighted sentences to bring the pop and soul and funk of the music of the sixties and seventies to life (but it’s WAY more fun than that sounds). It’s all through the world of a regular-enough guy who becomes a brilliant, progressively more fucked-up musician.

After blogging so much for the LA Times, it is inordinantly fun to type the word fuck in a blog post.

Did I mention we might have a boom box at Vroman’s? How can I get it to play my Sly Stone vinyl?

Ok, right, focus. Vroman’s is in Pasadena; we’ll be in the upstairs reading area. The event begins at 7pm on Tuesday night. It’ll be hot fun in the springtime. Come.

In response to the controversy over de-ranking of more than 57,000 books on its site, Amazon released an unusual statement today.

The online bookseller’s initial response to critics crying #amazonfail had been, well, terse: the problem was a “glitch.” Details were not forthcoming.

But Monday afternoon an official statement was out, and it was in such non-corporate lingo that I couldn’t quite believe that it was the real, on-the-record company response. Yet it was.

This is an embarrassing and ham-fisted cataloging error for a company that prides itself on offering complete selection.

There was more, of course, but I’d like to pause and contemplate this. To apologize for de-ranking titles that appeared to be classified as excessively erotic, AmazonĀ  reaches for a vocabulary word meaning “inept” and came up with “ham-fisted.”

Erotic? Ham-fisted?

Cancel the linguist. Call in a Freudian.

While most of the country was knee-deep in Easter baskets, I was home getting a blog post ready and reading twitter and planning a sortie to purchase Cadbury Creme Eggs before they disappeared from shelves.

But something came across Twitter — which is like a combination of passing notes in class and an old-style news ticker — that the journalist Rebecca Skloot was circulating. Something had happened to Amazon’s sales rankings, and it seemed like that something wasn’t good.

Without sales rankings, books can’t appear in Amazon’s bestseller lists. Some — but not all — affected books had been removed from Amazon’s search results completely. To find a book that wasn’t showing up in searches, I discovered, you’d need to search for another title by the same author, or find a used copy of it, and then click on the author’s name for a secondary list of their works and try to dig up the book you really wanted.

The troubling thing about this change was that it seemed, at first blush, to be affecting books with gay and lesbian themes the most (heterosexual erotica and romance were also affected, as were books about sexuality and disabilities). One author/publisher posted a response he’d gotten from Amazon that said his book had been de-ranked because of “adult” content; another pointed out that his book about being a male stripper for men was de-ranked, while Diablo Cody’s book about being a female stripper for men had not.

In the time it took me to write the first post for Jacket Copy at the LA Times, the hashtag #amazonfail had not only popped up on Twitter but climbed to its top spot.

If adult content was the reason for de-ranking, I found, it had been unevenly applied. Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho — which includes a scene in which a starving rat is inserted into the vagina of a live woman and must gnaw its way out — was still ranked. Rubyfruit Jungle, the lesbian coming-of-age novel by Rita Mae Brown, had been de-ranked. In several cases, the same book was both ranked AND de-ranked, in different editions.

Amazon soon responded to Jacket Copy with a message they were sending to everyone: that this was just a “glitch.” Appeals for further detail came up empty. I wrote a follow-up post on Jacket Copy. Talking to my editor, who was leaving for dinner, made me realize I hadn’t had lunch.

By this time, there was a new Twitter hashtag: #glitchmyass.

So far there’s been no more news from Amazon, although there has been plenty of news: 227 reports in the last 16 hours or so, according to Google News (which always misses stuff). I’d say that someone at Amazon — the person who’s got to fix the glitch — is having a pretty rotten Monday.

I eventually had lunch, but those Cadbury Creme Eggs are going to have to wait until next year.

Tomorrow is the 100th anniversary of John Fante’s birth, and I wrote an article for the LA Times about how his work — particularly “Ask the Dust”– has survived. I talked to Dan Fante, who, like his dad, is an author, and who is at work on a memoir, and who told me lots of good stuff that makes it into the article.

Zocalo holds a panel on Fante tonight at the Hammer Museum, moderated by tall guy David Kipen. Oh, he’s also NEA guy David Kipen. I can’t be there, but I am going to try to make it to the unofficiall Happy Birthday Drinks for John Fante at a Skid Row bar on Wednesday.

I am not a devoted fan of John Fante — some of Bandini’s struggles are just too juvenile for me — but I do love how he sees Los Angeles, and how it is where his true feelings lie. Like this:

Los Angeles, give me some of you! Los Angeles come to me the way I came to you, my feet over your streets, you pretty town I loved you so much, you sad flower in the sand, you pretty town.

The pretty town of Los Angeles gave me another recent article, too. Last week, I met up with Seth Grahame-Smith, author of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. We shot a photo of him in a casket showroom and then he talked to me for an article that appeared in Saturday’s LA Times. The book has been #10 on Amazon — in all books, including nonfiction — since its release Wednesday.

Now: coffee.

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