Reuters: “‘We all said Ronald Reagan has passed away — what should we do?’ said Gene Taft, director of publicity at publisher PublicAffairs. ‘Maybe we should take some orders.'”

Here in the City, there’s a big brouhaha going down because of a Biotech conference happening at the Moscone. In one corner, there’s Mayor Gavin Newsom and the business sector heaping dinero on glitzy gilded booths, using every technique at their disposal (including well-practiced sycophantism) to woo industrialists. Because unless you’re living off a trust fund, it’s still a perrenial juggling act if you want to live in this town and do your own thing. So what better way to upgrade the overall standard of living and spark up the sulfur of plentiful jobs and affordable apartments then to pivot your head like an aspiring socialite at any ol’ big boy looking to get inside your pants? (And in this case, the fact that the big boy’s all “biotech” pounds the crude and distasteful metaphor in further, along with all subsequent explanation of same.)

In the other corner, we have protestors! From what I’ve been able to conclude from my morning commutes, most of the protestors are pockmarked teenagers whose working definition of instilling change involves dumping rotten fruit into intersections, rather than having civil discussions with the right people or the citizens about the issues. (You know, those trivial bystanders who might be responsible for exercising conscious consumer choices? Well, like many protestors in this cartoonish town, the protests in question are about aggravating these bystanders, rather than informing them. And what better way to vex than to block intersections at rush hour, thus causing regular working Joes and Janes to explain to bosses why they are late for work, and subsequently throwing a small monkey wrench into their job security during one of the worst economic periods in the last twenty years? Way to go, team!)

The protestors have declared the Biotech conference to be a bad thing because the biotech sector is responsible for genetically modified food. Never mind that the Frankenfood industry can be put out of commission if enough people were to consciously reject it (i.e., read labels before sliding credit cards). Never mind that, well, economic circumstances being what they are, the pickens are slim on the job front.

Do I come across as cynical? On the contrary. I actually sympathize with both camps here. But where I have the problem is that neither the Newsom camp nor the protestors are mature enough to address or understand each other’s points. What we have here is the potential for a fantastic debate over a major issue. Where do we draw the line in the sand? How do we balance shaky economics with moral principles? It’s an important question that deserves serious consideration as our unemployed road warriors put the pedal to the metal to pick over the small morsels dropping from the wilderbeast’s maw, at least until the economy picks up. But like all political skirmishes, neither side wishes to compromise. Unilateralism, that wonderful political principle still in vogue thanks to the cowboy on Pennsylvania Avenue, has become so indoctrinated through almost every sliver of the political spectrum that it is now virtually de rigueur for politicans and protestors to do likewise.

Is this democracy at work? We all remember how effective those Five Year Plans and Great Leaps Forward were, right? What makes the current political atmosphere in this country any less different from that of the Soviet Union? Rather than world leaders deciding for us the policies and dicta we should believe in, perhaps in response to the current frustrating atmosphere, we’ve now deferred this duty to ham-handed small-time politicos and the barker-like protesters who follow them. The overall contentment by anyone to believe so fundamentally in their own points without listening or considering the other side is perhaps the worst aspect of political discourse that this nation has seen in the past twenty-five years. Sure, I could blame television or the Limbaughs and Moores. But consider the following statistic:

In a global study comparing voter turnout in a parliamentary election over the past several years, the United States scored 93rd out of 100.

You could blame the people for this appalling placement. Me? I blame the early advent of unilateralism, which has transformed politicans and protestors alike into living cartoons. The folks at the top of the food chain are rolling in their oversized sties, but my guess is they’d be scared shitless if we actually started listening to each other.

Bay Area improv gets a big cover story in this week’s Bay Area Guardian, with the usual suspects cited (including True Fiction Magazine and Diane Rachel, whom I was fortunate enough to take classes with last year), just in time for the San Francisco Improv Festival, now playing through June 26. If you’re looking to take a plunge into improv, I highly recommend taking classes at BATS or experiencing some of these fantastic groups live.

Right after Ronald Reagan died, I began reading Joseph J. Ellis’s fascinating biography American Sphinx, which attempts to log the duplicities and conflicting character of Thomas Jefferson. I had long been interested in the book, but when I saw the endless column-inches painting Reagan as a grand hero, as a man no less holier than the Messiah himself, I grew despondent over how the role of the President has remained decidedly unpresidential in recent years. I became ired over two ideas: (1) that the current editorial clime remains so fundamentally immature and dishonest that it cannot offer a portrayal that shows Reagan’s strengths and weaknesses (if only Lytton Strachey or H.L. Mencken were around to weigh in) and (2) that we now have a President as comparatively active on the culture front as a rotting rowboat tied to a quay leading up to some marvelous museum. As if in answer to these issues, Ellis’s bio fit the bill. American Sphinx profiles a man who was, without a doubt, presidential material, but it has (so far) done so in a way that has allowed me to keep my hero worship in check while presenting additional mysteries.

I won’t offer yet another tired dirge that either celebrates or condemns Reagan. There’s enough of that floating around on the blogosphere and elsewhere. I’ll only say that for as long as I can remember, I’ve admired Thomas Jefferson. When I was a boy first learning about this lanky Virginian, the fact that the two of us shared a dark reddish head of hair was always a plus. The fact that he was an intense reader and a man of many interests also attracted me. And when I heard that this was the guy responsible for the swivel chair, which I had always thought was one of the handiest pieces of furniture ever created, I knew that this was the horse I should bet on.

And when I learned as a teenager that this slaveowner had simultaneously written against slavery while keeping the issue on the q.t. during his political career, I was more intrigued than ever.

But I think Ellis pointed me closer to the answer when he recalled Jefferson’s infamous 1786 relationship with Maria Cosway. Jefferson was in Paris at the time and Cosway was married. Jefferson had promised his wife Martha at her deathbed that he would never marry another woman. (He didn’t.) But that didn’t stop him from becoming completely smitten with Cosway. During their six weeks together, Jefferson injured his wrist — for what reasons, we do not know. To this very day, on the romping front, scholars have been unable to determine precisely why, how, or if it happened. (Jefferson was very scrupulous with his private affairs, which makes Ellis’s job considerably tougher.) But what we do know is that from that affair, Jefferson wrote what had to be the most passionate letter of his career. For a brief moment, the assiduous Jefferson let down his guard and authored a 4,000 word letter in which he carried on a dialogue with his Head and his Heart.

Read (or reread) it. This, and not the ability to woo over everybody on television (a mere parlor trick), is the stuff of great men. And in light of the November race, it seems a pity to me that this year, we have two candidates who, like the last race four years ago, who can’t come nearly as close.

It’s also worth noting that Jefferson was a lousy orator.

USA Today has spoiled the ending to the next Dark Tower installment. I won’t even bother to link to the article, but, needless to say, seeing as how I was five books into the Dark Tower saga, I was planning on reading the other two as comfort reads. And, of course, I accidentally read the piece of information. But this throws a new monkey wrench in the grand book coverage debate. What kind of evil bastard kills a book by revealing the ending?

Jonathan Heawood has attempted to take advantage of Penguin’s recent findings. Apparently, Penguin Books has determined that men seen to be reading a book are more attractive to the opposite sex. I find this conclusion problematic on multiple levels. For example, how does the power of reading transcend offset teeth, bad body odor, unruly hair, and an adenoidal laugh? Does this rule apply to Tom Clancy novels? And if the book is really good, is the man capable of shifting his short attention span to notice the hypothetical lady who is staring at him? And if the woman is initially attracted to the man reading the book, how will she react when he opens his mouth and she realizes that he’s more capable talking about how some stirring streetcar advertisement that has caught his eye? Or is it best for the attractive male reader to simply remain silent and thus momentarily intellectual before the grand journey to the lady’s flat?

Turning the issue to more private millieus, if clandestine copulative activity is going badly, can the man redeem himself by putting Jennifer Weiner between he and his lover? Is holding the book a new way to resolve relationship issues? Can the man can now simply hold up the book, receiving a Charisma +2 mod while rolling the ten-sided die in the grand RPG of life, instead of listening? Will men be seduced into laying down their money for books instead of beer? More importantly, how does this translate into actual sales?

• The play is progressing. Early feedback has produced some very thoughtful conversations in email and in person, one of which went down today with close members of the crew at a Chinese dive. The fact that folks have been both honest and enthusiastic about the play has seriously overwhelmed me. I’m astonished by the passion and the generosity. People have been open, forthright and very constructive, responding in ways that demonstrate that theatre is far from dead, that rewriting is far from over, and that this thing will mesh together in ways that leave me convinced that we’re tapping into something that people really want to talk about, and that, even with a few misplaced over-the-top moments that will be honed this week, people from all walks of life have very valuable thoughts on how the business world has influenced and transformed human behavior.
• Jonathan Safran Foer has responded to the PEN imbroglio previously reported here. He writes, “Hi. A friend made me aware of this discussion. Just wanted to let you guys know that I completely agree with most everything you said about monetary awards and whom they should go to. That’s why I gave the money—every cent of it—back to PEN, which is as deserving as groups get. I didn’t make a big deal about it, because it didn’t seem fair to any other winners, who might have needed the money at the moment. But on the other hand, I’d had to take flack for something I didn’t do.” If this is indeed the case, then I am in full support of Mr. Foer’s gesture, particularly after the post-deal bonanza missteps of Jonathan Franzen and Rick Moody. I hope to draw upon the subject of meritocracy and the obligations of authors with pre-award windfalls in a future post.
• Dan Green responds to Sarah’s post about the publishing industry. The Literary Saloon also weighs in. Dan notes that the publishing business has been the least business-like of businesses and, quite rightly, points out that the pulps were a beneficial component of staying power, and the Literary Saloon points out that countless “literary” authors could have been marketed for the price of the Ronald Reagan memoir flop. My own quick take on this is that we won’t have an answer until authors and publishers fully understand the human impulse to read, and actively work to encourage it, responding to this desire in ways that transcend both popular and literary trappings. For example, if the previous magazine conduits are, for the most part, dead and the average bookstore browser makes his decision by flipping through the first few pages, instead of book excerpts, why not offer a free buckram-bound, promotional sampling of emerging authors in lieu of a book tour? Furthermore, I don’t believe that a bridge between popular and literary is possible without getting the word out to both camps that both can be acceptable on their own terms, while maintaining a certain standard. But such a position presumes idealism, an editorial team passionate about literature, and an openness to new choices on behalf of the reading public;. However, word of mouth often gets an otherwise obscure author read. I don’t believe that publishers have taken full advantage of this. But then again, who has the resources to take a chance?
• On Saturday, I went to an open studio exhibit run by Marisa Williams in Oakland. If you’re into photography and calligraphy, check Marisa’s stuff out. Beyond being an exceptionally nice person, Marisa has a good photographic eye for still life and architecture and offers lovely handmade cards for purchase. She even offers some nify thank you cards.
• It is possible to play Taboo with sixteen or so people at one time. However, the more people you have, the greater the possibility that communications will be more harried. Factor caffeine into the equation and you have a fait accompli involving destroyed egg timers and nearly every card used up within a matter of three hours. I urge the folks at Milton Bradley to pay more care to how they construct their game components. Able board gamers have more adrenaline than the R&D boys have accounted for.
• Ronald Reagan’s passing. To paraphrase the Gipper himself, if you’ve seen one dead President, you’ve seen them all.

The Chicago Tribune considers the case of David George Holt, a seemingly quiet man who used various aliases to swindle countless rare-book dealers to the tune of $95,000. Despite serving in jail for steailng his grandmother’s bonds, Holt has yet to be convicted for his tome-related offenses.

Due to a number of exciting things going down, it will be silent around these parts until maybe Sunday. Until then, check out Mark and Ron’s outstanding coverage of BookExpo, read the Cinetrix’s hilarious takedown of boomer music, and hope for the Hag’s swift return.

Failing that, get your hands on a copy of David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas immediately.

Also, Danny Shorago was kind enough to write in and clarify important allegations. Not only does the man not munch on supplemental proteins, but his other band, the Fuxedos, will be playing at the Odeon Bar on the 19th. The show’s a mere $6. Be there and experience Shorago’s stunning acrobatics for yourself.

The first paragraph of Michicko’s review of the new post-Bridget Jones Helen Fielding book features a very disturbing segue: “As Bridget Jones and most single women well know, there’s nothing worse than falling head over heels for a man, only to discover that he is not only the Wrong Man, but the Very Worst Sort of Man, a True Cad and Charlatan, or Someone Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know. (O.K., there are worse things, like being half-eaten by your Alsatian dog and being found dead in your apartment three weeks later, but that is another story.)”

Actually, there are worse things than that. Perhaps more disturbing than its cavalier comparative placement is the fact than the Alsatian dog was actual news. Two years ago. So what we have here is the case of an overworked book critic who has been dwelling on this disturbing informational nugget for some time, just waiting to sneak it into a review.

We only hope that Michiko leaves her house sometime soon and that, if she has a pet Alsatian, the dog is friendly.

It looks like you’ll have two shots to watch Mark and Ron vs. the Book Babes. Book TV reports that they will be airing the Saturday coverage (which will include a recording of today’s Book Babe panel) on June 5 at 1:00 PM and at 8:00 PM. The Book Babes panel will happen at 4:30 PM-5:30 PM ET/3:30 PM-4:30 PM CT. By my caluclations, that means that it will happen again at 11:30 PM-12:30 ET/10:30 PM-11:00 PM CT.

And for those (like me) who don’t have cable, you can actually watch the broadcast “live” as it’s aired.

The Guardian: “Film companies in Hollywood are employing a brain scientist at California Institute of Technology to measure reactions to films so they can tailor them more closely to our unconscious needs. Steven Quartz, a lab director at CalTech is pioneering the use of ‘neuromarketing’, using brain scanning technology to do market research. ‘We wanted to look at how the brain processes emotions and, since movies induce emotions so powerfully, they were an effective way of doing that,” says Quartz. “Out of that grew the awareness that it would be a good way of seeing how people respond to movies.'” (via Ryan)

Mark offers a report from BookExpo. Mark reports that he and Ron should be on C-SPAN tomorrow. According to the BookTV schedule, the Book Babes panel will air 4:30 PM-5:30 PM ET, 3:30 PM-4:30 PM CT on Saturday, June 5.

In the next forty-eight hours, I’ll be (a) taking a short breather and (b) manacled to the computer finishing the latest draft of Wrestling an Alligator. What this means is no blogging and no sex during a sizable portion of this time. Let it be noted in the great annals of history that I focused and did my duty, sacrificing great joys for questionable art.

I also have a tremendous email backlog to respond to. And if I haven’t responded to you yet, I plan on doing so sometime before Sunday. Needless to say, you folks are sweet, endearing, and I’m continually amazed by your effusive outpourings. Even that crazed Caitlin Flanagan from Wichita who wanted to cut one of my fingers off had nothing less than love and the best interests in his heart. I will get back to you all eventually.

Tom Gibson has broken the world record for continuously watching television. Gibson stayed up for two days, only stopping to go for 15-minute bathroom breaks every eight hours. He existed on a diet of sausage rolls, ham and cheese sandwiches, and sugary drinks.

It would be criminal for me to neglect mentioning that Carrie A.A. Frye is guest-blogging at Maud’s this week. Of course, the fact that she mentioned this place several times yesterday has nothing to do with the current plug. Whether she’ll regale us with an additional reference to her tangerine muumuu or ditties involving ancillary chromatic raiment (outside of hot pants and the red-sequined top) remains to be seen. For the nonce, Ms. Frye plans to instigate discussions on Ann Patchett’s recent memoir, shortly after addressing thirty or so people (some of them named Ted). To all the boys out there waiting for the scoop, pop in those Tic-Tacs and prepare to serenade the gal with some Villa-Lobos.

Bob Baker of the L.A. Times has accused America of a major crime: alliteration. Baker also reports that he lost all abilities to feel the joy of language sometime in the late 1990s.

Sarah has alerted me to this Observer piece, whereby the Bizarro world of Caitlin Flanagan is laid out again for those who haven’t kept track. In Rachel Donadio’s article, a certain cocktail recipe was referred to. I wish to assure all readers that the recipe was designed exclusively for determined drinkers looking for a little something off the beaten track. The Pentagon was not involved in the concoction of the recipe. In fact, national reports indicate that the Caitlin Flanagan is now being served in more than a few disreputable establishments and that it has not been a success. If anything, it has furthered sales of Pepto-Bismol. As such, like any horrible beverage idea, the drinker should devote no more than a few minutes, and preferably no time at all, to its namesake.

On a somewhat related note, one should never drink alone in one’s house. Particularly after writing a piece for the New Yorker. Recommendation: perhaps listening and boogeying to some George Thorogood instead.

Of course, a few theories have been tossed around about Ms. Flanagan — specifically, strange nouns. Is she a wit? Perhaps, but only if you find trivializing the service sector tantamount to a well-delivered bon mot from Oscar Wilde. Is she a wag? It depends really on who’s the dog, and it would seem that nannies are. Of course, they are too busy wagging their butts trying to contend with a privleged mother’s child. Is she a delight? Probably not, given that she’s provoked so many calm, amicable and affectionate souls to anger. Is she an utterly maddening interlocutor? Well, she’s utterly maddening. But interlocutors can be found in the pages of bad translations of Russian literature, not around the hallowed grounds of Central Park West. Although her strange questions to Ms. Donadio (“How old are you? What do you think I mean?”) lend credence to a paranoid type. We leave better minds to draw more astute conclusions.

Regular Reluctant visitors may remember my query a few weeks ago about the possible existence of a gene causing the Hemingway family to spontaneously take their clothes off. Fortunately, the able team at The Literary Dick has attempted an answer to my question. One doctor declared the question a weird one. While the Genome Project hasn’t yet been consulted, the Literary Dick speculates that until such a gene can be demonstrated, it cannot possibly exist. There are additional possibilities over whether this might be a nature vs. nurture argument. But I leave the able scholars of nudism to unravel potential genetic dispositions.

Michiko on DFW: “These moments, sadly, are engulfed by reams and reams of stream-of-consciousness musings that may be intermittently amusing or disturbing but that in the end feel more like the sort of free-associative ramblings served up in an analyst’s office than between the covers of a book. Mr. Wallace’s previous work shows that he possesses a heightened gift for what the musician Robert Plant once called the ‘deep and meaningless.’ But in these pages it more often feels like the shallow and self-conscious.”

Count the adjectives in those last two sentences.

Some guy named Ben Brown is guest-blogging at Bookslut this week. All we know is that Mr. Brown may or may not be Neal Pollack and that he has slept with everyone at 826 Valencia. He does, however, possess an important skill: the man can insert breaks between paragraphs. We wish Mr. Brown well on his temporary journey and we will be reading him with delight. We encourage you to send incriminating photos to benbrown@gmail.com.

Ron‘s located the ultimate creative matchup: Jack Kirby and The Prisoner.

Elmore Leonard is writing his next novel for teens. His new book, A Coyote’s in the House, assumes “a coyote-eat-cat reality.” Leonard decided upon this formula after concluding that Madonna’s “cat-eat-coyote fantasy,” Jay Leno’s “cat-eat-dog quasi-reality” and Billy Crystal’s “ants-eat-anteater delusion” weren’t premises that could sustain the attention spans of young readers.

Biographer William Manchester, who recently handed over the reins to Paul Reid to finish the third book of The Last Lion, his highly lauded Winston Churchill series, has passed away at 82.

826 Valencia has published Waiting to Be Heard, which features several stories by teenagers who took the classes. As the Chronicle reports, one of the young writers, 18 year old Courtney King, grew up in the Bayview-Hunters Point area. The book was funded by the Isabel Allende Foundation. Dave Eggers has claimed that the 826 Valencia students offered “professional editing” when assembling the book.