I Heart Steve Almond

Really. I heart him. I want to cut out his picture from the dust jacket of The Evil B.B. Chow and Other Stories and hang it in my locker.

I got B.B. Chow from the library yesterday, and all I can say is that I’m glad I had the nice people at Barnes & Noble order me a copy (can you believe they didn’t have it?), because I must own it. And maybe sleep with it under my pillow.

Here’s the crazy thing: As a rule, I don’t like short stories. I used to like writing them, but only because I don’t have the wherewithal to write a novel. Mostly, I find that short stories either leave me cold, or they leave me angry, wanting more. Almond’s stories, though, are mostly these perfect little presents. I’m not sure what differentiates them (for me, at least) from others’ short stories, but . . . somehow he writes the stories that I want to read.

There are a few misses. I didn’t like the Lincoln story at all, and the one called Human Consumption didn’t do much for me, but the others were charming, or disturbing, or haunting, or funny . . . sometimes all at once. I think this collection is far better than My Life in Heavy Metal, and I really liked that one.

All I have to say now is that Steve Almond should come to Pittsburgh, get a job teaching at Pitt, and marry me. Then he should write a novel.