Vol. 1 Brooklyn: Charles Yu’s Interior Chinatown Reviewed by Kurt Baumeister


JULY 28, 2020

Charles Yu book cover

Once upon a time, when postmodernism was young—before it became what-the-hell-is-postmodernism-really(?) and post-postmodernism—unique literary conceits were enough to draw oohs and ahs from critics. Think of John Barth with the nested narrative loops and literary equations of Lost in the Funhouse; Nabokov with the fiction inside poetry inside criticism of Pale Fire; or Coover with his cinematic A Night at the Movies. Great as those works were in their time, the audacious formal tricks that defined them have, to a great extent, already been tried. The novel as screenplay…or treatment…or cinema, for example, has been done and done and done. So much that when I came to Charles Yu’s latest, Interior Chinatown, I wondered whether there could possibly be enough of a point to what seems primarily a formal experiment. Could Yu, a writer I confess to liking, even admiring, possibly do enough to justify publishing a novel like this in 2020? Then I read it. And, in this instance, at least, reading is believing.

Driven as Interior Chinatown is by the form and fragmentation of a screenplay, never mind its satirical focus, you wouldn’t expect it to pack the emotional heft it does. Maybe that has to do with the number of less-is-more choices Yu makes here, the way he pares down to the essential not only in terms of prose but in story and characterization. True, Interior Chinatown may be about big issues like family, culture, and society but this is fundamentally the story of one man. That man is Willis Wu, aspiring Kung Fu Guy (KFG). 

Having progressed through a litany of pre-determined Asian-American roles, including, of course, Generic Asian Man 1, 2, and 3, Willis is trapped in the diabolical TV industry that is Interior Chinatown’s America, a place where all that’s left for him is potential ascension to KFG, the pinnacle of Asian-American achievement. This arc of confined ambition and outwardly determined goals is one we see acted out by the rest of the book’s predominately Asian cast from Willis’ father (Old Asian Man) to his mother (Old Asian Woman) and love interest, Beautiful Asian Woman. But it’s in Willis’ “big break,” his guest role on Yu’s invented American cop show, Black and White: Impossible Crimes Unit (ICU) that the story achieves its greatest effect, more than earning its formal gymnastics. 

The satire is brilliantly sharp, here, the canvas an SVU sendup that perfectly encapsulates the struggles of people of color in America. Smart, funny, and an effortless read, this is a book that never comes across as a racial screed against any one group. Rather, Interior Chinatown is about America, where minorities often struggle to cling to memories of a distant homeland while embracing a new land that often seems, like the old one, to be honest, as though it doesn’t want them around.


Interior Chinatown
by Charles Yu
Pantheon; 288 p.


TNB Book Review: Teddy Wayne’s Apartment Reviewed by Kurt Baumeister

TNB Book Review: Teddy Wayne’s Apartment , reviewed by Kurt Baumeister

By Kurt Baumeister

July 09, 2020

Fiction Reviews

On its surface, Teddy Wayne’s latest might seem like an obvious rebuttal to today’s literary culture. Set a quarter-century ago, Apartment is a book about young, white men narrated, not surprisingly, by a young, white man. A brief, breezy read, chock full of winning twists of prose, Apartment is a semi-satirical take on class, masculinity, and the Academy; Columbia’s MFA program, to be precise, where dubiously constructive workshops teem with “types” recognizable to anyone who’s been within screaming distance of an MFA.

There’s the mid-list novelist/teacher who hasn’t published anything in years but somehow manages to present himself as a sort of Hemingway; the talented, effortlessly handsome “working class” writer; and the Atlantic-published “hack” who may not be a hack at all. Then, there’s our nameless narrator whose psychiatric problems (He’s a writer, isn’t he?) may present superficially in relation to his work but, like any good Teddy Wayne protagonist, run much deeper.

Unlike David Federman, the murderous misanthrope at the dark heart of LonerApartment’s protagonist seems harmless enough at first. Continually back-footed by the world, he’s a lovable quasi-loser who sweats too much, gets tongue-tied easily, and lacks the sort of literary self-confidence Mr. Effortlessly Handsome (aka Billy) seems to have in abundance. Like the reader, in fact, our “hero” has no idea just how bad he is until he’s presented with a crisis in the friendship—a threesome that goes from foursome to nonesome in a matter of seconds, leaving the once chummy roomies at odds.

Over the intervening weeks, Billy’s behavior goes from chilly to Siberian, eventually presenting our narrator with the justification and opportunity for a modest amount of payback. In taking revenge, though, our hero reveals a malevolence at least kindred to Loner’s Federman as his desire for vengeance snowballs into a potentially life-destroying crime of passion.

Simmering at the center of Apartment are issues of class and wealth, yes; but at a deeper level, this novel is about sexuality. The homoerotic subtext of this book is handled sparely and with grace by Wayne, who leaves our unnamed protagonist alone at the age of fifty. His literary dreams forgotten; he looks back on the relationship with Billy with an honesty he has somehow still not managed to turn to his own sexuality. This ending with its strains of sadness, anomie, and the lingering possibility of a world held together by a sort of happy nihilism is possibly the finest part of what is overall a well-crafted novel.

Overall, I can’t call Apartment anything but a success. It deftly captures the highs and lows, the heady dreams and soul-numbing disappointments, of the young writer. No, this isn’t the sort of book you read and say to yourself, “Gosh, I can’t wait to write.” But, in the intervening minutes or hours or weeks, as you pick yourself up off the metaphorical floor, you will appreciate the humor, literary polish, and psychological depth of a book that only seems obvious.

TAGS: apartmentTeddy Wayne

KURT BAUMEISTER reviews books for The Nervous Breakdown. His writing has appeared in Salon, Electric Literature, Guernica, Entropy, Volume 1 Brooklyn, Rain Taxi, The Rumpus, The Weeklings, The Good Men Project, and others. His debut novel PAX AMERICANA was published in 2017 by Stalking Horse Press. Find him at http://www.kurtbaumeister.com.

Deaths of Distant Friends (or, John Updike F#cking Rocks)

By Kurt Baumeister for The Weeklings

Published August 29, 2016




My relationship with John Updike was a complicated one in that it didn’t really exist. Or did it? With writers, it’s tough to say.

We can have connections, important ones, without ever meeting. They can be solitary admiration societies, one-way friendships of sorts. Or, they can be more conventional, involve shared human interaction, whether written, spoken, or (rarer still) the social graces required of real physical proximity. To be clear, though, John Updike and I were not friends, one-way or otherwise. But we did meet, once upon a time…

“John Updike fucking rocks,” I shouted at the darkened sky, doing my best impression of a nineteen-year old in the parking lot at a hair-metal concert. Honestly, that was the effect I was going for. And I’m positive I achieved it.

My friends Tom and Maria, and I had just gotten off the T at Government Center. It was cold and drizzly. The sky full dark, the lower air bright with lights from small storefronts and the blocky government buildings. There were people everywhere, some on their ways home, others headed out to eat or drink. We were on our way to Faneuil Hall for a reading, John Updike’s reading.

A little man in a fedora and trench coat scurried past, shifting his gaze for a quick appraisal of the caterwauling lunatic to his right. (That would have been me.) A glance and the little man was gone, a retreating shape against the night.

Some bean counter out to kill my fun, I probably thought. Which would have seemed a reasonable enough conclusion, I guess, for a bean counter like me, given a one-night-only furlough from his corporate prison on the sixtieth floor of the Hancock Tower.

“John Updike fucking rocks,” I said again, perhaps not as loud, still largely undaunted by my own stupidity. I was practically daring the little man to respond even as he faded into the distance. And he did, with the slightest nod, a sign of resignation, an acceptance that my lunacy would continue whether he wanted it to or not.

“Kurt, that was him,” Tom said, with a chuckle.

“What? Who?”

“Updike. That was him.”


“Yes,” Maria agreed.

You may wonder how old was I then? Late twenties, something like that. I could probably figure it out if I had to. I was married (or close to it), living in Salem, home of fake witches and nightmare traffic. My future former wife, Sara, where was she that night? Somewhere, yes, definitely, obviously. But somewhere else, somewhere not with me. By that point, Sara had tired of literary events. She’d had enough of writers talking about writing as they went to see writers read their writing, as they sometimes got drunk and acted undignified in public. The whole scene was a real fucking drag for Sara, this writing hobby of mine. She had referred to it as that years before; something I was destined to never let her forget, something in the years since I’ve never let myself forget.

The marriage ended not so many years later. Two? Three? Five? I could figure it out, but would I sound horrible if I said it didn’t matter at this point? Even worse if I said I was glad she’s gone? Would I sound ridiculous, then, if I copped to still missing her once in a while? Or would that all simply sound human?

I’m not sure what I was thinking about at that moment, that night near Faneuil Hall, almost certainly not Sara. Maybe I was wondering whether that had really been John Updike, inventing scenarios in my head, one-way conversations as to what the great man had been thinking as he scurried away…

So this is what Rushdie was talking about? The fucking lunatics and their fatwas? This is what it’s all about, the fucking fatwas, and now they’ve come to America, to Boston? How I long for a simpler time, the years of my youth, the 30’s and 40’s and 50’s, before the world was broken, when all was still new and good, when liquor was cheap and we didn’t know smoking killed us.

I’ll need to call the police, of course, once I get to Faneuil Hall. And my agent to harangue her for not sending a car. The T? Riding the fucking subway at my age? God, and now I have to read. Okay, I can do that. But then the questions? And some asshole grad student (or two or six) trying to impress me, take me down a peg, or both? Or, what about this would-be executive over here? Maybe he’ll rush the stage. What if he’s armed? God, I hope they have security at Faneuil Hall. I really may need to call the cops. And after all that I’ll have to sign books. This is no way to spend a winter’s eve, not when you’re John Updike, icon of American literature, that’s for sure.

This wasn’t the real John Updike, though. This was a character, built of facts and rumors, biases and opinions. I still hadn’t met the real Updike yet. Rather, I’d glimpsed a little man scurrying away in the night, been told that was Updike, and created a backstory for him. I would meet the real Updike, though, a little later.




I’ve only read one book by John Updike. Perhaps his most famous, the first in what eventually became the tetralogy of Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom, that book is Rabbit, Run, and I’ve actually read it twice, once for kicks, once for class. In my unscholarly opinion, Updike was a very talented stylist who wrote about topics I found (and find) uninteresting. Even the best attribute of Updike’s work, his prose, doesn’t always do it for me. At times, there’s no edge to Updike, almost as if he doesn’t care, as if writing is more a job than anything else.

Still, the man was incredibly successful as serious writers go. A major literary figure before I was born, he remained one until his death, and probably will long after mine. In this sense, there is some connection between us, tenuous and common as it may be. There were other connections, though, important if only for idiosyncratic reasons; connections that fleshed out the opinions I had of Updike, the constructed character I carried in my head as I approached Faneuil Hall.

There was the sage input I’d received from a grad school professor in the late nineties who told me to “Quit trying to write like Updike,” a goal (writing like Updike) that couldn’t have been further from my mind. In fairness to the instructor in question, he seemed fairly obsessed with the great man, not as an admirer of Updike’s work so much as his fame. The professor in question would pepper us with mentions of golfing with Updike, a veritable duffing bromance I expect amounted to one trip around the links many years before. This professor wrote page turners and screenplays, screenplays turned into page turners and page turners become screenplays. The entirety of his writing advice had to do with fame and monetary gain, the trappings of being a successful “author”, a word poisoned for me by its connection to this professor. In retrospect, he reminds me a bit of Donald Trump, if Donald Trump were a writing professor. This guy talked about stakes a lot, about always raising them in fiction. He made the same joke about grilling steaks again and again.

Then there were the days my wife and I spent with her friend up the coast in Ipswich, a place Updike had lived as a younger man. By that point he’d moved along the North Shore to Beverly Farms (and a mansion, I’m sure). And why not? All those books, many of them best sellers. The film options (The Witches of Eastwick, for example). After many years, Ipswich gossip still teemed with stories about John Updike, stories relayed by my wife’s friend, a life-long resident. She’d played with Updike’s children, looked on from a distance as he philandered around that small town, watched him eventually leave his young family and move, literally, down the street. So went the stories from my wife’s friend, so grew the legend of John Updike in my mind, a man who by circumstance and hearsay I became inclined to dislike, or at least to dismiss as boring and bourgeois, not worth my interest. Hence, my mock hysteria at the prospect of seeing him read. Sure, I was going. He was John Updike. But I was going with a chip on my shoulder, a little bit of insurance against disappointment.

The funny thing about Updike being bourgeois is that’s what I was becoming more and more myself, my career in finance advancing with those many halcyon midnights spent at that office in the Hancock Tower, my bank accounts getting fatter, writing time thinner, the act of writing itself growing more difficult until I stopped completely after I finished my MFA.




There used to be a Waterstone’s by Faneuil Hall. The floors and floors of books and books, now all gone I think, turned into a food court or a fitness club, a Bloomie’s or a Macy’s. At that point, it was still a book store. That was where Updike went after the reading, to Waterstone’s to sign books.

The line for Updike was the longest I’d ever seen at a signing. It still is. The queue snaked from floor to floor of the store, through Science and Religion, Fiction and Children’s, doubling back on itself time and again. We’d been near the end of the line, but Tom and I had decided to stay, to wait. And eventually we’d gotten our chance, nearing the table where John Updike sat.

By the end of the evening, the Waterstone’s employees were imploring customers not to talk to Mr. Updike or make him sign too many books. The facts that should have been obvious: It was late at night, long after closing time. John Updike was nearing seventy. He was tired. People were imposing on him. And I watched as people continued to empty out their duffel bags and approach with their stacks of ten or fifteen books, watched as Updike signed them all without complaint, answered their questions about working at The New Yorker, whether he knew Cher and Jack Nicholson, the same questions he’d probably heard a dozen times just that night. Apparently, the Waterstone’s staffers were good at making blanket requests, bad at actually seeing them fulfilled. And Updike wasn’t going to do that. These were his fans. He was going to sit and sign.

We finally made it to the table, first Tom then me. I set the book I’d just purchased, In the Beauty of the Lilies, on the table before him. He took it in both hands, turned it and opened it, flipped to the title page. His pen descended, made its marks, as it had perhaps a thousand times that night, possibly millions in his life.

“Thank you, Mr. Updike, it’s an honor,” I said, star-struck, reclaiming my book, by that point feeling more than a little self-conscious about my bad manners earlier.

After all that waiting, after the liquor had worn off, I’d been forced to consider the reality of Updike rather than the abstraction of the character I had invented. He was an elderly man out on a cold night, sitting there, signing books. I hoped he wouldn’t recognize me. All I wanted was to get out of there.

“Well, I do fucking rock, don’t I?” he said, winking as Tom circled back, laughing, amazed.

And we stood there, the three of us, just three guys, three fellow dudes, as the rest of the world faded, as the last few people waiting in line disappeared, the store around us vanished, and all that was left were three writer dudes, laughing and laughing.

“I fucking rock, too,” said Tom.

“Well, you can goddam bet I rock, that’s for sure,” I added.

“Fucking rock,” said John Updike, “You guys fucking rock.”




Now that Updike is gone, dead nearly a decade, his fictional lilies wilted, swept away. Now that the rabbit has run and reduxed, been rich and at rest, we must reassess. We must deal with the reality of John Updike rather than the character constructed of myth and innuendo, the fiction that is fame, even such little fame as accrues to writers.

There are actually two things I remember about Updike’s work, two things that have stayed with me, and probably will until my death, I hope many years in the future. I think that’s all we can ask of most writers, as writers ourselves; or not ask really, but hope for, that some small bit of their work will stay with us in a meaningful way. For me, with Updike, the first is the beginning of Rabbit, Run.

“Boys are playing basketball around a telephone pole with a backboard bolted to it. Legs, shouts. The scrape and snap of Keds on loose alley pebbles seems to catapult their voices high into the moist March air blue above the wires.”

The rhythms, they’re what get me. “…Legs, shouts. The scrape and snap…” returns to me from time to time. No, it’s not the beginning of Lolita (though Updike clearly learned something from Nabokov). Still, it’s pretty good. It’s poetry, yes? Poetry become fiction.

The second thing that stays with me is the title of a later story of Updike’s, “Deaths of Distant Friends”. The lyrical beauty of that title—and more the truth of it—grows in my mind. The connections between people, the unavoidable loss of those connections, the sadness and joy that come with their memory.

I haven’t seen Tom and Maria in nearly a decade. It’s been even longer since Sara and I parted ways. As for John Updike, there was never a connection really, the end of the signing story an obvious fabrication. Admit it, though, you wanted that as much as I did.

Yes, I did meet Updike. And, yes, just as I said, I didn’t really know him. We weren’t friends. Except for the way certain people and events can fill our memories, can seem insignificant at first, then grow as the present retreats into the past.

I think of John Updike from time to time, of that night I met him, now years ago. More than Updike, I think of the people I’ve mentioned here and so many others, realities gone to the place all realities must, the shadow land of memory.

Beyond the veil, beyond our spent efforts and other, mortal failings, there can come visions, recognitions bright enough to change the way we see the world. These realizations are made still more magical by the fact that we had no cause for marking their consequence, nor that of the memories that spawned them, no obvious reason to do so when once we lived them, many years before.





Look around today and you see heroes everywhere. TV, films, comic books, toys, happy meals, games, amusement parks, cross-trainers, pajamas. Everywhere, capes and cowls, boots and gloves. All that spandex. All those smiles.

From Superman to Batman, the Avengers to the X-Men, there’s another heroic cosmology lurking behind every virtual corner, another bunch of body-suited shit-kickers looking for their piece of the postmodern economic pie. But what if we shut them all down? What if we told Fox, Sony, Marvel, DC, Disney, and all the rest that we were tired of their games, tired of their CGI bullshit?  What if we told them that we had our own heroes, a new set of real ones we were going to stick with?

Maybe if all the peoples and countries and religions of the world finally worked together, we could undertake a sort of Superheroic Moonshot. We could put Joe Biden in charge. Under Uncle Joe’s leadership we could build a team of real, honest-to-goodness badasses, the sort of heroes who could really, finally, straighten this shit out…

Ms. Joie De Vivre:
Of course it sounds French. That’s because it is. Aside from the chilly reception Ms. Joie might get in the parts of America that still serve Freedom Fries, the majority of people recognize the French as being pretty, pretty, pretty good at quite a few things. One of them is having fun. Sex and food, wine and art: these are just a few French strong suits. Ms. Joie is not only super knowledgeable in every way in which one can have a good time. She imparts that knowledge…that joie de vivre…to others. Ms. Joie can stop wars with a wave of her swizzle stick. She can end political rancor with a wink, a nod, and a well-placed hair toss. She can instantly and irrevocably stifle the (not so) simmering malice that ruins nations small and great.

The Universal Lottery:
The Universal Lottery (TUL) is twenty feet tall and comes clad in gold from head to toe. Though ostensibly male and seemingly naked (albeit gold), TUL’s superhuman sense of decorum allows him to adjust his appearance to camouflage the less unwieldy aspects of his anatomy. Thus does TUL roam the countryside bearing the appearance of a super-sized Ken doll dispensing wealth on all who cross his path; thus does TUL avoid dispensing injury with an ill-timed testicular sashay or accidental penile wallop.

The Reality Whisperer:
A sort of interpreter between humanity and itself (cum simultaneous interpreter between us and the rest of the world), The Reality Whisperer has three principal abilities: 1. To permanently mute the 65.6% of human speech that qualifies as white noise; 2. To selectively cancel the 34.3999% of human speech that amounts to nonsense (discussions about the existence of God, the lack of a scientific consensus on climate change, and the Downton Abbey finale for example); and 3. To communicate our goals and desires to plants, animals, inanimate natural phenomena, and even the planet itself and, more importantly, to relay their goals and desires back to us.

The Hormonal Modulator:
Cortistatin, Estrogen, Inhibin, Relaxin, Secretin, Testosterone, Thyroxine. They sound a little like superheroes in their own right, but they’re not. They’re naturally produced compounds that can alternately serve necessary biochemical functions and take us for a couple laps around the bat-shit bonkerama porcupine racetrack. The Hormonal Modulator would loom everywhere, day and night, regulating human hormonality, smoothing out the manic highs and depressive lows. She’d keep Rick the out-of-work trucker from slashing his wife’s throat. She’d keep Suzy the new mom from stifling her crying infant.

New Buddha:
Though billions revere her as a god, New Buddha sees herself as human, nothing more. Rather than espousing a complex philotheology replete with myriad precepts, rules, and dictums, New Buddha leads by example, spending her days as a harmonious beacon of love, one nonetheless inexplicably magnified by the Cosmos. From her rent-controlled penthouse on New York’s Upper West Side, she sends her good vibrations out into the world. When struck by her metaphysical beams of love, power mad dictators throw down their cruise missiles and profit-hungry billionaires give it all away. Her only enemy is Human Nature, a foul, formless presence that roams The Veil, the metaphysical link between our world and the next, seeking ever to undo New Buddha’s Power of Love. (Primarily through the endless, maddening repetition of the Huey Lewis and the News song “Power of Love”.)



Some people will tell you that heroes wouldn’t mean anything without villains. That one really can’t exist without the other. They’ll tell you that for any yin to manifest, there must also be a yang.

Now, I’m not suggesting we go out and build these villainous beasts. We don’t need to. They’re already here, more or less. That’s the strange thing about villains. Unlike heroes, which we seem to need to create (or at least augment), villains live among us. They’re like a byproduct of humanity in a way. All you have to do is add a dab of magical realism and voila…

Big Bad Dogma Daddy:
Big Bad Dogma Daddy (BBDD for short) always comes clad in black (cape, mask, boots, gloves) and white (a bodysuit so uncomfortably tight it can destroy any conversation). BBDD comes from a sunny place no one’s ever heard of. He has traveled countless miles to get wherever he is. While many dispute what he has to say, BBDD keeps his own counsel, for he knows himself to be right. Ever trusting of that little voice inside his head, the one that repeats the wisdom it has taken humanity millennia to gain, BBDD can quote chapter and verse from any belief system, all with the clear-eyed surety of a true believer.

Mr. Apocalypse, Someday:
Something’s going to get us, somehow, someway. This is what Mr. Apocalypse, Someday keeps telling us. He’s been with us forever, literally, looming, waiting, looking for his chance. He’s written books, composed songs, painted pictures. He’s done it all because he’s concerned for us, and he wants us to be concerned, too. The problems he talks about may be incredibly complex, nigh on unsolvable. They may not even be problems at all, strictly speaking. We’re bound to die eventually as a species. Everything goes extinct one way or another.

The Nuclear Djinni:
He was born in the New Mexico desert, born out of thin air as all the best djinnis are. Dr. Robert Oppenheimer spoke his name three times, or so goes the legend. Trinity, Oppenheimer said. Trinity. Trinity. And in a whirl of fire, dust, and explosive fury, the Nuclear Djinni became real. His greatest gift is that he cannot be put back in his bottle. We must find a way to make him obsolete, to make him disappear. The Doomsday Clock is ticking. It’s three minutes, two minutes, one minute to midnight. And if that clock ever stops, the hour will already be too late.

Burning Man:
Once upon a time, Burning Man was a lowly service station attendant. Back in the 50’s he pumped gas and checked oil. He washed windows and polished chrome. Eventually becoming an oil company executive and ultimately top lobbyist for the fossil fuel industry, Burning Man grew old and fearful that his days of burning were coming to an end. He journeyed to the annual Extron Oil board meeting in Hell where he pledged his soul to Extron Chairman Satan in exchange for immortality. Thus does he now spend his days roaming the earth, consuming fossil fuels 24/7.

Her full name Scarlett Apple IPhone Purity, the baby who would come to be known simply as Purity was left on the steps of an orphanage one snowy Christmas Eve. That orphanage, run by the Order of the Sisters of Blessed Torment, would become Purity’s home for the next sixteen years. The sisters were tough on Purity, but not too tough. No, it wasn’t religion turned her bad. It was the fact that her parents had named her after a telephone and an actress who couldn’t even spell her own name correctly. Growing angrier and angrier every time she saw the word “scarlet,” Purity eventually saw red figuratively, setting her violent sights first on her birth parents, then on the endless mistakes of a world that had allowed them to reproduce.



I wonder sometimes what we’d do with a second chance, another crack at being a species. If we could go back to the beginning, to the time when we first related with ourselves and our world, would we be able to do it better? You know, knowing what we know, would we be able to learn from our mistakes?

Instead of the lies we told ourselves back then—the myriad explanations we came up with for rain and snow, sun and moon—I wonder if we’d be able to come up with new lies. You know, better ones. Lies that would have put us on a more solid footing to this day. Or maybe, is it possible, we’d be able to get by without lies at all? Maybe we’d be able to tell ourselves the truth.

AS #2 AS