We’re up for jury duty selection next week. Just in time for the sucking sound of the holidays. Low Culture has some ideas on how to get out of it, with a good point on the reading front. If we read, we’ll get selected. If we don’t read, we’ll go nuts in the poorly ventillated waiting area and start licking the dusty walls or becoming polymorphously perverse in an effort to pass the time. If we put a good trade paperback inside the latest issue of Hustler, our ruse will be found out in seconds. If any hard-core readers have any ideas about how to combat such an obsession while simultaneously appearing dumb and unqualified, we’d be interested in hearing your theories and techniques. We’re also tempted to invent prejudices and conspiracies during the questioning process, but we like to consider all points before taking the plunge. Your assistance is welcomed.

This morning, it was pointed out to me that Return of the Reluctant, being the version of edrants that has been (for the most part) literary, turned a year old just a few days ago. Let me thank you, my dear readers. You’re the ones who help keep the flame alive. The people I’ve met and the opportunities that have come from this blog have been incredible. And without going into too much detail, I think it’s very likely that this blog helped me in a subconscious way to make some very good moves in the last year.

Despite a few calamities on the personal and geopolitical front, it was a good year under the circumstances. And I’m looking forward to making ’05 an even better one — thanks in part to all of you.

While the bright burgeoning light of Segundo will shine again soon, who knows? I might even bring Miguel Cohen back.

I’m 37% Geek: “You are a geek liaison, which means you go both ways. You can hang out with normal people or you can hang out with geeks which means you often have geeks as friends and/or have a job where you have to mediate between geeks and normal people. This is an important role and one of which you should be proud. In fact, you can make a good deal of money as a translator.” (via Gwenda)

The Gaddis Drinking Club has had some difficulty of late getting conversation started (perhaps due to the holidays), but it’s still be-bopping for those of like mind. I hope to weigh in with a lengthy sliver of Recognitions lit boogeying once things settle down on this end.

Time, one of the silliest magazines that Americas must endure, profiles Michael Chabon and suggests that it’s somehow a bad thing for a novelist to be both literary and genre-centric. Missing the boat completely on the recent McSweeney’s Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories, Lev Grossman proceeds to decry the collection as “the promiscuous atmosphere of one of those speakeasies where socialites slum with gangsters in an effort to mutually increase everybody’s street cred,” but fails to cite a specific example that explains this purported circlejerk (not even mentioning the involvement of Julivats and Waldman).

Grossman seems truly astonished to learn that Joyce Carol Oates is capable of writing genre stories. Never mind that she’s been turning out speculative and gothic fiction for years, with regular appearances at The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, among others. For that matter, Margaret Atwood’s best-known novel, The Handmaid’s Tale, might be styled “science fiction.” Even more unintentionally amusing is Grossman’s labeling of China Mieville as part of “the gangster side of the equation.” Is it because he wrote an amusing story about shifting streets?

Grossman seems desperate to find a fusion, but I suspect he didn’t read the collection when he penned this malarkey. For one thing, he references stories that appear near the beginning of the book. And the fusion angle he’s striving for couldn’t be any more clearer than Ayelet Waldman’s excellent story about a ghostly baby, which successfully maneuvered maternal angst (the stuff of literary kudos) into a spooky template.

Grossman’s uneducated take in a major weekly magazine is a pity. Because instead of dwelling upon the differences, he reinforces his own thesis: that Chabon’s noble effort is more of a stunt than a literary experiment. He couldn’t be more wrong.

Dan Wickett serves up Part 2 of his Interview with the Bloggers series. With the exception of one notorious asshat, some nice folks (including Haggis, currently settling into new digs, Messr. Orthofer, the man with the finest initials outside of China, M.J. Rose, Senora Chicha, Mad “Really Mad” Max Perkins, Kassia Krozser, Megan, the good Dr. Jones, and the two gals behind Cupcake) talk bloggish.

[SIMILARLY RELATED: Various reports have rolled in on the What the Blog? panel that went down a few nights ago.]

• Steinbeck’s hometown will lose its public library system because of a financial crisis. Locals have placed a black armband onto a six foot bronze Steinbeck statue.
• Salon interviews Jerry Stahl: “I’ve pretty much been pegged for life as ‘that junkie who wrote ALF.'”
• Sylvia Plath’s Ariiel has been read in its entirety for the first time. Several effigies of Ted Hughes were burned, but not enough of them had been created to last throughout the duration.
• Hemingway’s secretary has penned a memoir. The book will be part of a new Modern Library series called For Whom the Staff Tolls, which will include memoirs from Papa’s accountant, cook, and masseuse.
• A secret staircase reported to be the inspiration for Mrs. Rochester has been rediscovered in North Yorkshire. Several actors in the area have offered to fill in for the mad woman in the attic, but none of them have proved convincing enough for the local historical society.
• Nick Hornby addresses the “no snark” policy at The Beleiver: “And of course, there’s no consensus on what is an ‘egregiously bad’ book.” Apparently, he hasn’t read I Am Charlotte Simmons.
• Ian McEwan reveals some dirt about his new novel: “a British neurosurgeon, Henry Perowne, leaves his central London house to pick up his car – a sleek, silver Mercedes 500 – to drive to his regular game of squash.” Not much, but at a recent reading, McEwan also read a passage about Perowne overcoming his shame in owning a car. McEwan also assures the Times that he isn’t taking any kickbacks from BMW.
• The upcoming Barbara Boxer novel (which, along with Mark, I must express my apologies for) gets some press at the Contra Costa Times. Giving new meaning to the mantra “Write about what you know,” its protagonist is “an activist senator who does battle with right-wing ideologues.” It remains my firm hope that Boxer spends more time doing battle in real life rather than fiction over the next four years.

We’ll give Tanenhaus half a brownie point this week because it’s close to Xmas. This week’s NYTBR is a big mixed bag. We advise against the continued employment of Joe “I Never Met A Subject I Didn’t Hate” Queenan (along with the end of silly photo captions such as “Johnny Unitas of the Colts” asuming that educated folks aren’t familiar with football legend-team associations). But we dug the Truman Capote profile, which combined biography, light critical consensus and some naughty bits into a hot essay by the always excellent Daniel Mendelsohn.

However, Laura Miller needs to get out of the house more. We take pride in our dirty minds, pointing out that sexual suggestion and naughty jokes come with most of our book recommendations (some over the course of our lives, in flagrante delicto), while recommending that intercourse itself is best performed rather than endlessly talked about.

This morning, several conservative litbloggers weighed in on the Red States vs. Blue States business.

Well, when you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way.

Really, I haven’t seen such vitriolic political nonsense in this nation since the Baltimore Riots of 1812 and 1861. (And if Baltimore is the place that the shit starts stirring, I expect the Hag to offer a Daily Riot Likelihood Report.) Let’s not make that mistake, shall we? The election’s over, the nation’s divided. Depending upon where you sit, the country is either (a) going to hell in a handbasket or (b) moving in the direction the people want it to. How about this: Can we move on now? You have your side, we have ours. You’ll have a cakewalk, we’ll have a fight. Blah blah blah.

But in the end, we’ll kick your asses. We always do.

• Mark Sarvas has cemented himself as the roaming reading attendee of the blogosphere. In addition to checking out David Foster Wallace (against his will! and with a rollicking backblog to boot!), he also has the skinny on Vermin on the Mount. We don’t believe San Francisco is the center of the literary universe, in part because the pronouncement was handed down from the mountain by Sam Tanenhaus, but we’ll be doing our best over the coming months to offer similar reports here, as time permits.
• Some of our favorite litbloggers will be on the Round Table, a WAMC radio program, this morning.
• Adobe Books, home to frenetic art shows and a great place to nab rare books has their books organized by color. If you’re in the San Francsico area, check it out.
• As predicted by nearly everyone, Suite Francaise, the long-lost novel written by Holocaust victim Irene Nemirovsky has taken the Renaudot. This is the first time that the esteemed French prize has been awarded posthumously. Foreign rights were garnered at the Frankfurt Book Fair.
• In what may be another sign of changing literary priorities, North Carolina Central University has withdrawn funding for its literary magazine. It was just $7,000 on the budget, and the money will now go to “student leadership and women’s issue programs.” The remaining $6,000, no doubt, will go to more perqs for the football team.
• Alice Munro gets another writeup — this time in Newsday. Fortunately, this time around, the article concentrates more on her writing (and her love for William Maxwell) rather than wasting column inches on her “thinnish” weight.
• Jonathan Rose has an intriguing article about the working class’s relationship with reading over the years.
• Nevada has a poet laureate?
• A film is in the works on the life of Sir Walter Scott.
• And Gerard Jones has gone Hollywood on us (via Moby).

There is a rat in the apartment. I discovered him making an escape tonight after investigating some sounds in the kitchen. The rat is small and scampers through a small hole that I found near the stove. Even though the rodent may be tiny and spurious, the simple fact is that he scares the bejesus out of me, as rats seem to do. There’s the disturbing possibility that he could run like the devil in the post-midnight hours and take a bite out of my flesh. Or something worse. I didn’t read H.P. Lovecraft’s “The Rats in the Walls” lightly.

The timing’s about right, given that I end up dealing with a rat perhaps every four or five years. The last time, the rat emerged as I was whipping up my trademark pasta sauce. I was a foolish twenty-six back then. And I immediately freaked out. This time around, there’s slightly more maturity, in that my reaction doesn’t involve jumping onto the closest countertop like some housewife in a Warner Brothers cartoon. So my manhood’s on the line too.

But this sort of thing is to be expected. It’s getting to be the wintertime. Which means the rats are coming in from the cold.

Of course, when humans in the Western world deal with these sorts of things, they, of course, go all out. Certainly in my case, obscenely so. I’m now the proud owner of three boxes of rat poison, several traps, and a barrage of truly masochistic devices that will kill this dreadful beast. I feel like Wile E. Coyote ordering from Acme.

Part of me sees the hypocrisy in demonizing the rat. Part of me would like to be friends with the rat. But because I’m terribly afraid, because I detest its presence and its mentality (which is, primarily, to scavenge upon what it might find, which isn’t much, given that my food’s all packed away), I want the rat dead. I want it out of my life. Go bother some other bachelor. The NIMBY principle was never more strernly (and justifiably!) applied than it is for rats.

So I have declared war. Chances are the rat’s just as frightened of me as I am of him. (He certainly skedaddled fast when I turned the light on.) Granted, if the bookies were to put a spread on this, I’d win by leaps and bounds. I have a bigger brain. I’m larger than the rat. But it moves much faster and the rat’s interests and existence aren’t as complicated as mine. Even so, does the rat have brothers or sisters? Or is it simply vermin prepared to spread a new wave of bubonic? Even if I defeat the rat (as I suspect I will), who’s the real winner in this battle?

Six years ago, the American public saw one of the most brutal battle scenes in film history. Despite the fact that Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan reached across several audiences, left and right, and was much talked about and led to a very public reconsideration of going to war for the right reasons and what our boys were in there for, the American people still voted for Bush.

Ergo, the American public has no memory in cases of exemplary artistic influence.

Also: head hurts.

Neal Pollack: “That would quickly find me at the wrong end of a fist or a beer bottle.”

“Pal, I’d rather have a cup of coffee with my next-door neighbor every day for the rest of my life than share one ‘hazelnut latte’ with you. He thinks I’m going to hell but helped me fix my lawnmower last weekend anyway. ”

Blah blah blah.

Lately, Neal Pollack seems to be operating under some illusion that he’s the blue-collar voice of reason (complete with Star Trek references!). I hope the new schtick wears off. Of course, I have no worries. I’m sure his post-Nov. 2 ravings are just a temporary affliction that came with the six figure check he got from Bill Gerber, which should last him very handily during the next four years while the tax code gets uprooted.

Next thing you know, Pollack’s going to be making documentaries and telling us that he’s a factory worker from Flint, Michigan.

But no matter. Maybe he should just follow his own advice and shut the fuck up.

See? Satirical genius! I’m recused from responsibility! In your faces and pocketbooks, foolish readers! Such courageous writing! Why, Terry Southern would give me a rim job!

Where’s the realism and the attention to details? What’s needed among the blogs in this turbulent time is a batallion, a brigade, of Zolas marching from here to Montgomery uniting the two Americas: the Real America and the Pretend America, if you catch my drift. Neal Pollack is a bag of bones. His work is no longer relevant. He is the one stooge in a sea of self-indulgent bloggers trying to comment upon the current situation. And he is a friend of Dave Eggers! It doesn’t get much lower than that.

The time has come for bloggers to concentrate on the tiny important details of the world around us rather than be funny. That involves going to colleges and watching the world around us helplessly while the sorority girls ignore our erections.

I hereby renounce the use of satire. Life is too austere and heartbreaking. The white suit is in the closet. Blame the liberal elite. They haven’t got a clue. I haul my colostomy bag in their general direction.

I’m currently researching the next play.

If you are in a polyamorous relationship (meaning: more than two people), I’d be interested in talking to you — ideally in person, but, if desired, email or phone works too. Sexual persuasion and gender do not matter. However, I hope to concentrate on relationships that have been going on for at least two or three years.

If you have an hour or two to spare and you’d be interested in a confidential chat, please feel free to drop me an email at ed AT edrants.com.

Thanks,

Ed

• Okay, how about some cool things coming out of the U.S. government next year, such as some nifty stamps, including Marian Anderson in February (to counterbalance the odious Reagan one), Jim Henson and the Muppets in March, Robert Penn Warren in April, a Masterworks of Modern Architecture set in June, and a Greta Garbo stamp in September. The Garbo stamp is rumored to be the first talking postage concocted by the U.S. Postal Service. It will not be sold in sets and the stamp will remind you to mail it through repeated entreaties to “be alone.”
• There’s a rollicking debate going on at Tingle Alley about migrating within the United States. Carrie suggested that instead of moving to Canada, bluestockings might better serve this nation by moving to a red state. Several lovely people have made some fabulous cases.
• I was remiss in noting the Complete Review’s incredible coverage of Checkpoint. It seems more pertinent now, somehow.
• James Patterson’s ex-girlfriend has sued him for breach of contract and copyright infringement. One only hopes that the legal battle prevents him from gluttoning the bookstores with more tripe. Perhaps Karen Valby might want to be called in as a character witness.
• The bad reviews for I Am Charlotte Simmons keep on coming. David Kipen suggests that “Wolfe needs a cold shower in the worst way.” Meanwhile, Bob Minzesheimer demands a Wolfe embargo on “loins.”
• And the Guardian First Book shortlist has been announced: Matthew Hollis’ Ground Water, David Bezmogis’ Natasha, Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, Rory Stewart’s The Places in Between, and Armand Marie Leroi’s intriguingly titled Mutants: On the Form, Varieties and Errors of the Human Body.

• Nobel Peace Prize winner Shirin Ebadi can’t get his memoirs published in the States. Why? There’s an embargo in Iran. Ebadi has responded by suing the United States. Her memoir, it should be noted, is the story of “a woman, a mother and a lawyer living and working in a country that confronts many human rights problems.” This may be the first flagrant example of, as Moby Lives recently asked for ideas on, poltiics having a definitive influence upon literature.
• At the Vancouver International Writers Festival, Natalee Caple declared that one of her desires is to excel at “literary sex: better, more accurate sex scenes in Canadian novels…written by stronger, more difficult, troubled, kick-ass women characters.” Caple also felt bad about one of her characters losing a leg. So out of sympathy, she decided to give him a hand job. If this is the kind of generosity we can expect from Canadian writers, perhaps this isn’t such a crazy idea after all.
• Literary scholars are reassessing the influence of Louis Zukofsky. Several professors, who recently received substantial checks from Zukofsky’s heirs, have declared Zukofsky “the best poet of his generation.” In response to the overblown plaudits, Heidi Julavits is expected to write an anti-praise manifesto in the January 2005 edition of The Believer.
• Frank DiGiacomo is expected to “co-author” Harvey Weinstein’s memoir. In preparation for the job, DiGiacomo has begun humiliating lowly interns, smoking and swearing like a motherfucker, and exclaiming “Ben Affleck is my bitch” throughout the Conde Nast building.

We were never asked to participate, but Emerging Writers Forum has an interview with the bloggers up. Go check it out.

[Forrest J. Ackerman] [Clive Barker] [Jessica Barone] [Charles Beaumont] [Ambrose Bierce] [Algernon Blackwood] [Robert Bloch] [Poppy Z. Brite] [Grimm Brothers] [Ramsey Campbell] [Hugh B. Cave] [Thomas Disch] [Edward Gorey] [Shirley Jackson] [M.R. James] [Jack Ketchum] [Stephen King] [Joe R. Lansdale] [Richard Laymon] [Thomas Ligotti] [Bentley Little] [H.P. Lovecraft] [Robert McCammon] [George R.R. Martin] [Richard Matheson] [Yvonne Navarro] [Joyce Carol Oates][Edgar Allen Poe] [Tim Powers] [Ray Russell] [Mary Shelley] [Joseph Sheridan le Fanu] [Dan Simmons] [Bram Stoker] [Peter Straub] [J.N. Williamson]

and to anyone else I might have missed.

• Audrey Niffenegger confesses that she wrote the sex scenes in The Time Traveler’s Wife last. Niffenegger is also penning a a writing book called You’ll Only Finish Your Novel If You Save the Best for Last.
• Thomas Harris has finished yet another Hannibal novel, which will not only describe how Lecter developed his appetite for evil, but include a metafictional subplot involving how Harris developed his appetite for beating a dead horse.
• Ten writers have won Whiting Writers’ Awards, including Dan Chiasson, Alison Glock, A. Van Jordan and Tracey Scott Wilson. Each will receive $35,000, a Tijuana vacation for two, and the keys to Tina Brown’s Beamer for one weekend.
• J.M. Coetzee tackles Philip Roth.
• Susanna Clarke has nothing on Lula Parsons. Parsons took 50 years to write her novel. She’s 92.
• Frank Darabont’s script for Indiana Jones 4 was rejected by Lucas. Now it’s Jeff (The Terminal) Nathanson on hand and an almost certain temple of doom.
• The Flaming Lips are publishing a photo book.
• Michiko’s verdict on Charlotte Simmons? A flat-footed new novel. The Sun also calls it “Wolfe’s worst novel.” This does not augur well.

Nature: “A new human-like species – a dwarfed relative who lived just 18,000 years ago in the company of pygmy elephants and giant lizards – has been discovered in Indonesia.”

• It’s never too late to stop thinking about the next Booker, particularly with Ian McEwan’s Saturday in the pipeline. Officially, the book has been completed, with more than a few articles on this day-in-the-life-of-a-neurosurgeon offering.
• Alice Munro, recently profiled in the NYT, has been nominated for a Governor General award. She won her first GG award 36 years ago.
• The big literary sensation in France is Suite Francaise. The novel was written in 1942 by Jewish author Irene Nemirovsky right as she was waiting for the Nazis to come. The book was transcribed by Nemirovsky’s eldest daughter. Some folks are even comparing this with Anne Frank.
• Here’s something interesting: Kong Ji-young has written a short story collection about Koreans living in Berlin. Wonder if she and Rachel Seiffert would ever do a double-bill reading?
• And speaking of Germany, Gerhard Schröder’s younger brother is set to publish embarassing stories about the Chancellor. And get this: they’re going to be sold on paper handkerchiefs.
• Dick Morris knows how Clinton’s mind works. It has three buttons: ON, OFF and REMEMBER OBSCURE PERSONAL DETAIL OF PERSON YOU’RE TALKING TO.
Despite this easily comprehensible triage, Morris has written a damn book on the subject and hopes that Bush voters will buy it. Dick Morris is also oiled every night, just before bedtime.
• Sidney Sheldon has a passion for the written word? Who knew?
• The Black Table talks with Mary Roach.
• Peter Benchley still packs a full house.
• I had no idea that Updike was once a stutterer.
• Damn. Wordsworth Books, yet another independent bookseller, is closing.
• Penguin may be screwing authors over.

Unlike other esteemed litblogs, given Dr. Strangelove‘s 40th anniversary and the Coke v. Pepsi presidential race we have to look forward to on Tuesday, I firmly believe that the next week is prime time for Strangelove references. I hereby proclaim it Strangelove Week. Each entry shall contain a Strangelove-related subtitle until the polls close.

Ever had a day (or several weeks) in which your life resembled a country western song? Well, I’m trying to remain positive here. But until this existential deficit stops, blog entries will have to remain sparse.

“Anne Rice”: A dish tainted with hallucinogenics served at a literary function causing its eater to whine about lack of literary ability. In the worst of cases, the afflicted eater continues wallowing in her own despair and transposes this despondency (often inexplicably formed) to online bulletin boards such as Amazon.com. Banned in at least five states, Anne Rice (and its deadlier cousin, Queen Anne Rice) has enjoyed newfound popularity in certain underground enclaves. Much like its dark cousin absinthe, Anne Rice is often consumed as an appetizer by those who haven’t learned to ignore rejection, even when its users (aka Anne Ricers) are sitting on a trust fund or otherwise basking in unsullied success. For angst-ridden literati fearful of a Xanax prescription, Anne Rice serves as an illicit, but nevertheless distinct alternative. However, medical authorities are currently investigating the problem and Anne Rice is not expected to sustain its scintillating status through the New Year. (Note: It is believed that Anne Rice is grown in New Orleans.)

“Clarke”: (v.) To write endlessly about a frivolous and often misunderstood topic. (Ex. Friends urged Roger to throw in the towel, but he couldn’t stop Clarking his 800 page epic about two battling pieces of macaroni during the Napoleonic Wars.)

“Edinburgh”: An undesirable place to head to, such as a city or a building, generally populated by attention-starved individuals. (Or. The Scottish capital.)

“Hollingshurst”: (adj.) The most popular person at a swank party, but one whose sexual preference is inexplicably discussed. (Ex. Jerry was the Hollingshurst of the evening. His friends couldn’t stop discussing his subscription to Barely Legal Bush Voters.)

“Jelinek”: (n.) A person snubbed unreasonably because of personal success, often one unknown before said emolument. (Ex. Ana Marie Cox, once so admired by the commonweal, was shuttled with the other Jelineks after nabbing her lucrative book deal.)

“tender house”: A surprise development from the original “tanner house.” Literary hipsters use this disparaging phrase when they see one of their peers reading an unquestionably horrible novel. (Ex. I told him the party was on Saturday instead of Sunday. The last thing we needed was some asshole tendering house with a Nora Roberts paperback.) Also, tenderhouse (n., disparaging).

“to Bentley”: To find spiritual awakening in something silly and to use it to advance a career.

“Wieseltier”: A dirty old man fond of perversions who sees scum everywhere.