From The New York Times:

“‘I said, Shut up!’ ” Ms. Glass recalled in an exclamatory cadence more familiar among adolescent girls than women in their 40’s like Ms. Glass. ” `You do not! Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!’ So I went to Nina, my boss, and said, `Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!'”

This might explain why Glass works at Disney.

While newspapers and literary blogs got excited over the Pulitzers, primed to post and publish within minutes of the announcement, one grumpy Slate editor decided enough was enough. For Jack Shafer was a man who never smiled. He walked though the Slate offices with a hard gait and an even harder heart. No cookie or ice cream cone in his hand, no sir. Those trivialities were for the heaving pukes. He could find no joy in turning Times reporters into irregular verbs.

Because Shafer was dead serious. There were more pressing matters for his Press Box. He’ll rake you across the coals, amigo. Because that’s the kind of man he is. Tough as nails. No stone unturned. Where ordinary men would overlook Jayson Blair, Shafer’s a guy who will clarify his review. Because that’s what real men do. Real men sue for libel. That’s right. Get with the program or Shafer will pound your ass into an early grave. And that means you too, you pesky anonymice! If you can’t get inside the other guy’s head, you have no business being in journalism.

Jack Shafer means business. He’s an old hand from older times. Never mind when. The old days, he calls it. Back when reporters came to their desk with a pistol in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. Where were the rewrite guys? Cowering behind their desks when Jack walked in, no doubt. But Jack was ready to bust chops with a single stare.

Washington Post, be a man! If you can’t fight dirty in the streets, you have no business being on the newsstands! Steal your moves from neocons if you have to, but if you can’t stand the heat, cry me a frickin’ river!

Jack Shafer. Fierce and friendless. But in the end, Jack’s a legend in his own mind.

Dylan Thomas’s first love letter is being auctioned. An excerpt: “I don’t want you for a day (though I’d sell my toes to see you now my dear, only for a minute, to kiss you once and make a funny face at you): a day is the length of a gnat’s life: I want you for the lifetime of a big, mad animal, like an elephant.” Couldn’t Dylan settle on slicing off his ear? (via Book Ninja)

As previously reported, Lauren Slater is in hot water over unsubstantiated allegations in her book, Opening Skinner’s Box. Ms. Slater states that Deborah Skinner spent the first 2 1/2 years of her life locked in a box. But as reported by Alex Beam, Ms. Slater’s sources were shaky. Ron has also been on the case. After Ron pointed out the dubious nature of additional sources, Ms. Slater herself responded. The results stand alone.

Amy punctures some holes in the Alanis free expression debate — particularly, as related to journalism. In Canada, judges are in the position of preventing verifiable information, to the point where citizens were flocking to American papers to unravel the facts about a rape and murder case. Amy’s done a marvelous job of summarizing the expressive benefits in America, which is why it’s very important to pay attention to those who might do away with these liberties.

Laila reports that the Zoo Prize Short Fiction contest has been canceled. But here’s the rub: all the writers who submitted their work (some 350) won’t get their $25 entry fees refunded. Even with Michael Curtis’s involvement, this strikes me as a potential scam, particularly since the money ended up going towards a full-page ad in the Atlantic Monthly — hardly the literary celebration that the writers expected. To cover its ass, the Zoo Press page reports that “Zoo Press reserves the right to withhold the Award in any given year.”

But if we do the math, 350 X $25 = $8,750. It’s too late in my time zone to call the Atlantic’s advertising department to try and confirm placement of the ad. But I will call them tomorrow morning. A full-page ad, according to this resource, costs $40,480.

The man behind this operation is Neil Azevedo. Some casual Googling reveals that Mr. Azevedo has been published in The Paris Review and The New Criterion. However, it may be worthwhile for the 350 writers to make their presence known to these and other publications. If Mr. Azevedo has a history of taking the money of writers and using it to promote (or in this case, partially subsidize) his own interests, then he needs to be called on it.

The cover painting for William Boyd’s Any Human Heart is based in part on a 1927 photo of Anthony Powell. Powell, whose A Dance to the Music of Time series, chronicled characters over several generations is one of the best known post-Proustian novelists — right there with Jules Romain and (on my list, anyway) Eric Kraft.

Alas — it’s not a vanity painting. Painter Duncan Hannah’s simply an Anglophile.

One more reason to avoid Smirnoff Ice (besides, of course, its faux alcoholic stature and similarities to Zima): one bottle has more calories than a Krispy Kreme donut. Not only are you better off drinking a 12 oz. can of regular beer, but you’re better off eating a Twinkie. By contrast, 1 jigger of vodka is 94 calories, 1 jigger of 86 proof whiskey is 105 calories, and 1 jigger of 90 proof gin is 110 calories.

(And if we do the math for those who can’t slam vodka straight, a screwdriver ends up having the same count as a beer. 75 calories in OJ plus 94 calories of a jigger. Plus, a greater likelihood of getting buzzed.)

I was at a social gathering a few months ago. An athletic thirtysomething lady insisted upon drinking nothing but Smirnoff Ice, but wouldn’t touch beer. I figured there wasn’t all that much of a difference. Turns out that my suspicions were correct.

Of course, true calorie counters will probably be better off drinking something like no-calorie water. But then who orders H20 from a bar other than the destitute and the suffering?

(One suspects that the thin Englishman opts for hard liquor and water to maintain his wiry physique, along with the afternoon tea. Not that I’m wallowing in stereotypes or anything.)

Some early reviews of The Confusion, the next round in Neal Stephenson’s interminable prize fight, have started hitting the wires. The boys over at The Complete Review are generous, giving Stephenson props for erudition. The Guardian‘s Josh Lacey is less forgiving, noting that “pages read as if they have been copied directly from history books.” Both reviews confirm that, aside from a few action sequences, The Confusion looks to continue Quicksilver‘s tedium. It’s too bad. Thomas Pynchon, John Barth and David Mitchell all mined detailed historical territory, but at least they had the good sense to make it rewarding. This could very well make the Baroque Cycle the Matrix trilogy of literature.

The Known World has won the Pulitzer for Novel.

Drama went to Doug Wright’s I Am My Own Wife.

William Taubman won for Biography for Kruschev: The Man and His Era.

History went to Steven Hahn’s A Nation Under Our Feet.

Anne Applebaum won general nonfiction for Gulag.

Franz Wright’s Walking to Martha’s Vineyard won for poetry.

Paul Moravec’s Tempest Fantasy won for music.

Ten years ago today, I was in my English class when I heard the news. Kurt Cobain was dead. He had blown his head off with a shotgun.

The professor, who read Bob Dylan and Jim Morrison weeks before, allowed this news to seep in. She understood the significance too well. We didn’t. At least not then.

I remember a hush lasting a minute. The power chords shimmered through my mind. Nirvana, man. Kurt Cobain. “Floyd the Barber.” “We can plant a house, we can build a tree. I don’t really care. We could have all three.” The honesty of “Rape Me.” The secret track at the end of Nevermind. The Meat Puppets there during the Unplugged appearance. All gone save through the discs we spun.

Cobain hated being hassled. He hated playing stadiums. He was raw and angry and depressed and somehow sensitive. His voice sounded like a spatula scraping paint from a wall, the noise somehow filtered through a shaky Sennheiser, and committed to a reel-to-reel machine found in somebody’s basement. He was beautiful in his simplicity. Because he was the DIY punk inside us all.

Everyone knew Nirvana. Whether they had discovered the trio (then quartet) through the amazing Bleach, or had become part of the grand throng latching onto Nevermind. Nirvana had even obtained a strange legitimacy with the Weird Al Yankovic parody, “Smells Like Nirvana.”

But was Cobain the voice of my generation? Fuck no, I said back then. I was nineteen and cocky. And I was damned if I was going to let anyone — MTV, Ted Koppel, or any pundit trying to eulogize — throw labels around. We were the generation that had grown up during Reagan. We were the generation who knew that there wasn’t the house with the picket fence and the dog and the 2.2 children. There was no American dream. There was only a nation throwing its grandchildren into debt.

Cobain gave credence to our anger. We could crank up his music and feel the shimmering cesspool of suburban impoverishment. We could deny the existence of Motley Crue or any of the hair bands that came before. Because Nirvana was about something. The music was never overtly political, but it was sure as hell visceral.

I was in a garage band back then. And we all got together that Sunday and decided to pay tribute to Nirvana. It seemed the right thing to do. We played the songs and tried to make them sound as shoddy and slapped together as Cobain’s. But it was never the same. I screamed and grumbled into the mike. We all did. But it was never Kurt’s rage.

Nobody seemed to know the secret ingredient. But Nirvana somehow worked. Cobain was the rare voice who infiltrated both mainstream and underground circles. And, like it or not, he was the voice of my generation.

[UPDATE: More memories at The Black Table. (via Maud)]

[UPDATE: More remembrances of the Daleks Cobain from Tom, Graham, Syntax, Ellen, Coolfer, and Infoleafblower.]

Despite repeated inquiries by telephone and email to Senior Vice President Sallie Huntting, I’ve received no answers to any of my questions on recent policy changes.

I’ve learned that a U.S. District Court lawsuit was filed against the Academy of Art University back in September by the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission on behalf of a courier. The suit alleged that a manager subjected this African-American employee to repeated racial slurs. I haven’t determined whether this lawsuit has had any bearing on current policy changes, which were instituted at the beginning of the current semester.

The policy changes, as reported to Neil Gaiman by Daniel Handler last night and as I learned from both Jan Richman (the instructor who wasn’t rehired) and a source who wishes to remain anonymous, are as follows: Shortly after the student story incident, there was a series of individual meetings between administrative heads and instructors. The school then required all instructors to approve any supplemental instructional materials through administration. Students are no longer permitted to distribute their work to fellow students. The teacher must now see the work and approve it first. Before the current semester, teachers were allowed to use whatever materials they wanted, with stories and artwork passing directly into the classroom without any safeguards.

Alan Kaufman, another Academy of Art instructor, has had writers attending his classes to discuss the matter. As reported in the intiial Chronicle story, one of Kaufman’s students had been asked to leave when she submitted a paper related to suicide threats. I asked Kaufman if I could speak to him at length about this, but because I didn’t belong to a major media outlet and this was “a sensitive issue,” he declined.

I’ve also made efforts to track down the student. The student hasn’t talked to any reporters yet.

I will get my interview with Richman up later this week.

1. I’ve solved the RSS problem. Anyone looking at this site through an aggregator (all three of you) will now be able to see full text and images. My apologies. Thanks to Stavros, I only just recently figured out what this crazy stuff was all about.

2. And then there were four. The litblog revolution continues with El Haggis at the Washington Post.

Donald Barthelme’s reading list. Good choices, but I’ve only read 12. (via Stephany)

Leah Garchik reports that Daniel Handler (aka Lemony Snicket) was not permitted to speak at Alan Kaufman’s class this past Tuesday. Kaufman had arranged for several people to attend in response to Jan Richman’s teaching contract not being renewed. Among the participants were Richman, Handler, David Greene of the First Amendment Project, and (I’m told) Matt Gonzalez. Security guards did not allow Handler to get through. I have a tremendous amount of independent information to process, but I hope to collect it over the weekend.

Gerard Jones, the lovable man behind Everyone Who’s Anyone in Adult Trade Publishing, has released a fully revised version (what he styles the “Third Edition”) of his majestic site. The update is timed with the release of Ginny Good, the memoir he sold to Consortium through an incredible combination of lies, persistence, and personality.

Well, it appears that the damn thing got wiped — courtesy of a few people who commented. Can’t fix it for the next sixteen hours, as I won’t have access to the computer it originated from for sometime. But for those of you who missed it, here are the intro page and the Carl Weathers page. I’ll put the whole thing in a permanent spot tomorrow.

Also: hot damn. Ron’s on the case, covering last night’s Young Lions awards. This is the future. So work it, people. Work it.

Also also: Emails to all tomorrow. Apologies.

Also also also: Jimmy Beck is guesting at the Hag. He’s good. I give him six posts before he starts firing rifles into the air. Give this man some whiskey and give it to him quick.

[UPDATE: Man, only a few hours in and Beck is on a roll. This rant begins with “I had no intentions of getting into the whole Jewish thing, at least until erev Shabbat,” and turns into a side-splitting expose that dares to reveal all. Go read it. Between Beck and Rake, the newcomers are making sure the blogosphere’s a kickass place to be in.]

The Passion of the Christ? Screw that. The real theatrical gem is The Life of Brian, coming again to a theater near you.

Shocking allegations from Howell Raines will soon appear in the Atlantic — part of a planned memoir called I Was Master of the House, But Jayson Kept Playing With the Zippo. Among some of the highlights:

1. Raines secretly coveted the drugs and alcohol, and kept Jayson Blair on the payroll so that he could “relive his twenties again.”

2. Not once did Raines call Jayson Blair “boy.”

3. Raines once asked Blair to sit on his lap. Blair declined. Raines claims there was nothing sexual involved. The lap-sitting incident was all part of a great Raines family tradition dating back to 1872.

4. When fishing with John McPhee on the Delaware River, Raines promised McPhee that he would only name-drop upon publication of a memoir. McPhee gave Raines his blessing, but only after delivering a six-hour lecture on geography.

5. The one thing Raines would have done differently: casual Fridays.

(via Maud)

When in doubt, rely upon Dan Rather to defy common sense. Whether it’s the 1968 Democratic Convention or Gunga Dan, the very likely possibility that Dan Rather will go nuts is why I will be glued to CBS on Election Night. Only eight more months.

At the risk of coming out of the radio junkie closet, “natural evolution,” my ass! Canning Bob Edwards is like pissing on the pontiff’s robe. You just don’t do it.

[UPDATE: If you’d like to write a letter, NPR’s address is 635 Massachusetts Avenue N.W., Washington, D.C. 20001. Letters, by way of being physical objects, are more likely to be read than email. So get at it, folks.]

Because, beyond the usual spot, well, someone had to do it. If there are any more, please advise.

Surface Beauty (Slate, Oct. 31, 2003)
These Are a Few of My Favorite Things (Slate, Nov. 20, 2003)
Antiques Gone Wild (Slate, Dec. 10, 2003)
The $3.77 Million Wedding (Slate, Dec. 11, 2003)
Laughter in the Workplace (Slate, Dec. 19, 2003)
Global Domination (Slate, Dec. 30, 2003)
Idol Pleasures (Slate, Jan. 2, 2004)
Dysfunctional Family Values (Slate, Jan. 7, 2004)
Terminal Boredom (Slate, Jan. 13, 2004)
Going Postal (Slate, Jan. 19, 2004)
Creature Feature (Slate, Jan. 29, 2004)
Primary Colors (Slate, Feb. 4, 2004)
Mr. Nice Guy (Slate, Feb. 5, 2004)
I’m With the Bland (Slate, Feb. 9, 2004)
Little Women in the City (Slate, Feb. 23, 2004)
Fallen Star (Slate, March 2, 2004)
Insignificant Others (Slate, March 10, 2004)
Sister Act (Washington Post, March 14, 2004)

Valenti Resigns: “This is the time for me to depart as CEO. I feel that in my gut.”

Maybe it’s because he doesn’t understand the digital age. This was, after all, a man who once compared the VCR to the Boston Strangler.

Uninstalled all useless programs and needless diversions. Ruthless rigor maintains through various threads of life. Urban detritus cleared and disposed of almost but just how the hell did I get that National Review? Was I drunk? Ah, roommate’s. Returned.

Dawning conclusion: there are too many uncompleted textual snippets on my computer. Something close to four hundred generated in the last six months. This is wrong. The mark of a failure. Oh stop. Now with gigabytes to spare, this will change. A lot of these, much like these blog entries, could use editing, as the kind people here have commented. Or even completion. Further: there was a frightening number of bottlecaps collected and placed into one spot over several months. Enough to stop any man from drinking.

The book system has become managable. I have disposed of endless magazines. No fear. One can move forward without reading everything. It doesn’t have to hurt.

And now the ultimate steering of the vessel. Sure repeats won’t get me down. Sudden rise in evening socials! The play! Impetus baby thank you folks who kicked at opportune moments.

(Bueno/mal)practice works both ways.

A daring thought: should I get rid of my television? It’s never on.

There are participants and still more slots in the Snail Mail Experiment. Please send address and three sentences to ed@edrants.com, and rediscover the magic of postal revival.

I’m just as mystified (and as unfortunately gendered) as Tim Kevin, but I also have to ask: What’s so wrong about taking a look at women who want to be stay-at-home moms or to have kids before the biological clock? I’ve read the Daphne de Marneffe interview twice and, from what I can see, it looks like de Marneffe’s simply trying to get inside basic child care issues, at least as they apply to the stay-at-home mom or the aspiring mom: how much time is enough, how do you balance various attentions, and the like.

What’s particularly interesting is that de Marneffe’s assessing how societal norms influence stay-at-home mothers, and whether these norms are compatible with the realities. In addition, de Marneffe’s taken an interesting position: feminism and psychoanalysis have looked upon the childrearing role as somehow regressive or limiting, and have sometimes failed to account for it or integrate it with the empowered woman.

By no means does this condemn or dismiss feminism. But it does point out one of its potential limitations. (And this is, interestingly enough, where Betty Friedan was roasted.) In fact, back in 1997, Anne Roiphe wrote Fruitful: A Real Mother in the Modern World, a book dealing with this very issue: how do you balance feminism and motherhood? Are they so antipodal? (Jim Lehrer interview here.)

I’d have a real problem if de Marneffe was suggesting that being a mother was the only option for a woman. But she’s not. She’s not categorizing men as hunter-gatherers or women as nurturers. She’s looking into women who want to exercise responsibility, albeit in a maternal role. That’s certainly a wider swath than the Caitlin who shall remain unnamed.

Honestly, I don’t get the anger here. If the Third Wave is to advance, then these things do need to be addressed. Outside of a classist argument (which would preclude the desire and certainly limits de Marneffe’s scope), would Jessa or some other person explain to my addled Y-chromosome ass why looking into this issue is bad?

[3/23/04 UPDATE: Jessa clarifies her position, which arises from books she’s currently reading. I understand. Right now, I’m reading Eric Kraft’s Peter Leroy books. While they’ve proven to be fun, the constant references to clams really annoy me. To the point where I’ve avoided clam chowder, clam salad, and anything relating to clams. Plus, I inadvertently referred to Kevin as Tim, demonstrating that I’m irrevocably addled. I promise to befriend more Kevins in the next six months.]

[3/23/04 PM UPDATE: And another interview with de Marneffe is up at the NYT. Patricia Cohen does a better job clarifying the conundrum than Salon did. Ayelet Waldman also weighs in, whereby she quibbles over the universal application of motherhood. And more from Liz Kolbert.]