Category / Uncategorized

by DrMabuse

Steeler’s Game

Orson Scott Card is slated to get his panties in a bunch over Iron Man, penning a six issue miniseries. Iron Man will become a card-carrying member of the NRA, adjusting the strength of his armor so that Democrats will be incapable of filibustering and blue staters will lick the GOP’s feet during the 2008 presidential election.

by DrMabuse

How to Screw Over Tom Stoppard

So let’s say you’re an enterprising young director by the name of Chris Weitz. You have a great literary property at your disposal: Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials. But the guy who’s penning it is Tom Stoppard, one of the greatest living playwrights and an Oscar winner for Shakespeare in Love. You’re intimidated by his talent. The man shoots out wordplay faster than you can comprehend it. So what do you do? You use pressure to dump him, because, hey, you only direct the scripts that you write, dig? You’re an auteur. You’re a rising star, what with films like The Nutty Professor II and American Pie on your CV. You cut all the references to God in the script. Because you need to entertain and you fear offending even a handful of those folks in the red states. And in the end, it’s about the Almighty Dollar, right? But then you bolt from the director’s chair because “the technical challenges of making such an epic are more than I can undertake at this point.” Of course, since you’ve already written the script for New Line, the studio plans on using it anyway. And since New Line’s bought Pullman off with a ridiculous and undisclosed sum, he’s a convert, no matter what monkey’s banging away on the keyboard.

Talk about a classic example of passive-aggressive backstabbing. We may never know the true nature of Stoppard’s script. But if anyone needed to be reminded about Hollywood’s willing encouragment of its bottom-feeders, Chris Weitz’s despicable antics provide a case history in progress.

Of course, for all I know, Weitz’s His Dark Materials might be dandy. Even so, you have to wonder whether the “technical challenges” would have been easier if Weitz had trusted a wordmeister like Stoppard in the first place.

(tip via Kevin)

by DrMabuse

One Not-So-Angry Man

The Thomas J. Cahill Courthouse, an edifice erected between 1958 and 1960 that houses the San Francisco Criminal Court, is a stark and, for the most part, featureless seven-story building composed almost entirely of cement and mortar. If I had to name an architectural style, I’d peg it as New WPA Revival.

Its outside walls are unpainted and unwashed. There’s nothing in the way of cornices or garrets. No fluted columns. Not even Justice, with her blindfold and her scales, makes a cameo engraving. In fact, there’s nothing remotely Roman about the place. It is a gigantic box that ensnares and entraps, spewing out a small collection of suits and inveterate smokers hobbling in the daylight. I saw one African-American woman in her forties huddled over in tears, her arm clutching a rail for support. There was no one to answer her call. Justice had been served. As a prospective juror called in to perform my civic duty, an obligation I had postponed, avoided and ignored for too long, I suddenly felt uncomfortable about meting out hard fate.

To enter the building, a visitor must walk through one of three pairs of doors. And because government minimalism is at work, above each door is a flagpole — three flags in total, identifying the nation (United States), the state (California) and the city (San Francisco), lest the visitor think he is in Cleveland, Ohio. The rectangular motif has been applied to clover hedges which run their way around the building’s perimeter, never daring to impede their rectilinear nature with a curve. Government, at least as it pertains to the administering of criminal justice, is resolutely square. I had to wonder whether Thomas J. Cahill approved.

There is, however, the great Seal of the City to the right of the courthouse entrance. A dedication just below this reads: TO THE FAITHFUL AND IMPARTIAL ENFORCEMENT OF THE LAWS WITH EQUAL AND EXACT JUSTICE TO ALL OF WHATEVER STATE OR PERSUASION. THIS BUILDING IS DEDICATED BY THE PEOPLE OF THE CITY AND COUNTY OF SAN FRANCISCO.

Well, that’s all quite nice, but while the courthouse’s purpose is clearly and broadly addressed, I felt a little funny about a dedication plague that didn’t bother to include a recipient.

But not all is lost in the government spending department. Considerable money appears to have been siphoned for the lengthy handicapped ramp which leads up to the entrance in two diagonal swoops. The ramp has strayed from its initial purpose to fulfill the needs of stragglers, city workers, underpaid paralegals wheeling in pivotal papers and those with spare time.

I saw the flash of many an Armani, but these high-priced career men sped down the steps with an urgency that rivaled Boston Marathon runners. If they had clients, their arms were draped protectively around them and their heads were arced in the client’s direction, as if expecting a Chronicle city beat photographer to snap a few images to cripple character. If they didn’t have clients to nurse, they had cell phones. I timed a few attorneys leaving the door and, based off of five samples, I determined that the mean time between an attorney fleeing through the doors and whipping out a cell phone was 2.3 seconds.

After taking in this tableau, with five minutes to spare, it was time to make my way through the doors and determine my fate. Would I be on a four-week jury? Would I be excluded because of a peremptory challenge? Would I be shuffled from court to court like a human yo-yo? Would I fulfill my longtime dream of becoming the outstanding Henry Fonda figure in a room without air conditioning? I had ideas, images, and a commitment to impartial truth. The night before, I had decided to accept the fate of the criminal court gods and serve as a juror, if required. So that morning, I shaved.

I passed through the metal detector with flying colors. No beeps to speak of. I said hello to the security guard. He grunted in acknowledgment. No prob. This was easier than an airport.

More lawyers, more expensive suits, more briefcases and clients. And all this set against a vestibule of pinkish marble. I found the elevators and headed to the third floor.

It was easy to find the prospective jurors. I knew them by their confused gait, the way they constantly looked around. Their heads were all cast slightly to the floor. Who needed directions to the Jury Assembly Room when you had so many greenhorns that made the way so easy and identifiable?

The halls were now wider, but as unadorned as the outside walls. Square blocks of fluorescent cast muddy reflections on the murky green marble floor. I wondered how this place looked at night.

juryduty.jpgI went to the desk. There was a neat stack of envelopes from the day’s mail. Prospective jurors who had bowed out. The clerk, business as usual, asked me to fill out a form I had completely forgotten about. And then I was off to the races, waltzing into the waiting room.

The first thing that hit me was the indelible silence. The room was packed with about 150 people, but only a few people chatted on their cell phones. And even then, the rustling of a turned newspaper page dwarfed these mutterings, which were mainly business-related. Taken with the flattened puke-brown carpet, which looked and smelled as if it had seen at least a decade of foot traffic and infrequent vacuuming, the atmosphere spawned a contagious asceticism.

There were orange chairs with horrid black piping for armrests. A dying plant was situated near the windows. The same weak sunlight permeated through dusty panes onto a few round tables. On the opposite side of the room, I was amused to see a remarkable collection of empty wooden coat hangers hanging on a long rod that extended some twenty feet horizontally. The funny thing was that everybody wanted to hold onto their coats, presumably hoping to spend as little time as possible should they be one of the lucky bastards who got away.

No one smiled.

What did people do? They read newspapers. They stared into space. They tried to sleep and failed. The look of the bored was something like this: head sinking as far as it would go into the thin cushions, legs spread far out onto the floor, limbs clutched protectively into their chests. I watched one woman spend fifteen minutes folding a plastic bookstore bag, trying to determine the exact configuration it needed to be folded and inserted into her purse. Only after this elaborate ritual did she crack open her newly purchased trade paperback. I saw a sixty year old man cough repeatedly, while applying his pen to a thick legal agreement. He underlined every other word.

Time slows down in the jury assembly room. People have plenty of it here. Even when you’re prepared (and I had six books to read in my bag in case they locked the doors for a week), there is something about the process of indeterminate waiting that forces an almost total collapse of the synapses. After two minutes, the brain percolates again and finds things to do. It has to. Because the clock is ticking. Slowly, but ticking nonetheless. After this, there begins the silent bonding through furtive glances. That’s all you can do. Because making eye contact with strangers would, of course, cement your reputation as a closet stalker.

I was surprised to see that nobody looked particularly slipshod. Nobody wore T-shirts or nose earrings or shaved swastikas into their scalps. They stuck by the playbook and awaited their fates.

I wondered when it would begin. Two vending machines, the sole source of sustenance, remained untouched. A mid-sized television rested front and center. I saw a small window partition in the distance with three plastic snowflakes taped on and two ratty celebratory Xmas strings (one red, one green) hanging from the lintel. They both drooped and resembled loose nooses. There was a paucity of signs. No “Thank you for fulfilling your civic duty.” No “Clerks are sexy. Ask up front for a date.” Nothing to energize a Law & Order junkie. I was quite surprised to see a painting of some important local figure I couldn’t identify in a coffin-shaped frame. And I wondered if this was the décor to get people excited about democracy. Ultimately, there was nothing to think about but the cold hard process of waiting. This vexed most and comforted others.

I opted to read.

And then I heard the voice of the orientation lady. I didn’t know where it came from and wondered at first if I was hallucinating. But as my eye spent two minutes surveying the room, I realized that the flat, vaguely sing-songy voice was coming from a flat, vaguely sing-songy lady, essentially repeating what was printed on the jury summons.

We then watched the orientation video.

“California. Our state is a place of natural beauty and harmony! The best state in the nation!”

Video images of roaring waves colliding against currents and yuppie couples holding hands in Napa.

“But…not always.”

Sudden image juxtaposition. Criminals! People getting arrested. Oh no! The world isn’t as harmonious as we thought!

“We have disputes.”

No shit?

“And that’s where justice comes into play.”

Dissolve into footage of smiling attorneys, smiling bailiffs, smiling judges, the nice, relatively normal actors assembled for the industrial. You’d think it was a beer commercial. But where were the bikinis? This was followed by everyday Joes offering testimonials about how jury duty changed their life.

I wish I could tell you that I ignored this silly video, but I was strangely hooked. It was too surreal. This was the courtroom equivalent of the “It’s a Small World” ride at Disneyland. But where that ride failed to persuade me that the world was a safe and sacrosanct place, the minute that the video offered an image of the Constitution, the moralist and the political junkie in me cried out, “Fuck yeah!” It seemed that where commercials had completely failed to get me to purchase their products, this video, with its explicit reminder that this country’s founding documents referenced trial by jury several times, got its tenterhooks into me. Bring it on!

The first jury pool names was read. My ears pricked up. I was fascinated that one of my city supervisors’ names was called. Nyah nyah! In your face!

And then they called my name.

Shit. So much for orientation propaganda.

I walked down a stairway with about a hundred other people, thinking from the asbestos peeling out of the walls that I was going to be lead into a bomb shelter or a gas chamber. But instead I entered a room – what’s referred to in the trade as a “department.” The place where trials happen and ineluctable sentences are executed.

This room was all wood, all the time. The same paneling pervaded every square inch of the place, much as the pink marble had in the vestibule and the concrete had on the outside. The No Adornments policy echoed its way into the inner sanctum, as had the flag motif. On each side of the judge’s seat, there was the United States flag and the California flag. And just behind this was the City’s seal. The jury seats were on the left, a chalkboard and a calendar, with orange and green highlights for holidays and weekends was on the right. Above the jury seats were several numerical printouts corresponding to the seats. (Please let me be Juror #8! Please let me be Juror #8!)

Then a small man introduced himself. He was the clerk of this establishment and a stand-out guy. As people came in, he said, “Good afternoon. Come on in please.” He made sure everyone had a seat. He talked very slow. I didn’t see a judge, a defendant, attorneys, or a bailiff. Where were they? We were prospective jurors, dammit! We had sacrificed time, money, and late return fees at Blockbuster to serve democracy. Didn’t we deserve some kind of reception?

Apparently not. The clerk took roll call. People announced that they were “here.” When they called “Champion,” at that point, I had to rock the boat a bit. Remembering how annoyed my seventh grade English teacher was with “Present” (the snarky bastard’s alternative), I used this very same word almost two decades later. In a courtroom, no less. There was a slight pause from the clerk, a modest glance up from his roll call sheet, and then a continuation of his ceremony. I was honored that other people took my lead and answered “Present” too, demonstrating prima facie evidence that an corruptive adolescent streak can survive into one’s thirties.

Then we were sworn in. Collectively. I was disappointed that a Bible hadn’t been served up. Because I was prepared to serve up my atheist credentials and ask for a copy of Ulysses or The Canterbury Tales.

Finally, the cavalry arrived. The prosecutor, the defense, the defendant, the defendant’s mother. I particularly liked the bailiff, who was a large man with a bushy moustache. When he set down on his chair and placed his hand to his head to stave off what was either boredom or a headache, we were blood brothers immediately.

Counting the number of seats per row and the number of rows, I quickly computed that I was one of a hundred jurors. By my lousy math, I figured that there was a 1 in 8 chance I’d get picked. Not bad for a guy vacillating between a copout and civic duty.

Then the judge came in. She was friendly, well-spoken, and laid it all out for us. The trial was afternoons, two to three days a week in light of the holidays. If we could serve, we needed to come back on Monday. As jury duty goes, that’s an extremely equitable schedule. But that wasn’t what clinched my decision to stay.

I looked at the defendant and the prosecutor again. The defendant was very, very black. The prosecutor was very, very white. In an instant, civic duty and a judgment based exclusively on the evidence won out.

I opted to return on Monday. Not even the supervisor could promise that much.

by DrMabuse

Newsflash: Bezos Loves Bloated Elephants

The big bombshell across the blogosphere comes from Dennis Loy Johnson, who points to the fact that 61% of Amazon’s PAC money goes to the GOP, while 98% of Barnes & Noble’s contributions go to the Democrats. I could make a comparison here between Ford and IBM’s contributions to certain interests in the 1930s, but I’ll just bow out from Amazon purchases gracefully, while pointing out that this may be the smoking gun to my long-held theory that Jeff Bezos is a chickenhead.

by DrMabuse

Jury Duty Update

Tomorrow, I head to the criminal courthouse. Part of me would like to invent a bevy of excuses to get out. Another part of me feels ashamed that I am trying to evade my duties and responsibilities as a citizen. Either way, I go through the jury selection process tomorrow and postings will be light until my return. But I will probably report my jury duty experience. Happy holidays.

by DrMabuse

Tom Wolfe Describes the Laci Peterson Murder

Slither slither slither went the mind. But the unborn son was what he had to forget about as he threw her into the otorhinolaryngological depths of the San Francisco Bay. The cement anchors! The cement anchors! Oh God, would his mind trapise outside and his head collide against her mon pubis? Bumping mon pubis with mon pubis as he tried to throw this corpse ::::::STATIC:::::: into the San Francisco Bay, the cold waters! Cold corpse into cold waters! Humiliation!

Scott remembered the good stoic words of Zeno, remembering that he was a Master of the Universe! And so, like a very good boy, a good solid man, Scott, he of the last name Peterson, looked away from her pectoral morsels that he had buried his face into just a few nights ago, watching his wife — the corpse! — ::::::STATIC::::::

And then came the distant cry of his father back in Atlanta:

“SON! IF YOU DON’T STOP VACILLATING BETWEEN THROWING HER INTO THE BAY AND SITTING THERE WITH YOUR TAILS BETWEEN YOUR LEGS, THEN YOU JUST AIN’T GOT THE GUTS. YOU’RE A MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE!”

Scott had to be a man, for to be otherwise (humiliation!) was not an option. And so her body plopped in, all her deltoids and her rotary cuffs and her solar plexus and then, eventually, her mon pubis — the last part to touch the waters.

by DrMabuse

The Bad Pun Morning Roundup

  • GalleyCat has one-upped Rex, crossing his tees by collating several major top ten lists, but referring (and rebirching and even ‘oking again) to each title by number of citations and moving violations. The Plot Against America is, predictably enough, in the tops for proper gravedigging.
  • Sean Connery’s ghostwriter needs to watch 65 films and die in the act of writing as part of his work. And, yes, that includes The Presidio and Highlander 2, which means dismarkharmony and shitheads all around.
  • Local boy done good well done medium rare Daniel Handler talks with the Chronicle about the Lemony Snicket movie, snickering a bit over a few ades on what it’s like to hand over the reins, dear enough for the holiday season.
  • Stephen Ambrose? Doris Kearns Goodwin? You’re just scratching the surface and applying the iodine when the skin breaks, sweetheart. The Chronicle of Higher Education has four more plagiarists. Which is a little late because the presidential election was last month.
  • The Detroit Free Press sees recipes everywhere. Better than dead people, I suppose. Of course, any steady spatula user knows that they can be found most frequently in the kitchen, often sinking beneath Khartoum.
  • The position for the California poet laureate is now open. Qualified candidates must bench-press 250 pounds and pump you up.
  • Bob Bernie spends a weekend with Cynthia Ozick.
by DrMabuse

“Union of Two Belief Systems” Along With Singing Robots Added to “Earthsea” Adaptation

Ursula K. Le Guin: “When I tried to suggest the unwisdom of making radical changes to characters, events, and relationships which have been familiar to hundreds of thousands of readers all over the world for over thirty years, I was sent a copy of the script and informed that production was already under way. So, for the record: there is no statement in the books, nor did I ever intend to make a statement, about ‘the union of two belief systems.’ There’s nothing at all about the ‘duality of spirituality and paganism,’ whatever that means, either.” (via Neil Gaiman.)

by DrMabuse

Mr. Mojo is So Sorry!

Inspired by Cinetrix, here are the films I haven’t seen on the Top 100 Overlooked Films of the 1990s (or at least those I haven’t seen in the Top 50) and the reasons why:

  • 10: Look, man, I’ve seen everything else Peter Weir has done. The Cars That Ate Paris, The Mosquito Coast, everything. You’ve got to leave me one of his good ones, right?
  • 14: Because I’ve always suspected that there’s a moment in this Steven (Schindler’s List) Zaillian movie where Liam Neeson pops in and cries, “How many pieces on this chessboard could I have sacrificed?”
  • 16: Tom Hanks needs to be deactivated.
  • 21: Alan Rickman works best as an evil Eurotrash bad guy or a sad sack complainer near the end of his rope. But a sensitive Alan Rickman? Sorry, can’t deal.
  • 30: Two words: Chick flick.
  • 33: Okay, I’ll confess. I’m forever biased towards the Shirley Temple version, to the point where I’ll accept no substitute.
  • 39: Something about the title always struck me as suspicious.
  • 45: But it’s one of the only Miyazaki films I haven’t seen!
  • 48: Robert DeNiro after about 1983 doesn’t interest me anymore. Even with Chazz involved. Sorry.
  • 50: Kevin Costner plus kid equals some sick pederastic fantasy or bad idea. At least in my book. Even if it was directed by Clint Eastwood.
by DrMabuse

The Duty to Be Honest

Recently, Nick Hornby revealed his agreement with The Believer (as quoted in a review of his new book, The Polyphonic Spree): “that if it looks like I might not enjoy a book, I will abandon it immediately, and not mention it by name.” (For reference purposes, the original Julavits anti-snark manifesto can be found here.)

A few months ago, the incomprable Emma Garman posted a column at Maud’s in which she defended snark, simultnaeously focusing in on her dismay with James Wood’s notion of “hysterical realism” while expressing her belief that “the boldly negative critique may be the only weapon available for stemming the tide of mediocre writing offered by the corrupt book publishing industry and its shadowy ally, the creative writing program.” Garman suggested that snark might be used to curb the tide of hysterical realists and that there was nothing shocking about the “savage” results seen through Dale Peck, et al.

More recently, Randa Jarrar quibbled with Neal Pollack, suggesting that politics is an inseperable aspect of fiction. Maud too weighed in quite notably in on Pollack’s hypocrisies. The anti-snark position was, in some sense, transposed to novels.

All of these concerns about the limits of fiction and fiction reviewing, whether self-imposed or natural, trouble me. Particularly in an age when environmental factors in such areas as politics and television exist to hinder freedom of expression. It seems to me that regardless of whether you agree or disagree with Dale Peck, Michiko Kauktani, or Caryn James, the idea that a negative review should be excluded, let alone discouraged, is anathema to what I’ve always considered to be a duty of good, honest journalism: take no prisoners when you’ve got compelling evidence backed up by multiple sources.

Granted, when it comes to book reviews and literary criticism, we’re dealing with a format that is more subjective than other formats. And that’s fine. Because the more subjective you get, the greater the latitude you have in expressing an informed opinion. Or so the theory goes. Inevitably, there are some reviewers (and novelists) who take the reading duties personally — sometimes, too personally. But, to use Julavits’ Wood-Smith example, having Wood apply his sensibilities to a novel outside his usual canon is instructive to both critic and novelist alike. Wood can better understand why he dislikes Zadie Smith’s style, Smith (if she has the fortitude) can pay attention or disregard, and the prospective buyer/reader of the Smith book can have a different take from the others. Everybody wins. The issue here is whether honesty should be compromised because it’s perceived by a set of people as “mean-spirited” or “self-serving.”

I’m singling the Hornby-Julavits-Pollack mentality out (and not necessarily their output as authors) because I firmly believe that we’re starting to see a troubling shift in the way that writers pen, review and appreciate fiction. There is a new political correctness at work in the literary world which stems from this McSweeney’s feel-good schtick, which is not unlike Tom Hanks in its insufferable cheeeriness. A mandate being bandied about that fiction (and fiction reviewing) should stick to the safe n’ sane route, that everyone is a winner, and that the more unpleasant realities of bad novels, heavy-hitters striking out and publishing in general are best left unmentioned.

Which is a bit like denying that the homeless exist or not saying “Aw shit!” when you stub your toe.

More importantly, it’s the kind of attitude that fails to take in the big picture. The attitude that a book can be nothing but the bee’s knees fails to acknowledge problem solving basics: first identifying its problems and then coming up with a few possible solutions for future authors to use or discard as they see fit. Is it not positive to identify a work of fiction that is “bad” and, from this “negative” standing, reinforce what is good and remain supportive and passionate in the process? Is it not good to point out certain things that a book critic may have a problem with so that the critic in turn develops a greater understanding of her own sensibilities and an active reader mining the reviews gets a few ideas? The answer, I would suggest, lies in being constructive, rather than turning pure white or jet black, even when the critic is faced with a style or novel type she faces.

Conversely, is it not self-serving for a reviewer such as Hornby to ignore the “uglier” side of the equation because he doesn’t want to piss anybody off? The interesting thing is that review etiquette always seems to come from novelists, rather than readers, MFAs or critics. For my money, if the publishing markets can afford to be ruthlessly competitive, if they can afford to be curt so they can get through their slush piles (or in the case of McSweeney’s, not even have the courtesy to respond at all), then a nasty book review is a walk in the park by comparison.

[RELATED: Can someone please stop J-Franz from talking?]

[ALSO RELATED: For this overview, I had also intended to reference YPTR’s comments on the Hornby book, which responds to the Salon article at length, but I completely blew it on this point. Hopefully, the Rake will forgive me.]

by DrMabuse

It’s Official: Dave Eggers is as Edgy as Formica

While the Complete Review quite rightly lays into Tanenhaus for his despicable fiction antics over the year (no brownies for you!), Dave Eggers’ continued irrelevance shows off its true colors in a New Yorker review (courtesy of the Rake, a classier bloke than me). Beyond Eggers’ remarkable ignorance of Broadway (or even off or off-off Broadway), his lack of appreciation for Life of Brian, and his narrow view of Python as merely “fourth-wall” humor resides the more troubling dismissal of Doestoevsky’s Notes from Underground as “a very weird book, meandering.” We hate to judge a person solely on their cultural tastes (well maybe not), but we have to ask. This is the man who’s supposed to shepherd “indepedent” publishing?

by DrMabuse

Goop

Like anyone else during the holidays, we’re trying to sustain the momentum. But the brain oozes out of our ears, and we have a good theory that it’s turned into decades-old chop suey. So permit us a steadfast determination to beat the rap and avoid repeating ourselves, which we’ve been doing a lot of lately. Please visit the fine folks on the left until we return. Probably in a little less than a week. We’ll try and answer emails.

by DrMabuse

Christmas Party Memo

TO: All Employees
FROM: The Management
RE: Christmas Party Deportment

As you know, the Company will be hosting a Christmas Party (hereinafter “Shindig”) this Friday. While your attendance at the Shindig isn’t mandatory, please be advised that we have not yet distributed your holiday bonuses and that, while we are not legally permitted to adjust for certain factors that strike us as equitably measured, Shindig-related behavior and general social networking opportunities may be factored in to inflate your Bonus across a broader plane (hint hint).

The Shindig is designed to not only stroke the egos of our Clients and Regular Customers (hereinafter “Guests’) during the Holiday Season (hereinafter “Season”), but as an opportunity for you to demonstrate your loyalty to the Company. Should the Shindig prove insufferable for both Company employees and Guests alike, we have provided bare-chested bartenders of both sexes, copious food and alcohol, and canapés which can be plucked from the backs of svelte and starving models (hereinafter “Modular Furniture”).

During the Shindig, many unscrupulous characters will say “Hello!” and may wish to talk with you, often inviting you to sit on the Modular Furniture. These Guests may arrive at your desk and wish to engage in small talk. While most Guests are benign, others wish to pry personal information for you or even extract inner workings about the Company, often spreading what they learn through a filthy conduit known as Gossip. In extreme cases, they may try to kiss you under a mistletoe. Lead them on, if you must. But keep your conversation tight.

Please be sure to keep your ears open and carefully modulate your alcohol intake so you don’t reveal too much about yourself or the Company’s inner workings. The last thing we want is our Guests to be more curious about us. And you are mere cogs in the machine. Also, remember! Loose lips sink ships. In the event that you find yourself babbling incessantly, we ask that you ingest a Silence Pill. The Silence Pill will knock you out for twelve hours, thus preventing one of the malicious Guests from learning too much about you or the Company. (Should you anticipate a need to be unconscious for more than twelve hours, additional pills are available at Human Resources.)

If you discover one of our Guests is suspicious, please be advised that we are initiating a partnership with the Department of Homeland Security, where we plan to arrest first and ask questions later. The DHS will ensure that all questionable Guests are suspected of being thieves and corporate terrorists. Should a Guest strike you as eccentric, inordinately social, intelligent, or extrahuman, please do not arouse suspicion! Approach him carefully. Don’t be alarmed! Experience has suggested the remote possibility that these people may call you by your first name! If you get into a pinch, the Modular Furniture will stand up and take a Suspicious Guest down with several jujitsu moves.

Be on the lookout and avoid risks, even the most minor ones! Your safety depends on it! Our best wishes for the holiday season.

by DrMabuse

Afternoon Cajun

by DrMabuse

Walter Benjamin — The Vollman of the Thirties?

The incomparable Robert Birnbaum talks with Francisco Goldman. Along the way, they mention Walter Benjamin. Now if you’re like me and you encounter an author you haven’t read three times in print or conversation during the course of a single week, you immediately take pains to add him to your bookpile. Benjamin’s The Arcades Project, as referenced by Goldman, involved years of research and years of transformation and appears to be one of those hefty volumes that almost got away and didn’t quite make it to its inevitable form. (The version which can be found today was recovered Kafka-style from a friend.) Composed of notes, lists, labryinthine references, quotes, and more, all of it taking on some momentous expression of consciousness, one suspects that Vollman got more than a few ideas from him. I’m straddling the fence on whether to get sucked into Benjamin. But he was the guy who came first.

by DrMabuse

Because Uncle Grambo Slipped Me a Mickey This Morning

  • The sexiest litblogger in the City of Angels serves up hot compare and contrast on the Holmes front (Sherlock, that is).
  • Jenn-W (yo!) gets press with the Jewish Ledger, talking ’bouts Simsbury (not Rocks or Maxis), autobio elements, and the forthcoming film ‘doption dapplin’ down with In Her Shoes. Dig?
  • Emily Auerbach sez that Jane Austen is underappreciated as a writer. Does A-bach gets awayz from the burbs? Because here in these cits, hot young bespectacles cants get enough of Pride and Prejudice; hence, prejudicial to Auntie Jane’s books more so than V-Woolf. Get busy, Ems. You’re out to lunch.
  • Dakota Fanning’s the kidlit child star. First Alice, then Charlotte’s Web. An Olsen Twin in the making?
  • Mira Nair and Jhumpa Lahiri. BUZZ!
  • Tintin’s got an amusing explan about his Fountain o’ Youth. Well, Holmes, pass the Courvosier!
by DrMabuse

Three Oranges

Zest fulfilled a gambit without plan or particulars as the machine offered ivories and I took the dimples by surprise, avoiding a hanging in Florida, though unaware of November’s forthcoming execution. Charmed somehow, flushed by two plying folks cheesing it up while the aerosol fumed away. Who knew that the PA system would be revived? I have no wish to churn my own juices, but it’s better to avoid bitter butter. Fermenting this passage to survive northwesters and to retain the smiley for the next jane.

And so it smoothed out rather nicely, even if it was a bit fruity. While other giants roamed the earth, the quartet played and the maven managed. ‘Kay, ‘dyou catch the urban stomp? Rowr! Plausible deniability, hands reaching around my neck despite education, suffering foolishness gladly, carrying out the hefty trash bags while my own refuse was ridiculed.

Righteous rows shook the vessel and soon I transmuted into a man o’war. The sun zoo, an artistic menagerie with swollen heads and without Shatner. It stayed together, but no praise from my lips was enough.

I did my best, convinced that years of our lives would advance with all limbs intact. Balancing act without much sympathy, although to be fair, there was part of me that played the devil. But nobody’s perfect, even when you discover a lemon.

No time like the present, pushed and prodded by niceties, the electricity sparked despite a low current. Mexed missages as the crow flies. Rumors on the Internets.

Able to see clearly without the rain gone, I lied low on the job, circling wagons before the ho. Declared a moratorium on expanding the frontier, and then did the decent thing with an update, which resulted in me being cited as a bluestocking and a bushwacker. Advised by pals to drop it, and did. And by these elaborate stanzas, deleting diminishing ducking, I step out of the shadow completely to take in peaceful weather and expand my fellowship. Why? Because I’m a man and I speak no ill of the dead.

by DrMabuse

Foer’s Next One Illuminated

There’s a bit of information floating around about Jonathan Safran Foer’s next novel, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, set for an April 2005. Houghton Mifflin has the cover (which includes a large hand with Illuminated-like scribbling) and the following plot summary:

Oskar Schell is an inventor, Francophile, tambourine player, Shakespearean actor, jeweler, pacifist. He is nine years old. And he is on an urgent, secret search through the five boroughs of New York to find the lock that fits a mysterious key belonging to his father, who died in the attacks on the World Trade Center.

An inspired creation, Oskar is endearing, exasperating, and unforgettable. His search for the lock careens from Central Park to Coney Island to the Bronx and beyond. But it also travels into history, to Dresden and Hiroshima, where horrific bombings once shattered other lives. Along the way, Oskar encounters a motley assortment of humanity — a 103-year-old war reporter, a tour guide who never leaves the Empire State Building, lovers enraptured or scorned — all survivors in their own ways. Ultimately, Oskar ends his journey where it began, at his father”s grave. But now he is accompanied by the silent stranger who has been renting the spare room of his grandmother”s apartment. They are there to dig up his father”s empty coffin.

Houghton Mifflin lists April 4, 2005 as the publication date, but The Marsh Agency (Foer’s UK agent) lists January 4, 2005.

by DrMabuse

You Want Lists, Eh?

Since I’ve cracked the 100 book reading barrier this year, I figured it was time to note the best books of the year. And by best books, I mean books I happened to read since January (though not necessarily published this year) that I greatly enjoyed:

John Barth, The Book of Ten Nights and a Night
Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything
Octavia Butler, Kindred
Paula Fox, Desperate Characters
Andrew Sean Greer, The Confessions of Max Tivoli
Joseph T. Hallinan, Going Up the River
Dennis Loy Johnson, The Big Chill
A.L. Kennedy, Original Bliss
John P. Marquand, So Little Time
McSweeney’s Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories
David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas
Geoffrey Perrett, America in the Twenties
Frederic Prokosch, The Asisatics
Richard Powers, The Time of Our Singing
Samantha Power, A Problem from Hell
Chang Rae-Lee, Aloft
Ben Rice, Pobby and Dingan
Philip Roth, The Plot Against America
Sarah Waters, Fingersmith
Gene Wolfe, The Fifth Head of Cerberus

Best “New” Discoveries: Carol Shields, Paula Fox, Eric Kraft, David Mitchell

Biggest Disappointments: Susanna Clarke, Stephen King, David Lodge, Kevin Starr, Neal Stephenson, Tom Wolfe

Unequivocal Justification for Dave Eggers to Abdicate Control of the McSweeney’s Empire: McSweeney’s 13 (edited by Chris Ware) and McSweeney’s Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories (edited by Michael Chabon)

And here are a few more lists (which really can’t compete with the fine lists Rory’s serving up these days or Rex’s crazed obsession):

Best Movies of 2004:

1. Before Sunset
2. Sideways
3. Spider-Man 2
4. Tarnation
5. I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead
6. Kinsey
7. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
8. Zatoichi
9. The Manchurian Candidate
10. The Incredibles

Best Musical Comeback: U2, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb

by DrMabuse

Overnight Round Robin

  • George Tenet has nabbed $4.5 mil for a tell-all book on intelligence. One chapter will reveal how Tenet had to explain what the CIA acronym stood for to President Bush
  • Sarah will be all over this, but mystery novelist Joseph Hansen has passed on. Hansen created one of the mystery genre’s first gay protagonists.
  • Apparently, Powell’s does, in fact, run out of books. They’ve undergone a four-day book buying spree to replenish their supply.
  • If a second Bush term isn’t bad enough to contemplate, Motley Crue is reuniting. Nikki Sixx elaborated on the reteaming with typically eloquent words, “We’re growing fucking old and we want more fucking groupies before our fucking dicks fall off. Fuck yeah! Flash in the pan? No fucking way!”
  • Is Joan Collins superficial? Yes. And she’s still writing novels.
  • Apparently, Judy Blume cries on book tours.