Month / July 2006

by Edward Champion

In Praise of David Orr

While the Tanenhaus Brownie Watch may be discontinued, Levi Asher has picked up the slack with his “Reviewing the Review” blog posts. This week, Mr. Asher made the claim that “The Book Review continues to prove that it has no capability at all to review poetry.” While I can certainly agree that its poetry coverage leaves little to be desired, in large part because of the self-described “vulgarian” whims of its editor, I felt the need to leave a comment noting that there has been one critic during Tanenhaus’s run that has done a competent job at reviewing poetry: David Orr.

While I’ve had my quibbles with Mr. Orr in the past, Mr. Asher challenged me to limn just what it was about Orr that made him “very good.” It’s a fair enough question, seeing as how Asher has called Orr “hopelessly square.”

First off, if the NYTBR‘s purpose is to profile smart and well-informed reviews that straddle the fence somewhere between layperson and elitist New York Review of Books subscriber, then any decent poetry critic must divagate within this territory. And I feel that Orr has done this quite well, daring to challenge icons, introducing poetry to a readership without making it dull, and shifting the focus away from a poet’s public perception to the words that the poet has written with a deft and playful touch. Take, for example, this recent review of an Elizabeth Bishop collection. It introduces Bishop to the uninformed and subtly guides the reader into contact with her poetry instead of Bishop’s reputation, establishing and comparing such qualifiers as “difficulty” and “subtlety,” and using these terms to segue into the text of “Vague Poem.” He playfully suggests that more people know the lyrics to “Total Eclipse of the Heart” than Bishop’s poetry, which suggests someone attuned to pop culture (certainly a lot more than a closet fetishist like Leon Wieseltier or Dave Itzkoff, who has only recently discovered that chicks write speculative fiction too).

Then there is this review from November 2004, which challenges the qualifiers behind The Best American Poetry series, clearly outlining the history of these compilations, while suggesting that the bar may be set too low and imputing that “poetry isn’t really an open system; it’s a combination of odd institutions, personal networks, hoary traditions, talent and blind luck” to the NYTBR‘s democratic reading base.

Hopelessly square? Even Mr. Asher had to applaud Mr. Orr when he took Jorie Graham to task. What we have is a poetry critic with a mischevious streak that is far from Pat Boone. I’m under no obligation to acknowledge the positive, but Orr’s poetic review of Billy Collins’ The Trouble with Poetry was one of the few interesting reviews under Sammy Boy’s tenure. One does not expect such exuberance from a lawyer, much less from a publication whose editor cannot appreciate a brownie or an intelligent woman. But, alas, there it is.

I have no idea what’s made Orr’s work sparse in the NYTBR these days. Perhaps it’s Sammy T’s tone-deaf editorialship. But Orr was a welcome presence within a hopelessly corrupt publication. And I contend that if there was one thing Sammy Baby did do right, it was hiring David Orr.

by Edward Champion

Roundup

  • An open memo to John Freeman: Do you even have a sense of humor? Or did you lose it when you became involved with the NBCC? Or are you hoping that maintaining a sourpuss disposition will get you published in Tanenhaus’s pages? I publicly challenge you to either ping-pong, bowling or mini golf the next time I’m in New York City, where we might settle this silly divide between old media and new media like gentlemen.
  • Alisdair Gray posts his one-act play, “Goodbye Jimmy.” He’s granted everyone permission to rewrite the play in a different dialect or language, with any changes or additions they like. I must say, I’m tempted to pen a California surfer version entitled “Goodbye Rufus,” replacing the Iran banter with speculation on Keanu Reeves’ sexual orientation.
  • Apparently, I have less than a month to get indicted and convicted for tax income evasion or, alternatively, to go crazy with an axe. One thing about Peschel’s list: all the presidential assassins seem to be young. Leon Czologz isn’t on the list, but at 28, he was an elder statesman compared to Booth and Oswald (and Hinckley, whose failed Reagan assassination came at the age of 26). The moral of the story: if you’re President of the United States, you can trust anyone over 30.
  • More on the Savanna Samson scam. The Book Standard talks with Samson, but doesn’t ask her who the real author of the book is or why Thunder’s Mouth is taking this approach. Instead, TBS asks the porn star about book digitization, which is akin to asking a typographical expert about the finer techniques of double penetration. Well, that’s okay. While TBS remains asleep at the wheel (not the first time they’ve been indolent), I don’t mind doing a little reporting. It takes all of two minutes. I’ve left a voicemail with Thunder’s Mouth’s associate publicist and I will let you know if I hear anything back. (And, heya, TBS, I rib you because I care.)
  • One thing is certain: hip-hop and New Yorker house style don’t mesh well. “For moral support, Gravy had assembled a sizable entourage.” Indeed.
  • Elizabeth Crane celebrates ten years in Chicago and reveals the crazed “must-leave-now” circumstances that caused her to flee New York.
  • The Chronicle‘s Simone Sebastian reports on the closing of Cody’s. Dibs, meanwhile, calls bullshit.
  • Damn. The Alexander Book Company too? That’s four bookstore closings in the Bay Area (ACWLP, Cody’s, Valencia Street, Alexander) in the past few months. (via Kevin Smokler)
by Edward Champion

Just Shy of Personal Fluffer

Janet Maslin: “As is the case anytime Hollywood lets its hair down, this account exposes deep fault lines of privilege, power and class. Consider the story of Paula, who was Night’s assistant when he was ready to spring his ‘Lady in the Water’ screenplay upon the Walt Disney Company. Among Paula’s virtues were the ability to make hot chocolate exactly the way Night likes it and to fly cross-country without going to the bathroom. The screenplay was far too important to be left unattended.” (via Light Reading)

by Edward Champion

T.C. Boyle’s Talk Talk, Part One

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Here begins this week’s roundtable discussion of T.C. Boyle’s Talk Talk. Our first participant was none other than Dan Wickett, who offers this opening salvo. Part Two can be accessed here. Part Three is here. Part Four is here.]

Talk Talk is T.Coraghessan Boyle’s 11th novel and I believe it maintains some traditional TCB aspects. There is a running theme through Boyle’s work that humans are, like all other animals, part of the food chain – both predators and prey, and Talk Talk, with the storyline of a deaf woman having her identity stolen by an ex-con continues that nicely. There is also the steady, wonderful, description of nearly every meal eaten throughout the story, as the not-so-hidden foodie in Boyle can’t help but leech its way into his writing. We also have our usual need for reading Boyle’s work with a dictionary next to us on the couch as he tosses words previously unfamiliar to me at least, Exopthalmia, autophagic, and others with similar numbers of syllables, throughout the work.

Early in Boyle’s career, Boyle was frequently accused of being a writer more concerned with flash and not with substance. He was often described as a writer with incredible skill, willing to write about anything (as in say his short story, “Heart of a Champion,” where Lassie allows a randy coyote to chew little Timmy’s hand nearly off and then runs away with the coyote, or “The Champ” a story about a round by round heavyweight championship between two eaters) and would do so with every writing pyrotechnic available. This accusation, or complaint, was still being lobbed, unfairly in my opinion, at Boyle in what at this point would be considered the middle of his career (novels such as World’s End through The Road to Wellville and the stories being written at that time).

Ever since The Tortilla Curtain came out though, he’s been given a higher standing in the literary community by national critics (though the earlier World’s End did win the PEN/Faulkner award, it wasn’t until The Tortilla Curtain that the majority of critics didn’t toss in a line or two about Boyle’s writing flamboyancy on a regular basis) – seeing his novel Drop City named as a finalist for the National Book Award and receiving the PEN/Malamud Award for Excellence in Short Fiction.

Even while being considered a more mature writer, Boyle has still usually maintained the inclusion of a fairly significant level of black humor in his work. I thought Talk Talk was different in terms of that from even his most recent prior efforts. The humor throughout seemed more insider humor – the deaf woman, Dana Halter, whose identity is stolen has a boyfriend, Bridger Martin. Bridger works at Digital Dynasty, a CGI company and there are a lot of little inside shots at the industry and those working in it. But the humor, to me, is nowhere near the level of dark, insidious humor Boyle is typically known for.

This led me to wonder if, in suppressing this aspect of his writing, Boyle may have learned towards favoring the darker elemented characters in Talk Talk? What ensues after an incredible opening chapter where Dana Halter is pulled over for a routine traffic citation and goes through an Ed Champion-like experience of being dragged to prison, which leads to she and Bridger finding out her identity had been stolen, is a cross-country chase as they believe the thief is headed to Peterskill, New York (home to previous Boyle works and believed to be a fill-in for the place of his growing up).

Boyle rotates sections of this chase between what is going on with Peck Wilson, the thief, and his family, and scenes of Dana and Bridger traveling. I found myself counting the number of pages remaining in the Dana and Bridger sections, anxiously awaiting getting back to Peck’s story. Could Boyle possibly have subconsciously made the “bad” guy in the story the most interesting character while nearly eliminating black humor?

I’m also curious to hear everybody’s thoughts on Boyle’s meshing of two pretty big topics – identity theft and the idea of language and conversation that he created by having the initial identity theft victim being deaf. Was it a good blend, or were there two stories within that could have been served better tackled in individual efforts? More from me on that later, but I’m looking forward to hearing all of your initial thoughts on Talk Talk.

by Edward Champion

Zidane: The Smuggest Player of the World Cup

zidane4.jpg

I was at the Irish Bank this afternoon with some pals (including a friend from Liverpool, who, with diplomatic intentions, refused to pick a team), rooting for Italy in the World Cup Final. But any shreds of sympathy I had for France disappeared with the arrival of Zineidine “Hubris Is the Secret Answer to Life” Zidane. The first indication that Zidane was problematic was when he was injured late in the second half, beckoning the medical authorities to him as if they were servants offering canapes rather than doctors restoring injuries. And then there was the head butt (pictured above) against Marco Materazzi — perhaps the lowest blow I saw during the World Cup. Thankfully, he was given a red card.

I hereby vote Zidane the Smuggest Player of the World Cup. He is everything that soccer should not be. So long as he plays, I cannot find it within me to root for France.

by Edward Champion

T.C. Boyle Week

If you enjoyed the Black Swan Green discussion earlier in the year, on Monday, I’ll begin posting the roundtable discussion of T.C. Boyle’s Talk Talk, now in progress via email. It features none other than Dan Wickett, Megan Sullivan, Gwenda Bond, (hopefully) Scott Esposito and yours truly. Is Talk Talk a genre experiment by a highbrow writer? Or is it something more? Find out on Monday morning as the peanut gallery serves up their thoughts.

And for those who enjoyed The Bat Segundo Show #10, I’m pleased to report that Our Young, Roving Correspondent will be chatting with Mr. Boyle again. Keep watching the skies.

There will also be two podcasts released next week, including a certain Show #50 that some people can wait no longer for.

by Edward Champion

Two-Headed Baby? Better Send That Item Through Again, Boys

New York Times Corrections: “An article on Wednesday about the phrase “Collyers’ Mansion,” used to refer to a dangerously cluttered dwelling, misstated the authenticity of an artifact found in the Collyer brothers’ Harlem brownstone, the jam-packed building that spawned the term now often used by firefighters. Although some of the artifacts recovered, like musical instruments, were determined to be fakes, a two-headed baby in a jar of formaldehyde found in the house was actually real.”

by Edward Champion

Citizen McCaw: “People Will Think What I Tell Them to Think.”

LA Observed: “Things began coming to a head last month when McCaw ordered editor Jerry Roberts to quash coverage of opinion editor Travis Armstrong’s DUI arrest — then named Armstrong interim publisher and authorized him to start editing news stories…..Roberts, a former top editor at the San Francisco Chronicle, was led from the building by Armstong as reporters and editors protested and reportedly shouted ‘Fuck you, Travis.’ McCaw, already estranged from much of the Santa Barbara community over her handling of the paper, now has ravaged what was a high quality, experienced and collegial newsroom.” (via Ghost Word)

More on heiress Wendy McCaw here.

by Edward Champion

Whose Game Is It Anyway?

Back in 1993, when I had grand plans of forming an improvisational troupe in Sacramento that fizzled, I wrote down a list of all of the games in Whose Line Is It Anyway? that I used for auditioning potential actors. I lost the list many years ago, which is just as well, seeing how terrible my handwriting is. Thankfully, Wikipedia ha a list of nearly all of the games used on both the UK and the US incarnations of the program.

Also, if this is true, I had no idea that Tony Slattery went through a midlife crisis where he refused to answer the door and the telephone for six months.

by Edward Champion

Slackers: In Cinema & Real Life

Jeffrey Wells observes a cinematic trend that I remarked upon in contemporary literature a few months ago: movies that, in Wells’ words, involve “GenX guys in their early to mid 30s who’re having trouble growing up.” (Wells doesn’t cite Adam Sternbergh’s “grups” article from earlier in the year, but it does tie into the nagging question.) Personally, I think that any films or literature dealing with the subject might offer a few valuable reasons why. But to expand Wells’ question, speaking as a man in his early thirties happily immature in a lot of ways, has he not observed the dark underbelly of the American dream (i.e., rising real estate prices, the disparity between the rich and the poor)? Has he not observed the troubling sense of self-entitlement that many twentysomethings (and even thirtysomethings) seem to possess? Has he not observed that couples are getting married and having children later? Or the bedlam of luxuries (cell phones, DVDs, SUVs, the Internet, Scandanivan furniture) that have sent a cultural shock wave through the Western world and beyond during the past fifteen years?

While there is certainly something to be said for growing old gracefully, one might also argue that prudence in choosing one’s calling is sometimes a virtue. Even so, it saddens me to see friends with remarkable potential remaining quite blissfully inert after living lives devoid of chance-taking. Then again, if they’re happy, who am I to pass judgment?

by Edward Champion

Roundup

  • Keith Richards will play Depp’s dad in Pirates 3. Let us hope that the scene doesn’t involve coconut trees.
  • Great Ormond Street Hospital, owner of the Peter Pan rights, is getting its panties in a bunch over Alan Moore’s Lost Girls. Interestingly, the copyright on Wendy is still active in the United Kingdom, despite the book and the play being a little less than a century old. I was baffled by this devleopment until I read up on crazed EU copyright law. Here’s the irony: The UK copyright expired at 1987, but an EU directive extended copyright from 50 years to 70 years after the author’s death. The situation is complicated in the United States, where GOSH claims that they own the Peter Pan copyright through 2023, despite the original edition of Peter and Wendy being published in 1911.
  • The Old Hag is blogging again, but for how long?
  • Heidi McDonald’s invaluable comic blog, The Beat, has jumped ship from Comicon to PW. (via Galleycat)
  • I will control my worst impulses and say nothing about the Sean Connery memoir. Nothing! Ever lose your car keys? Shithead! The gun is good, the penis is evil! You have the gift, Jamal! Damn.
  • Birnbaum talks with Gay Talese.
  • Pussies. (via Jeff)
  • Jean Cocteau sound files (via wood s lot)
  • The Six Most Feared But Least Likely Causes of Death. Consider how much airtime much of these highly improbable deaths get on the news. Now consider a parallel universe in which your local anchorman reports on more quotidian deaths: “Robert Harris died today of lung cancer. He was 72, entirely unremarkable in every way, but, in his prime, could kick your ass in lacrosse.” (via Quiddity)
  • Richard Simmons on Whose Line Is It Anyway?
  • The Rocketboom flap becomes a soap opera.
by Edward Champion

The Bat Segundo Show #48

segundo48.jpg

Author: Colson Whitehead

Condition of Mr. Segundo: Dismayed by advertising jingle trios and interruptions; more than vaguely litigious.

Subjects Discussed: Living in San Francisco, working at CNET, writing on the clock, the importance of names, Theodore Judah, microhistories, the influence of 9/11 upon Apex, metaphors, toes, writing about work, James Wood, didacticism, masculinity, the influence of pop culture, Generation X novels, Sven Birkets, whether the reader or the author has the obligation to make connections, the value of reviews, self-criticism, avoiding cliches, Altamont, compulsive writing, research, translating cultural experience into fiction, comic books, and brokering a detente with Richard Ford.

by Edward Champion

Rocketboom Goes Boom

Amanda Congdon leaves Rocketboom. While there is no clear-cut answer on what went down, the upshot is that Congdon wanted to move to Los Angeles, that producer Andrew Baron couldn’t afford to do this, and so Congdon was “unboomed.” Congdon says she was fired. Baron says she quit.

It is almost certain that Congdon will find work elsewhere. But what of Baron? And what of Rocketboom’s future? Will Congdon’s replacement garner the same results as Congdon? Will Rocketboom be Rocketboom?

It certainly hasn’t prevented some folks from egregious posturing.

by Edward Champion

Doctor Who, Year Two

The London Review of Books examines the new Doctor Who series and concludes, “It’s obvious that the future is not with families, or sofas, or even tellies as we imagine them: though they sit in bedrooms and in the backs of cars, and hang on walls, made of plasma, opposite massive empty fridges, in apartments in which the only seating is on one of those healthful rubber balls. The BBC claims to be looking forward to a newly interactive and demanding audience of ‘participants and partners’ and ‘communities’ and so on; but there is an opposing possibility, a movement to lonely super-consumerism, fan and fantasy fused together in wi-fi symbiosis. Sometimes, I think Russell T. Davies and his team have built a commentary on this process into Doctor Who’s current storylines. Sometimes, I think I am hallucinating this notion, from watching too much Doctor Who too close together, causing plots to ripple and shimmer with interference, story-arcs to swim across my eyes.” (via Bookish)

I will confess that the fanboy in me was shouting at the climax of last week’s episode. But Who‘s second season has been very problematic, suffering from lackluster scripts, Tennant’s inability to find the same firm footing that his predecessor did, and a base capitulation to giving the fans what they want (Sarah Jane Smith, K-9, the Cybermen, et al.). When Who explores intriguing ideas (a parallel universe featuring zeppelins in homage to Michael Moorcock’s Oswald Bastable series, Satan embedded near a black hole), it stops short from weaving these ideas into a taut emotional quilt, opting for blockbuster action and shaky narrative conclusions instead. It’s a telling sign that the only episode that has reached last year’s high watermark, “The Girl in the Fireplace,” didn’t find a way to figure Rose, who struck me as a far more integral component last year, into the picture at all. Perhaps this is why Billie Piper is leaving. In fact, there was one episode, while entertaining on a crass level, that had little to do with the Doctor at all, telling the story from an unemployed thirtysomething named Elton and lingering far too long on the man dancing around in his flat. (No surprise. Russell T. Davies, the show’s producer and worst writer, penned this story.)

If Who is to maintain its impact and its freshness, it must take more chances. It must find more ways to rethink its own mythology (such as last year’s “Dalek”). I suspect last year’s success had more to do with the performance and the characterization of Christopher Eccleston, who provided a dark and often peremptory edge that we hadn’t seen so frequently in the Doctor before. Tennant, twelve shows or so in, plays like an awkward and better-looking amalgam between Troughton and McCoy — almost as disposable as Paul McGann was in that terrible TV movie from a few years ago. Unlike Eccleston, Tennant, who is a natural comic actor who deserves more room to breathe, isn’t convincing when he tries to be threatening. Every actor who has played the Doctor (including Tom Baker) has understood that this dramatic heft is a pivotal part of the Doctor’s character, essential to maintaining his mystique. But I’m not convinced that Russell T. Davies or his writers completely understand this.

by Edward Champion

This Week on “What’s Lev Whining About?”

Another week, another ridiculous Lev Grossman article. This week, the silly man dodders on about which authors represent today’s “generation.” By “generation,” I presume Grossman refers an author under the age of 40 who somehow “speaks” to the 18-34 generation. Bafflingly, Grossman imputes that David Foster Wallace, Jonathan Franzen, Jonathan Lethem and Michael Chabon are over-the-hill and, as a result, inured from appealing to younger readers.

But why should an author’s age matter? Grossman’s ageist approach fails to account for one overwhelming reality: it’s the books, stupid.

Further, why must an author be under an obligation to speak to his generation? Doesn’t fiction reflect themes that transcend a particular time or place? Catcher in the Rye continues to sell 250,000 copies a year, which, even accounting for the copies purchased for classrooms, suggests that it is doing quite well at appealing to younger readers. Not bad for a book that came out more than fifty years ago.

But even if we take Grossman’s thesis at face value, what of the following authors?

  • Haruki Murakami, sold 2 million copies of Norweigan Wood, at 38, and continued to attract young readers in his forties.
  • Paul Auster’s New York Trilogy, published when Auster was 40, attracted a considerable number of hipsters in the late 80s.
  • That L. Frank Baum guy who created the Oz books? 44 when he published the first Oz book.

I could be here all night.

Also, the Time copy editors seem to be asleep at the wheel. Grossman writes:

Ten years ago novels were expanding rapidly, like little overheated primordial galaxies. Chunky, world-devouring tomes like Wallace’s Infinite Jest and Franzen’s The Corrections were supposed to be the wave of the future…

Uh, Lev, The Corrections came out five years ago, not ten. And Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas clocks in at 528 pages, just 40 pages under The Corrections‘ 568 pages. I don’t think the bulky novel is showing any immediate signs of extinction. Particularly while Vollmann’s still around.

[UPDATE: Mr. Sarvas serves up some thoughts.]

by Edward Champion

Too Many Men Named Otto

ottopenzler.jpgIt is no secret that I, Otto Penzler, can read mystery novels with greater alacrity than you. After all, I emerged from my mother’s womb with a monocle and a name quite happily palindromic. I had to wait seventeen years to grow the beard (infernal puberty hindered my ascent into manhood), but it eventually came like the downy bounty of a late summer shower. I have a pet Persian that I stroke with calculating menace. And with the extra money I netted from the sale of my press to Warner, I have been flush with funds. Where weaker men might blow such a windfall on prostitutes, pornographic videotapes, and Creamsicles, I decided to invest more responsibly, as befits a proper gentleman.

Last year, I purchased a chalice that is probably worth more than your car. I have sent at least three crime fiction writers to early graves. (We won’t name names, but pay attention to those who have remained silent since Thrillerfest.) In short, I matter in a way that you mere New York Sun readers can only speculate about over an affordable White Castle dinner. Upon my passing, there will be many landmarks and hosannas devoted to my legacy. And there will be many great Ottos brought forth into the world, sired by the Penzlerites under my employ. Such is the way of the mystery world. Such is the way of New York.

This kind of power comes with the territory. Particularly when you are named Otto. Only men named Otto can truly understand the responsibility of living up to the name. This is why I am all too happy to offer my services to the New York Sun and tear open the appropriate orifices.

The first target, of course, is Akashic. Being a literal-minded man, I cannot understand why Lawrence Block, who was born in Buffalo, was asked to edit Manhattan Noir. Should he not be editing Buffalo Noir instead? Why didn’t Akashic ask a man of my refined sensibilities to edit the anthology? Further, not only could I edit Mr. Block under the table, but I could also defeat him in mud wrestling, heavy drinking, and ro-sham-bo.

Second, concerning this business of Twin Cities Noir, what was Akashic thinking? Manhattan, as we all know, is the center of the universe. There are no other cities that matter. I never leave this magnificent isle. Indeed, why should I? Why should you? Why should anyone concerned with this lovely idea of noir? Let the hicks who subsist outside our civilized world enjoy their precious mass market paperbacks. Let them harbor the illusion that they might actually “think” from time to time. Even so, Akashic has a responsibility not to encourage these inveterate plebs from thinking about “noir.” Let their minds remain as dark as the millieus they have the temerity to reside in. Save the dark crime fiction for cultural experts like me.

Lastly, as Mr. Breun (perhaps the most disingenuous editor of the lot) writes in his introduction, some contributors used Crayolas instead of a typewriter to write their stories. Never before have I encountered such an amateurish approach to fiction writing. These contributors actually believe that they can have fun? Heaven forfend! Perhaps the next generation of fiction writers might benefit from austere parents. For example, I will always be grateful to Ma Penzler for attaching an unusual device to my four year old skull and electrocuting me any time I caught sight of a coloring book. In this way, I was weaned off coloring books and Crayolas at an early age. I wasn’t distracted by all the pedantic fun that other children experienced. As a result, my way to the top was without a single obstacle. It is because of this that I am the great success I am today. It is because of this that I fear God. It is because of this that I know mystery better than you.

by Edward Champion

The Why Didn’t They Just Give Us the Whole Week Off? Roundup

A quick bite before more.

by Edward Champion

An Open Letter to the ACLU

Look, I know you need money and I know you’re busy fighting the good fight. This has been very evident from the ten phone calls I’ve received from your organization this past week. You have asked for an “Edward” or a “Mr. Champion” and the hell of it is that I don’t even recall giving you my phone number during those years when I filled out the form and did, in fact, send you some money. In fact, I left the Home Phone # field deliberately blank. My phone number is listed in the Do Not Call registry. Do these not so subtle clues not indicate to you that I consider talking with hucksters on the telephone about as much fun as being electrocuted by a particularly aggressive CIA torturer?

But being a fairly polite gentleman, I have told you that Edward Champion is not here or that he is in volunteering his services to a leper colony or that it is “currently a sensitive time for us in the Champion household because our pet rabbit just died.” I have tried to intimate with these creative prevarications that I am currently not interested in giving your organization money — in large part because your organization appears to have violated the very civil liberties it purports to uphold (i.e., ferreting out and calling a telephone number that I did not, in fact, give you sanction to call). Bad enough that you folks can’t seem to take the hint and that you can’t seem to scratch my name off your list, but I am also troubled by the belligerent tone that your many representatives voice when they slowly figure out that the man they are talking to may, in fact, be Mr. Champion. They are angry when I refer to their pleas for membership renewal as a “sales call.” Which it quite rightly is, given that you are asking me for money. I am certainly not asking you for money. Perhaps I should start doing this to level the playing field.

Furthermore, why does your organization presume that it’s entitled to money from me? Why are there hostile suggestions that I should be a good liberal and pony up the dough? Do you honestly believe that I am not doing my part? There are, in fact, gestures I commit on a perennial basis that don’t involve a monetary transaction: things that I try to do when I have the time that I feel rather embarassed revealing because I try to keep such acts as egoless as possible. As ACLU founder Roger Nash Baldwin once said, “The smallest deed is better than the grandest intention.” Do you not know your own history?

Because of this, I don’t think I will be giving you money in some time until you can straighten up your act and treat your past donors with something a little closer to courtesy. I will not be giving you money unless you stop this aggressive fundraising approach. I will not be giving you money until you get away from this “you are either with us or against us” mentality common to both left and right these days. In short, I will not be giving you money until you can put the civil back into the ACLU.