Vivian at the Wing Luke Museum tells me that there’s a new Famous Seattle Tour––which includes the houseboat from Sleepless in Seattle, the Sea Star from the Deadliest Catch, and the Panama Hotel, from some strange book...

I’m wondering if they included the home of Jimi Hendrix or Bruce Lee’s old jeet kun do school. Or the club where Ray Charles played his first paid gig? The list goes on.

When it comes to reviews the late great Paul Newman said it best, “If they're good you get a fat head and if they're bad you're depressed for three weeks.” Which is why he didn’t read his press. And for the most part, I’m the same way. I have no control over reviews, so why bother? I do confess though to looking at my stars on Amazon once in a while, just to see which direction the compass is pointing. (So far there are 82 five-star reviews and 3 one-star write-ups. And I’ve been told one of those is a complaint about a book not arriving. Nice).

Interviews though, I do read, because I’m an active participant in the process and it’s always interesting to see how they turn out. And yes, I’ve been misquoted several times, but no one really cares, so I don’t get my knickers in a knot about it.

During one particular interview a reporter had great things to say about my writing, but also a few criticisms. Did I take it personally? Did I take his book in the back yard and riddle it with bullet-holes and mail it to him as Richard Ford once did? Nah. I understood that he was writing an article and not signing up for my fan club. And the next time I rolled though town we split a bucket of clams and had a great time. Some writers have notoriously thin-skins and I don’t want to be one of ‘em.

Which brings me to the Twitter dumpster-fire set ablaze last week by author Alice Hoffman, who was so incensed by a bad write-up in the Boston Globe that she tweeted the reviewer’s email and phone number, encouraging enraged fans to—do whatever enraged literary fans do—boycott their lattes? Hold book group sit-ins?

And through a twist of sweet, buttery irony, the critic that once so enraged Richard Ford—sending him to the backyard with a book and a loaded pistol, was (wait for it) none other than Alice Hoffman.

I say books and pistols at twenty paces settles it once and for all.

I spent the weekend attending this year’s Minidoka Pilgrimage, an annual event that’s one part family reunion and one part return to the scene of the crime––and opinions and emotions ran accordingly. Nearly 150 people were there, including dozens of former internees and their families.

Minidoka is one of several “Sites of Shame,” funded by the National Parks system, along with other internment camps, like Manzanar, as well as a few Native American battlefields that U.S. history books have tried to forget.

It was a packed weekend, but highlights included:

Roger & Me. I’ve always been a big fan of artist Roger Shimomura, especially his work entitled: Stereotypes and Admonitions. It was cool to hang out and talk story with the man himself.

Where our people are. It was humbling to hear a talk by a Caucasian man who’s family moved from Seattle to Twin Falls when the Japanese American community was taken to Minidoka. His father was the head of the local Japanese Baptist Church and when his flock moved, he moved his family to Idaho so he could tend to their needs.

Something about Mary. Walt Woodward of the Bainbridge Review was the only editor during the 40s that spoke out against the Japanese Internment—directly in the face of charges of treason. His response, “Treason it is!” I worked at the Review right out of college and knew the story behind the story. It was a joy to meet Walt’s daughter, Mary, the author of the beautiful book, In Defense of Our Neighbors.

Darumas. During the closing ceremonies everyone made wishes and pinned small darumas to an 8-foot-tall replica of a guard tower. A daruma wish weaves its way through my new book so I took that as a portentous sign.

Justice Society. It was interesting to talk to so many people who were there because they felt called to the cause of social justice. Including a pair of Buddhist monks, one of which had retraced the steps of Harriet Tubman’s underground railroad. Walking from the U.S. to Toronto, Canada, traveling 10-20 miles each night––in the snow.

Karaoke at the Red Lion. And of course the hilarious, tragic and poignant irony of former internees singing the cowboy song, Don’t Fence Me In, was too good to miss.

I've been wondering how the Chinese version of HOTEL would be received. This early blog review of an advance readers copy is a good sign. I just wish I understood it. (I've been told it's a "thumbs up" from KJ, a prolific Taiwanese blogger).