Edward Champion's Return of the Reluctant

Deaths, Revivals and Roastings

Historian and one-time Librarian of Congress Daniel J. Boorstin has passed on. Boorstin was best known for his American trilogy and his fascinating books on human innovation. (I highly recommend The Discoverers and The Seekers.) One read a Boorstin book for the best of reasons: to ride a journey across human progress with an enthusiastic mind eager to make connections. Boorstin was an American James Burke, adept at showing the strange way in which the world was charted and everyday things were created. He'll definitely be missed.

T.C. Boyle's enemies are dying off. Less people hate Boyle now more than ever before. I remain optimistic. There will come a day when there are more Boyle lovers than haters.

Now who honestly expected to see Kate Christensen profiled in the Post? It's difficult to say whether this is an effort to woo people who are disappointed by the increasing non-literary direction of the NYTBR. Personally, I welcome feverish Post headlines like VIDAL REVIVES BRAWL WITH MAILER or ZADIE SMITH ROASTS CHICKLIT AUTHORS OVER SPIT.

John Lescroart whines that he doesn't get any respect. Dude, shut up. You've sold 10 million books.

So Chip McGrath (and literary coverage) can be found now in the magazine?

Robert Silverburg has received the Damon Knight Memorial Grand Master Award. He plans to address the Nebula Awards with maniacal laughter.

Dick and Jane are being brought out of retirement. This time, the books are being mined for nostalgia rather than education. USA Today insists that, "Still, in their day, Dick and Jane were cutting-edge." I beg to differ. Unless Dick and Jane are supporting a love nest, complete with tops and bottoms, Jane getting the bukkake treatment, and Dick tied up, standing naked against a pilaster, unless Jane ends up in a halfway house and Dick has a heroin problem, unless Dick gets a mohawk, or Jane gets a nipple piercing, they will remain hopelessly unhip by-products of a more innocent time. Which is not to say that I have any specific contentions against Dick and Jane. I love their simple dorky intonations and their carefree concerns. Just don't go around calling them the new black. That's all I'm saying.

The Guardian on Garrison Keillor's latest: "Misogynistic, full of literary in-jokes and unwilling to tackle real emotion, I suspect fans of this novel will be restricted to Larry Wylers the world over, which isn't such an insignificant readership judging by the number of puffa jackets on the streets." Ouch.

A sign that creative book coverage isn't dead: Frank Wilson looks to be positioning himself as a qurkier Yardley. He asks the world why the 1921 novel, Memoir of a Midget, isn't better known. The great thing is that he's actually serious.

And Christopher Hitchens spares no words for Mel Gibson. Except Maureen Dowd was there with the association first.

This Getting Older Thing Ain't So Bad

Tonight, a really good friend of mine, a guy I have known since my college days, confessed to me that he was a father. Now this guy is a veritable goofball, a man who's concocted corny humor with me that only we can understand, a good man who married a good woman, a guy that I still give a lot of hell to (and vice versa), the unlikeliest father this side of the Mississippi. But when I heard the news, I felt a real sense of excitement. My face flushed. I wanted to dance a fucking jig. And in fact I did right there in the coffeehouse. It was almost as if I had become an unexpected uncle. When he called his wife, I insisted upon congratulating the heck out of her. Of course, I knew this was a plot to get more visits. A shameless attention ploy. Heaven knows I'll be visiting the two of them just to see how cute the kid is. Plus, I have this terrible habit of teaching kids to stick their tongues out at an early age. (So far, I've taught four or so babies to do this.) My own small way of imparting anti-establishment impulses.

I guess what makes this news so joyful is that this good friend of mine was the first major friend to become a father. Sure, I've had acquaintances who've had kids. And when the kid's dragged out, I'm there trying to pull a Mr. Bojangles, playing peek-a-boo and giving the baby all forms of attention. On several MUNI rides, I've managed to calm screaming kids down simply by cooing to them, making funny noises, pulling some half-assed Keaton or Three Stooges routine, getting their attention by acting like a nincompoop. It all fascinates the blustery baby to no end and often gets the kid laughing (and, more importantly, not crying). (To this very day, babies stare at me at adjacent restaurant tables, in parks, in strollers. They are endlessly curious. I seem to be this baby magnet. Several random mothers have suggested that I'd make a great father, which seems about as unlikely an idea as the Democrats controlling both houses in Congress. But knock on fucking wood.)

But the thing that makes the news so grand is that I know my friend's going to kick ass as a dad.

I used to dread the prospect of growing older, back when I was stupid enough to believe that one's age actually mattered. But now I'm finding that I love it. It's fascinating to grow older with friends. Sure, we watch helplessly when they make foolish decisions. We try to offer them clues. But when something great like a kid or a marriage or a grand personal achievement happens, when you see the pools of joy filling their faces, it's just one of those things that makes life so damned wonderful. Because with the joy comes change. And all the things you have in common take on new meaning. Because you realize in their decisions that there's a little part of you changing in the same way.

Dump the Book Babes

Being out of touch with literature is one thing. Letting Norman Mailer get away with that New Journalism remark was another. But when the Book Babes went soft on Joe Eszterhas, the Book Babes did something unpardonable. I had little choice but to add my vote to this petition to dump the Book Babes. For goodness sake, they can't even type the word "fuck" for an online column. I urge all self-respecting lit lovers to do the same. (via Mark)

[UPDATE: In a shocking twist of fate, Bill Keller has signed the petition. Does this offer some small clue that the man actually cares about literary fiction? You make the call.]

Arnold Threatens to Return to Mr. Freeze Role If Voters Don't Give Him What He Wants

StorySouth

Moorish Girl has the rundown on the StorySouth shortlist. Laila not only has links to all the stories, but she e-mailed all the authors and got every single one of them to talk about their stories. This is the kind of supercool effort that really demonstrates the potential of the blogging community. (I mean, seriously. Would a major newspaper do this sort of thing? No, they'd defer to J-Franz's latest.)

There's a Lesson Here Somewhere

Local 6 News: "An 83-year-old man was found lying dead in his yard next to his wife after he fell, became stranded and ordered his wife not to get help for three days despite heavy rainstorms, according to authorities." (via Metafilter)

Beatrice.com + Dalkey. Someone's Clearly Profiting Here.

Ron is an evil man. Either that or a Dalkey PR flak. If you're interested in good lit, you can purchase 100 books for $500. I won't bother to describe what's in their catalog. But there are enough goodies here (Elkin, Gass, Markson, Matthews, Millhauser, et al.) to make any lit geek take out a second deed of trust. If you take advantage of the deal before March 1, you get several Flann O'Brien books. The deal goes through April, however.

More Knut

Mark pointed me to this James Wood essay on Knut Hamsun. Despite an obvious effort to play down Hamsun's allegiance to the Nazis, Wood suggests that Hamsun's novels "belong to the classical comic tradition of Don Quixote and Confessions of Zeno. In this tradition, what is both funny and awful is the hero's obvious delusion that he is in control of his own unpredictability -- that he is, in short, free. The reader can see otherwise, that the hero is the victim of bottomless compulsions and drives. "

During Knut Hamsun's Nobel speech in 1920, what's fascinating is that he describes a personal confusion that's very close to the uncertainties experienced by his protagonists. He equates winning the prize to something close to science and apologizes for his "homespun" emotionalism.

Lars Frode Larsen notes that Hamsun constantly kvetched about being a writer. His wife, Marie, however, saw through this, noting in her memoirs that it was only way Knut could find his joy.

The nature of Hamsun's truth hinges upon these fascinating dualities. The narrator's struggle to find work as a writer while starving in Hunger. Hamsun's perceived inability to express himself as a writer at the Nobel ceremony. And the idea of "free" pointed out by James Wood. Hamsun's work has always appealed to me because it tries to filter several meanings out of one condition, and doesn't always leave you with a concrete answer.

Whatever It Takes, Apparently

Not so many years ago a teacher of the art of writing began the advertisement of his services with the announcement that millions of people can write fiction without knowing it. He would have been safer had he said that millions of people are certain that they can write fiction a great deal better than those engaged in the profession. Even so, it is my belief that the consistent craftsman of fiction is very rare. His talent, which is in no sense admirable, is intuitive. In spite of the dictum of Stevenson on playing the sedulous ape to the great masters, it has never been my observation that education helps this talent. On the contrary, undue familiarity with other writers is too apt to sap the courage and to destroy essential self-belief, through the realization of personal inadequacy. It encourages a care and a style that confuse the subject, and the net result is nothing.

Instead, a writer of fiction is usually the happier for his ignorance, and better for having played ducks and drakes with his cultural opportunities. All that he really requires is a dramatic sense and a peculiar eye for detail which he can distort convincingly. He must be an untrustworthy mendacious fellow who can tell a good story and make it stick. It is safer for him to be a self-censored egotist than to have a broad interest in life. He must take in more than he gives out. He must never be complacent, he must never be at peace; in other words, he is a difficult individual and the divorce rate among contemporary literati tells as much.

-- John P. Marquand, Wickford Point

Who Wants to Be a Literary Billionaire?

J.K. Rowling joins the billionaires club. Unfortunately, since writing the Harry Potter series has largely involved the act of one, there has been nobody for Rowling to downsize. So Rowling, in an effort to turn the maximum profit from her stories, has made it a habit of regularly firing and rehiring herself for 17 cents an hour, only to resell her labor for the greatest price.

The Daily News has more on the Jayson Blair tell-all: "Zuza [my girlfriend] took pictures of me prancing around the newsroom wearing a Persian head wrap that covered my face, Kermit the Frog on my shoulders and a giant fake fur coat. I did a full tour de newsroom in this ­peculiar uniform. It is hard to know what I was feeling, other than it was exhilarating to shock everyone. Perhaps I was crying out for attention." Crying out for attention? Nah, Jayce, sounds like you were trying to recall some obscure Polynesiasn ceremony that involved Kermit the Frog. But anyone trying to invent horrible euphemisms like "tour de newsroom" needed to be stopped.

Hemingway's favorite daiquiri bar, the Floridita, is being recreated in London. The original Floridita created a double-strength daiquiri bar for Papa. And it was not far from the original bar that Hemingway began work on For Whom the Bell Tolls. The London managers, however, have planned to throw out all soused writers from the new place. Unless, of course, they demonstrate that they can pay their tab.

The Guardian confirms that Richard and Judy are the Oprah of the UK. Literary champions are hoping to replace Richard with Punch, just to "spice things up."

Rynn Berry is obsessed with Hitler's diet, believing that Hilter wasn't the vegetarian everyone claims him to be.

Brian Greene: The Bill Bryson of physics?

The Ultimate Sophmore Slump

So what happened to the Blair Witch guys? Apparently, they're still trying to make a second film. So let's see: you make millions of dollars from a movie and you can't figure out in five years that cameos from Don Knotts, Gallagher, Jimmy Walker and Erik Estrada doesn't make a marketable movie. And yet Rachel Cohen, Artisan's former vice president, insists that they deserve a chance to make a film.

Any List with Knut Hamsun On It's Fine By Me

The English Pen has launched The Bigger Read, an effort to trump the dumbed down Big Read contest held by the BBC. The BBC plans to rebut with The Biggest Read. One thing's for certain. This contest is going to involve more than a few testicles. (via Literary Saloon)

Is This Your Subconscious Trying to Tell Me You Want Me in EST?

Not only has Maud mistaken me for a Faulkner expert in her dream world, but she also turned me into a schizophrenic blogger. There are many things I could say here. But I'll just register my complete astonishment that I beat many superior bloggers to the punch. However, I do want to assure anyone who dreams about me that (1) I'm honored to be part of your dramatis personae and (2) feel free to cast me as anything. I do heroes, heavies, and character work, and I don't mind working for scale. Particularly if you're a devious person.

On the Rebound

Perhaps consulting the will of Dr. Evil, Susanna Clarke has netted a millionaire's deal for Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, an 800-page novel dealing with the last two magicians in England. Fortunately, Clarke has staved off Harry Potter ripoff claims. Because Clarke conveniently started her book "10 years before." News of the Clarke deal has spread far and wide across the publishing industry, with agents encouraging novelists to "backdate their drafts" for anything remotely derivative.

Is David Mitchell's Ireland's answer to Pynchon? The Telegraph tries to find out (user: ed@edrants.com, pw: mabuse). Mitchell is one of Granta's 20 Best Young UK Novelists. And Sam Leith believes that Mitchell's latest, The Cloud Atlas, will be one of the highest praised books of the year.

Judith Jones will fuck your shit up. Not only has she given John Updike at least three black eyes, but she's also lacerated Anne Tyler several times while editing her novels. However, the Baltimore Sun concludes that Jones is an editor who balances gentleness with harsh intervention, when necessary.

Borders is tapping into inner-city neighborhoods. The Times claims that recent stores built in Detroit and Chicago are for "underserved" neighborhoods. The Detroit Free Press suggests that there's plenty of indepdent life still left. The Detroit store was built in a downtown section that once housed sizable retail. And at 8,000 square feet, it's apparently "the biggest store since Hudson's closed 20 years ago." Borders claims the Chicago store in Uptown is an effort to "revitalize" a commercial district, but it looks like gentrification to me.

Salon has a mystery round-up, which should please Sarah.

Meghan O'Rourke claims that Naomi Wolf is setting the fight against harassment back. More from the Observer.

Sean "Puffy" Combs and Raisin in the Sun? Say it ain't so.

Chick lit, lad lit, and now Can lit. But in this case, it looks like David Solway may be Canda's answer to Dale Peck.

A New Plan for the NYTBR

This morning, while I was lying in bed, at long last forming an intricate theory about James Doohan's purpose in "Spock's Brain," I came across this stunning news. The NYTBR editor search is being restarted.

Let us not vex ourselves too much. The Times has plenty of cash and resources to blow up their noses for these parlor tricks, but not nearly enough to pay their pressers.

But no matter. It's clear that Bill Keller is wasting all of our time. As my loyal readers know, I campaigned vigorously here on behalf of two editorial candidates who made the shortlist. Ads were prominently placed. Envelopes with stacks of Franklins were given to the appropriate people. I played the game first for Ben Schwarz. And then when Schwarz tried to appeal to centrists by dissing literary fiction, I switched my allegiance to Sarah Crichton. Not long after she took New Hampshire.

But today's move illustrates that Keller hasn't respected any of these efforts, nor does he respect democracy. And not a single soul knows whether he appreciated the strip dancer I sent to his office. What's more, the NYTBR been jumping the gun, moving towards more repeat profiles (such as the lad lit angle and the endless American Sucker coverage), covering popular fiction over literary fiction, and giving far too much space to thick nonfiction books that spend hundreds of pages stating the obvious.

In other words, Bill Keller has a mission in life: to bore the socks out of book enthusiasts. Yet even with this solitary goal, Bill Keller doesn't seem to have the management or people skills to go about doing it.

It's clear that political campaigning has had little success. We all know that money won't buy Bill Keller. He's a man inflexible in his love for Jonathan Franzen, but who barely gives David Markson the time of day. Firm principles, to be sure. But perhaps humor can change his mind. In fact, humor may have been the very thing missing in Bill Keller's life.

Have you ever noticed that Bill Keller has not once smiled or cracked a joke this whole time? Perhaps that's been the problem all along.

So here's the plan: The time has come to bombard Mr. Keller with gag gifts. Constipation crisis kits, fake vomit, false bumper stickers, Mr. T in your pocket. Name your weapon of choice. Each gift should be sent to the Times with the following message: "For the love of humanity, for the love of literary fiction, learn to laugh, laugh and love, you crazy waffler!"

These packages must be sent religiously to Mr. Keller's office until one of three things happens: (a) he confesses that he might cover literary fiction, (b) he makes up his goddam mind, or (c) he reveals that, all this time, he's been suffering from a nervous breakdown and offers to resign in protest.

Packages can be sent to:

Bill Keller
Executive Waffler
NEW YORK TIMES
229 West 43rd Street
New York, NY 10036

Remember: It is every American's duty to restore the former glory of the NYTBR. And if Keller can't do it, perhaps mass gag gift hypnosis may help us bring the NYTBR into alignment.

Maybe It's the Damn Rabbits Coming Through the Walls Right Now

QUICK UPDATE: For all who have sent well wishes, thank you. Will respond to all e-mails, most of which have nothing to do with state of health, when I'm of sounder and healthier mind. In the meantime, here's The Book Quiz (via George, I think). My results:

You're Watership Down!
by Richard Adams
Though many think of you as a bit young, even childish, you're actually incredibly deep and complex. You show people the need to rethink their assumptions, and confront them on everything from how they think to where they build their houses. You might be one of the greatest people of all time. You'd be recognized as such if you weren't always talking about talking rabbits.

Well if that's the case, then it's too bad my greatest accomplishment today was spelling the word "KITE" on a spoonful of alphabet soup.

A REAL Respite

What most people often overlook about hospitals are its staff members: fit, extremely attractive, sometimes even genuinely sympathetic. Certainly the job demands require that one remain in shape. There's hustling, medical babble, gurneys rolled in and out of bright flourescent hallways. Sometimes you're attended to. Sometimes you're forgotten. Often there are apologies. And there are the surprise interventions, such as my accidental interruption of a "conference meeting" with a "Heya" and repeated coughs. "Ssssshhhh!" said this assistant, who seemed to be unaware that I was planning on identifying pulmonary portions of pain and then instructed me to sit down and not to disturb anybody. Fortunately, I had a book.

There are the nurses who call you "sweetie." There are the aides who pretend they like your jokes. And there are those who genuinely need your subversive humor. Because there's some guy screaming his head off, possibly close to death, in Room 9.

But the major constant is that everyone is fit, Baywatch fit. Pretty much every doctor I saw looked as if they were fashion show models on the weekend. You come in suffering and you know these folks are going to beat your ass at rugby or, because their leverage is substantial, even humiliate you at a ping-pong table.

It's one of the stupid reasons I don't go to hospitals unless I'm seriously ill. But then I also remember the neglect that killed Jim Henson and how I spent an hour crying in my room that terrible day.

The balance makes perfect sense. As a patient, dare to cough and you're immediately given a mask that resembles a prop from the 1918 Boston influenza epidemic. Is the mask given there to prevent the spread of bacteria? Was the policy instilled at the behest of the boys on the legal team? No, and no. As the patient, it's your duty to be as sick as possible. To maintain the dichotomy of infirm, convulsing souls and rugged, virile go-getters. You are there to be treated, possibly wheeled away for an extended stay, possibly cut open. And it's all shameful. Because let's face it: at this point, the patient's so disappointed with not being at the top of his game that he doesn't mind losing at rugby.

Why the sudden prolificity? Well, after about a week and a half of protracted coughing, of pains that left me awake at night, and often clutching my blanket, I figured that there was a slight possibility that I was unwell.

But when I learned of how incredibly sick I was, and the asceticism I'd have to practice to become superhuman again, I realized that I'd have to start this recuperation process with a longass entry.

"Bronchitis and pneumonia in early stages," said the M.D. with a physique of a soap opera star.

"Do I get fries with that?"

"No."

"Damn. Guess I won't be trying to close in on that seven-minute mile tomorrow."

The prescription was this: antibiotics, an inhaler, and lots of rest.

I was fleeced at the pharmacy. I thought the drugs would be the fun part. But when the bill, after my health care provider's penurious co-pay, came to a sum I'd probably pay for a hearty handful of hardcovers or a midrange Hollywood Blvd. prostitute, I knew that this was serious business.

The rest would be the hardest part. Because it's actually a codeword for "no thinking." A problematic option. Because it also means no reading, no writing, no working. Just bed and really infantile movies going on in the background. My intellectual powers will, at best, be devoted towards finding the metaphors within the third season masterpiece "Spock's Brain."

But the vigilance committee inside me is prepared. They're ready to bust shit up once the antibiotics are washed down with water.

What this means of course is two days of silence as my posse's kicking microbe ass.

So I regret to inform folks that Radio City's closed for repairs. But please visit the fine folks on the left, many of whom I have had sexual intercourse with.

Please also visit the fabulous Jessa Crispin. Despite my beef, I was not out to mow her down with a Tommy. It ain't that Manichean, man.

For my enemies, please continue with the hate mail. Your crude fundamentalist theories and strange enmity greatly amuses me.

For my lovers, I will try to invent a few more sexual positions over the next couple of days. Including the one I told you about involving the cabbage, the plush toy and the wires. The flamenco lessons, however, will have to wait until I'm further recovered.

For those who could care less either way, give somebody a hug.

For Those Looking for a Feud

BookExpo 2003 Smackdown: Al Franken/Bill O'Reilly
BookExpo 2004 Smackdown: Terry Teachout/Jessa "This isn't your blog, Terry" Crispin?

Aren't there better things to argue about during an election year?

Link-Pilfering? Nah, It's Really About Courtesy

Well, now that it's out in the open, and Jessa seems to want to turn this into a contentious war (which it isn't and it shouldn't be), I'll go on public record and state that Jessa has pilfered links from my site many times. I know this to be true, because specific phrasing that I've used here has been recycled without credit for her site. In one case, she believed my satirical embellishment about Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye being under review because kids were exchanging "penis jokes" in the classroom to be true. Seemed obvious enough malarkey to me. But I e-mailed Jessa all the same with a correction.

Instead of a brief thank you or a self-deprecating acknowledgment in her post that she was wrong aw shucks, the link was changed without comment and my email went unanswered.

Jessa's blogging tendencies certainly don't bother me as much as other people. (And I don't know of any names or conspiracy going on here really.) But I'm absolutely mystified why she would think that my email (among many, apparently) was an attack, when it was a jokey courtesy, intended solely for her benefit, puncutated with a smiley face. I'm also perplexed why she would go after Teachout (one of the classiest cats in the biz) and, more interestingly, the blogging community.

A few words about the book-blogging community, and why they're so damned hep: Since I restarted this blog in December with an emphasis on books and literature, I've discovered fascinating new sites, I've had e-mail exchanges with nifty people who have alerted me to ideas and writers I had never heard about, and I've been extremely grateful for how these folks have helped me to develop my own thinking about literature. The general clime is a marvelous, sharp, and jokey bunch who, yes, reference and wink at each other, but also support each other. They also look out for each other from time to time. It's a bit like being part of one of the coolest block parties on the planet.

I certainly respect Jessa for being one of the first book blogs on the Net. I still check out her site on a daily basis. Can't help myself. And, again, I'm not certain if Teachout's citation thing is as big a deal to me as it is to others.

But in misinterpreting a supportive effort as "an attack," in not being courteous enough to respond to those who reward her with links, stories, corrections, or thoughtful book reviews, all gratis, I think Jessa's out of line. I've suggested to others who are extremely infuriated with her that it's just "a Jessa thang," that it ain't a big deal, and to not take it personally.

But if we recall last year's gross characterization of Jessa as a vodka-swilling, shorts-absconding social climber, we begin to see how neglecting simple courtesies often creates these misunderstandings.

And in this case, Jessa's very wrong. It's a colossal mistake to dismiss the book blog community. We're not the Bill Kellers or the Laura Millers. We're the ones who give more than six damns (or in Lizzie's case, multiple fucks) about literature.

It's almost as unpardonable as forgetting to say "Thank you."

Out-Blog Blogging?

Milan Kundera's in demand in Shanghai, enough to make him the best-selling foreign author in the city. Hybrid publishers are reported to be preparing Mao's Little Red Book of Laughter and Forgetting.

Kate Christensen, whom Ron was kind enough to alert me to, is interviewed by the Journal News. From what I've been able to tell, the new book involves a man diagnosed with McDonald's disease, but who is still obsessed with eating Happy Meals. If he doesn't stop eating fatty foods, he'll die a horrible, miserable and stunningly descriptive death at the age of 40. Nevertheless, the allure of the de Montaigne Happy Meal action figures is enough to keep the man eating. Christensen calls her new novel part of "Loser Lit," which is not to be confused "Laser Lit," a recent flurry of novels that have featured protagonists taking charge of their destinies shortly after undergoing corrective eye surgery.

Woody Allen and Joyce Carol Oates are among those named by the Tacoma Tribune as talents who are too prolific.

Viggo Mortensen recently showed up in town to read his poetry. Here's a sample:

I walk the line that Nimoy wrought
I am not Spock or Aragorn
The fangirls swoon upon my locks
The fanboys EBay off my socks
The fans behold my brawny bod
With glasses on, I hide and trod

Who shot J.R.R.? I did, of course
As I was strutting on a horse
You think he died in '71?
Well, the geezer croaked when I was done
A bullet there between his eyes
Killed at eleventy-zero, a big surprise

They kept the news from kith and gents
The fans had Tyler to cream their pants
But Peter knew, and so did I
And Tolkien's death did make us cry
An accident, like Brendan Lee!
And so I hid up in a tree

Political correctness has kept George Washington's name from being properly honored. And here I was thinking that it was just because today's United States pays little heed to its foundations.

No sign yet of the Wolf-Bloom article yet at the New York website. Keep watching the skies. The Boston Globe, however, has a precis for those who can't wait.

[UPDATE: Whoop, there it is.]

Yahoo wants to out-Google Google. Google has responded, indicating that they plan to "out-out-Yahoo Yahoo's out-Googling Googling outside after out-Yahooing out-Google outsourcing." Venn diagram enthusiasts are still trying to figure out just what the hell these two giants were talking about.

And Frederick Morgan, long-time editor for The Hudson Review, has passed on. He was 81.

Thoughts Between Coughs

It's been linked several places, but this excellent thread is a must-read for any aspiring writer. Any neophyte may want to spend their time reading James D. McDonald's advice rather than subscribing to Writer's Digest.

Sarah has some good followup to the McCrum article about publishing changes, raising the validity of proposal/synopsis only justification for a contract. But one thing she overlooks is that the new synopsis trend may very well reflect a profit-driven industry looking to cut corners wherever possible. Short-term profits with little concern of the book's gestalt or long-term profits based off of constant communication between author and editor? You make the call. The goal, lest we forget, is to get people to buy the books. And the longer the book, the less susceptible it is to editing. (See Neal Stephenson's Quicksilver, for one.) There's the additional financial advantage of a long book purchased and then remaining unread on most people's bookshelves.

Shit-Stained Icons

Like a good geek, I upgraded my browser from Firebird to Firefox. (I'm presuming Mozilla renamed it because their barebones browser has become more devious. Never mind a proper explanation.) Version 0.8 hasn't had nearly as many problems as Version 0.7. But there's one terrible problem. Note the icon which precedes this paragraph. I've resized it to how it looks on my taskbar. It resembles either a gall stone being pushed through an unsightly orifice, or a penny gumball tinged with an orange-tinged fecal coating. In either case, it makes me sick to my stomach. And I'm sure I'm not alone here.

I like to support the little guy. Really, I do. And I can understand why this shit-stained orange color was decided upon (slightly more shit-stained than the hue of the AOL Instant Messenger icon, but enough of a gradient to count). There's been a rise in vibrant blue, more dimensional icons. Ever since Windows XP came out. But has an unspoken civil war been declared on certain icon colors? I don't think I've seen yellow or maroon or even trusty black in the last two years. Either there's some post-9/11 "comfort icon" thing happening that nobody wants to acknowledge or icons have become so uninteresting that even able developers like Mozilla are resorting to shit-stained icons.

Well, At Least He Has His Priorities Straight

An entire page has been put up to celebrate Spot (the presidential dog) passing away at 15. But there still isn't a single page up in tribute to the 500 dead soldiers. I hate to get Godwin, but this is just too damn close to the "But he loved his dogs" Hitler apologia.

Mel Gibson, Audacious Filmmaker or Creepy Stalker?

Lone Star Antics

The Kos has the scoop on something very close to hitting the mainstream media. Texas Gov. Perry's wife left Perry. Why? Perry was found in bed with another man. And that's not all: the other man was Jeff Connor, Secretary of State. I can't wait to see what effect this will have on the same-sex marriage debate. Particularly since this involves Big People in Texas who are on record against sodomy.

The More Things Stay the Same

"After the doctors and scientific experts testified in Congress that cigarettes cause or compound not only cancer but a number of other diseases and are responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths annually, the senior senator from Kentucky stood up just shaking with anger and moaned, 'You're trying to wreck our economy.' And what did Henry Ford II say when the government began insisting on safety devices in cars? 'The American people don't want anything that's going to upset the economy.' And what's more, Ford was right. Fifty thousand a year dead on the highways, but don't rock the economy. Look, America is no more a democracy than Russia is a Communist state. The governments of the U.S. and Russia are practically the same. There's only a difference of degree. We both have the same basic form of government: economic totalitarianism. In other words, the settlement to all questions, the solution to all issues are determined not by what will make the people most healthy and happy in their bodies and their minds but by economics. Dollars or rubles. Economy über alles. Let nothing interfere with economic growth even though that growth is castrating truth, poisoning beauty, turning a continent into a shit-heap and driving an entire civilization insane. Don't spill the Coca-Cola, boys, and keep those monthly payments coming." -- Tom Robbins, Another Roadside Attraction

NYTBR -- A Dead Place for Fiction

Perhaps an inadvertent confession from Laura Miller? "The only thing more powerful than a worldwide conspiracy, it seems, is our desire to believe in one."

Incidentally, the NYTBR fiction coverage is still looking grim. Far too much non-fiction (and yet another review of the Biskind book). The most telling sign is that David Markson's Vanishing Point, which would seem to me one of the most ideal literary books for the Times to cover for a full-length review, has been ghettoized to the "And Bear in Mind" section.

Olivia Goldsmith Update

It's been a little more than a month since Olivia Goldsmith passed on, and comments and send-offs still roll in, responses to my visceral reaction from the news. This suggests to me that the Goldsmith death is an issue that's resonated with a lot of people, both in Goldsmith's premature loss and the potential dangers inherent within plastic surgery (to say nothing of discussion over why it's considered a necessity). Unfortunately, as someone passes on, the circumstances that led up to the death sometimes get ignored or left by the wayside. In an effort to look into what's been happening, here's what I've been able to determine:

This week, a second patient died at the Manhattan Eye, Ear & Throat Hospital, which was Goldsmith's clinic. Manhattan Eye had already been under investigation by state officials. This time around, it appears that Manhattan Eye was more careful with confidentiality (probably because the woman wasn't a bestselling author and, accordingly, journalists weren't nearly as hungry to dig up the dirt), but the cause of the second death, which occurred on Monday, has turned out to be the same: anesthesia-related. Manhattan Eye claims that it was following "all hospital protocol and procedures."

The Post broke the news this morning. The second victim, like Goldsmith, was only 54. All that is known about her was that she was the wife of a cardiologist.

Some additional details about Manhattan Eye: Lenox Hill Hospital owns Manhattan Eye. Manhattan Eye, however, does not have an intensive care unit. It experienced a 20% increase in cosmetic surgery in 2002 over the previous year.

The plastic surgery division is headed by Sherrell Aston, considered the top facelift doctor in New York. Aston has performed work on Tipper Gore and Anna Wintour. He's also a full professor of surgery at NYU. Aston is the husband of Muffie Potter Aston, prominent Manhattan socialite (who also chairs the New York City Ballet Committee). Muffie's pretty ascetic about her diet. As she says herself, "My attitude toward food is not obsession, but it's not far off. I am religious about what I eat. I start the day with a bowl of sliced cantaloupe, three apricots and three prunes; then I go to the gym. Being three pounds overweight drives me to distraction." (The happy couple can be found pictured here.) They have a son, Matt, who opened up a bistro called Calliope in 2001 (thanks to family cash). Their other son is Jay, a money manager and ladies' man known to date people like Soshanna Lonstein.

I raise these biographical tidbits up to convey exactly where the Astons stand in New York society. They are extremely affluent, extremely elite, and we might also infer that they are extremely protected, particularly from any criticism of surgical procedure.

But according to the New York State Department of Health, Aston has paid out three malpractice settlement payments in the past ten years: one on 5-27-01 for a "below average" amount, another on 12-03-96 for a "below average" amount, and a third on 4-9-96 for an "average" amount. It should also be noted that the NYS DOH indicates that "Below average means the doctor has made a payment that is less (in amount) than New York doctors in his or her field and in the same geographical area." Since Manhattan Eye is the top-rated surgical clinic in its area, we might infer that "below average" might be a veritable bonanza compared against the average cosmetic surgery clinic. Furthermore, since Aston is loaded with cash, it is likely that he retains an ace deal-cutting attorney.

The most investigative piece on the matter has been Ralph Gardner, Jr.'s piece for New York Magazine. However, Gardner seemed to pay more attention to Goldsmith's life and mental health, rather than investigating the procedures undertaken. He did note that Goldsmith had come close towards getting discounted or comp surgery when she was researching her book, Flavor of the Month. He also noted that Larry Ashmead, Goldsmith's editor, recalled that Goldsmith wore a long blonde wig for her cover photo in The First Wives' Club, and that Ashmead forced Goldsmith to retire it.

Gardner also consulted with an unnamed plastic surgeon who suggested that Goldsmith may have withheld the fact that she was on antidepressants, and that this may have affected her pulmonary system. But the question I have here is whether Manhattan Eye had the duty to determine whether or not the patient was on any other medications before undergoing procedure. If two patients have died because it's not current Manhattan Eye procedure to check for factors which might affect a patient during anesthetic procedure, then this may suggest a major screw-up.

The surgeons for both the cardiologist's wife and Goldsmith have not been revealed by hospital representatives. However, the Gardner article revealed that Dr. Norman Pastorek was the doctor responsible for Goldsmith's surgery.

This cached message board notes that Pastorek was trained by Dr. Eugene Tardy, a prominent cosmetic surgon in Chicago. Pastorek (and Manhattan Eye) is also involved with NYU. In fact, NYU offers a fellowship program with Manhattan Eye.

However, as Rush and Molloy pointed out, the person who carried out anesthetic procedure was never identified in Gardner's piece. And according to the New York State Department of Health, Pastorek has not had any malpractice actions since becoming an M.D. in 1969.

As of last week, Goldsmith's attorney, Steven Mintz, has not yet proceeded with legal action. And a search through the New York State Unified Court System revealed no recent actions filed by Mintz's firm.

The Sydney Morning Herald used Goldsmith's death to play up the increasing allure of plastic surgery, noting the recent desperation of a 51-year old British schoolteacher who submitted herself to $120,000 worth of televised plastic surgery. The surgery did little to alter her features, but it had arisen from jealousy directed toward's her sister's looks. And even Good Housekeeping was forced to save face, justifying their support for a lucrative beauty industry by tying in an article related to the Goldsmith death recommending "10 Ways to Cut 10 Years."

But the larger issue here, beyond whether Goldsmith was emotionally troubled or not, is why two women had to die during an anesthetic procedure in an exclusive plastic surgeon clinic. Why did one of them die while the hospital was under investigation? Why has there been no independent unbiased statement issued to the public? And while I can understand why Gardner would dig up dirt on Goldsmith's character to write a good story, this still doesn't excuse why he wouldn't be similarly penetrating about the safetys or hazards of anesthetic procedure.

If there is danger within current Manhattan Eye procedure, then the public needs to know about it, so that these problems can be exposed and rectified, and nobody else has to die.

[UPDATE: I did a defendant search for "Manhattan Eye, Ear & Throat" on the New York Unified Court System site and was able to turn up three active cases. Case No. 24786/1999 is a complex medical malpractice case. Case No. 8382/1999 is another complex medical mal case. Case No. 8898/2001 is yet another complex medical mal case. Gordon & Silber represents Manhattan Eye.]

Match.com -- Maintaining the Status Quo Since 1995

Well, if Haggis can do it, so's can I. The Match.com Physical Attraction Test, purportedly millions of dollars and years in the making, is a disturbing image-oriented Flash thing that asks you such terrible questions as "If these were the only five women left on Earth, who could you tolerate?" Now how the hell can any vaguely humanistic-minded person answer that? Well, dear readers, you'd be surprised by how quickly you cross into darkness. Particularly if, like me, you've seen The Omega Man and Logan's Run more times than medically recommended.

Make no mistake: This test is fucking evil. The phrasing of questions makes this test perfectly designed for nihilists, pyromaniacs and armageddon enthusiasts. Namely, people like me. Worse still, it's all visual. Never mind if the lady I was sharing a sleeping bag in a post-apocalyptic Times Square could quote Robert Burns or engage in mischevious banter. There was a stage in this that reminded me of Press Your Luck, whereby you're supposed to single out women you can't stand. Except, in my case, I was concentrating on the women that I'd have no problem spending six lifetimes lovin' and found it difficult for my libido-charged mind to reverse the polarity of the neutron flow.

The results would indicate otherwise:

The choices you made in the test suggest you have strong, automatic preferences for certain types of women. You made your choices quickly suggesting you have clear physical instincts.

Uh, maybe because I'm a dude and I'm more visual-minded, mayhaps? Or I was clicking desperately on the choices to make this hard Hobson's choice objectification stop? You make the call, Match.com. You evil bastards.

But onwards.

My Favorite Features:

• Your photo choices suggest a woman over 55 is probably getting a little old for your tastes (Seems a sick Freudian joke to start this out with.)
• You seemed interested in dating a woman at least 30 or older (Yeah.)
• So-called "Ecto-Mesomorphs," with narrow chins and nicely angular faces (What the hell is this, Ghostbusters?)
• Blue eyes (Oh, don't get Kristallnacht on me, muthafuckas.)
• Light brown hair (This morning, maybe.)
• Wavy hair (Yeah.)
• Straight hair (Yeah. But doesn't that contradict my previous choice?)
• Medium-length hair (Not quite.)

Unique Traits:

• Sometimes, you like younger women, by a good gap. (Saturday night after a lot of Jamican rum? Yeah, a roll in the hay with an undergrad ain't bad.)
• Sometimes, you like women over 5 years older than you. (Damn straight.)
• More unique than "mainstream" appeal (Fuck Maxim, anorexia and silicone implants.)
• Thin, angular faces with a classic or refined look (Bingo again, but only if they look like Liz Scott or Ann Sheridan. Not that your culturally amnesia-charged minds would know anything about that.)
• Cute, button or small noses (Cute? Fuck no. But I do like interesting noses.)
• Glasses and the sophisticated and smart look that goes with them (What can I say? Me like smart women.)
• You appreciate someone with a few extra pounds (As opposed to, say, the starving waifs you presented me with? Jesus, does "plus size" these days mean anyone who has more than one meal a day? If so, count me in.)

Not Your Type:

• Women over age 55 (Again with the Freudian shit.)
• Women under age 30 (Maybe because I might have, you know, specified this at the beginning of the test?)
• High "mainstream" appeal, with little unique flair (We've covered this, I think.)
• Long and narrow "rectangular" faces (Only if someone paid me to kiss Bruce Campbell.)
• Thin lips (Yup, labia latitude's a plus.)
• Black hair (No. Anyone who knows about my obsession with Jennifer Connelly will testify to this.)
• Curly hair (Not necessarily.)
• Women of Black/African descent (Oh, bullshit. You want to play the fucking race card, Match.com? I clicked on hot mommas of all ethnic dispositions, as your "Maybe" photo collection, asking me why, will attest. Maybe because they're, uh, hot? You didn't exactly present a lot. Something like ten out of 100?)
• Hispanic or Latino women (See above.)

How You Compare to Other Men:

4% Very attracted to women my type
14% Attracted to women my type
21% Somewhat attracted to women my type
61% Not at all attracted to women my type

Yeah, mofo! How you like me now, Match.com?

Body Types:

One body type that seems to appeal to you is scientifically called "Endomorph," which roughly translates into solid, "plus-sized" women. She's not overweight, but her big bones and large frame make her hard to miss. Endomorphs are definitely curvier than the other body types, with hips that are wide in proportion to shoulders. Although she is prone to gain weight over her lifetime, at this point she doesn't have a "pot belly" or "love handles," just nice womanly curves! As she ages and puts on weight, she usually carries it in her hips and butt. This type usually makes up 7% of single women. Telling signs of this body type include wide and curved jaws, round faces, "chubby cheeks," a girlish look, a very short and wide neck, plus larger legs and butts.

In other words, the kind of woman that people had no problem with in 1962, but that carries a stigma today. Or as Elizabeth Hurley once said, "I'd kill myself if I was as fat as Marilyn Monroe."

Breast Size:

While you may enjoy looking at different breast sizes, based upon the choices you made, you prefer a well-endowed woman with much larger breasts.

And while you're conveying this earth-shattering piece of news, why not expound on the Third Law of Thermodynamics while you're at it?

My Ideal Match:

Reese Witherspoon? I must confess, I like her as an actress. But, dear Match.com, you clearly do not understand the kind of women I fantasize about while I'm jerking off. As such, you have proven your test, purportedly millions of dollars and years in the making, to be irrelevant and silly.

But there's a far larger issue here: Within seconds of taking the test, you sent me a list of profiles of women who "matched" my purported ideal. That may be fine and dandy with the Sears catalog set, but that disturbs me on multiple levels, Match.com.

So I have to ask, Match.com. Since you're in the business of profiting off of instant objectifying of the opposite gender, how do you sleep at night?

Shameful Joy? I Don't Think So.

Derek has posted some marvelous photos of City Hall marriages. It's bad enough that the Republicans seem shocked or outraged by the idea of other people experiencing happiness. (What kind of a sourpuss do you have to be to deny that?) But I cannot fathom why the Democrats (including John Kerry, that so-called all-American bastion we're all doomed to vote for in November) don't have the courage to get behind normal people who want to be married. Do these swell folks look like they're going to destroy this nation? Has happiness become a weapon of mass destruction?

And another thing: How can any reasonable person be against same-sex marriages while simultaneously supporting the 30 second Las Vegas marriage? In this country, I guess it's perfectly okay to enact a life partner decision when you've snogged a stranger and had far too many margaritas. But heaven forfend that we grant the same right to two people who have been with each other for decades and who base their decision to marry on something more than drunken vagaries and killing time between blackjack tables.

Mergers, Revelations and Glorious Kooks

The Independent notes that separate literary entities are being killed by their corporate parents. HarperCollins recently killed off Flamingo (home to Ballard, Lessing & Coupland) and Random House threw Harvill into Secker & Warburg, turning it into "Secker Harvill" and forever expunging Warburg, Orwell's publisher, from the label. When asked about how this will alter diversity, a HarperCollins rep replied, "What do you think literary fiction is? Some kind of affirmative action?" In unrelated news, Bell Curve authors Richard J. Herrnstein and Charles Murray are said to be at work on a new book, The Book Curve, whereby 1,000 pages are devoted to explaining why popular fiction sells more than literary fiction, and proving that some publishing executives have less attention span than the average reader. (via Literary Saloon)

Maud has been interviewed by the Gothamist. Among some of the more interesting revelations: Maud turned down the lead in an Off Broadway revival of The Verdict. Every morning, Maud practices her jujitsu on waterbugs that have a mean height of six feet. (Mr. Maud apparently cowers from anything remotely entomological.) Maud also single-handedly disarmed a posse of Remington-firing Confederates in Brooklyn. She reports that her combat moves were inspired by Carrie-Anne Moss kicking butt in The Matrix.

The Sydney Morning Herald interviews Isabel Allende. Allende's quite the eccentric: She starts all of her books on January 8, she thinks about Zorro while having sex with her husband, and holes up in her office writing for 8 to 10 hours a day without speaking to a single soul. She also dresses funky, though the Herald couldn't get specific answers on this end. I wish I was making this paragraph up, but I'm not.

In one of the most anticlimactic journalism moves seen from the Grey Lady this month, the Times reports that the Doyle-Joyce fracas is simmering. Really? 1,000 words to state the obvious in a major newspaper? Sign me up.

The Independent talks to Marjorie Blackman. Her Noughts & Crosses children's book trilogy examines race relations in an unknown country.

Regina Taylor's Drowning Crow looks like a fascinating update of Chekhov's The Seagull. If you're in New York, it's playing at the Biltmore. The Times also has a 26-second video excerpt of Alfre Woodard giving Anthony Mackie hell.

And Stephen Fry goes nuts: He's called the Hilton sisters "a pair of bloody whippets," Sting "false," and damns Americans for believing that the key to happiness is thinking about themselves. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortuantely, given the recent Dean demise), Fry wasn't running for public office.

(via Book Ninja)

How to Make a Caitlin Flanagan

Take:

One jigger of Anita Bryant
One jigger of Jane Russell
One jigger of Ann Coulter
A dash of pretentious language (for faux sophistication and New Yorker credentials)
One quart of self-entitlement
An expendable income

Mix. Serves establishment.

Don't Blame the First Lady. She Still Doesn't Know About EKG Treatment.

The Age has the Mark Haddon profile to end all Mark Haddon profiles. He confesses that he's a fortysomething who listens to the Flaming Lips and Sparklehorse, is 30,000 words into his next novel Blood and Scissors, and (regrettably) has been reading the McSweeney's crowd.

Laura Bush has called gay marriage "a very, very shocking issue." She also reports that she faints at the sight of blood.

The American Prospect has some fun with a comparative review of stalker/sucker/spineless wanker memoirs.

Caryn James examines the recent rise of Hollywood fiction.

And if, like me, you were an RPG geek back in the 80s, you might be interested to know that Paranoia has returned.

Fifty Years Ago Today...

...I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night...

Most People Just Go to Anger Management Training Or Get An Antidepressant Prescription

Salon: "And instead of playing the peace-loving Christian, Gibson is swatting at critics, real and imagined. Of New York Times writer Frank Rich, Gibson admits to having said, 'I wanted to kill him. I want his intestines on a stick. I want to kill his dog.'"

And that's not all, kids:

Sawyer: You said, "The Holy Ghost was working through me."

Gibson: I've received a lot of ridicule for that statement. I think that the Holy Ghost is real. I believe that he's looking favorably on this film and he wanted to help.

Proclaiming himself "somewhere between Howard Stern and Saint Francis of Assisi on the scale of morality," Gibson also seems creepily preoccupied with evil, both apparently in the focus of his film and in his current situation.

Sawyer: You said at one point, "The big dark force didn't want us to make this film."

Gibson: Sure.

Sawyer: What was the force?

Gibson: What was the force? It's the thing you can't see. I'm a believer, by the way. So if you believe, you believe that there are big realms of good and evil, and they're slugging it out.

(via A.O.)

Press Secretary Reveals Wedding Ring-Marriage Connection to Journalists; Iraq-WMD Link Remains Unanswered

Quickies & Jesus, Not the Book Babes Again

Ro Sham Bo in lit: Unfortunately, the article stops just as it begins to reveal something.

McSweeney's vs. Partisan Review/Agni: guess who gets more coverage.

The Book Babes are so absurd that I've decided to start addressing their columns on an equally absurd first-name basis. This week, they weigh in on the Amazon brouhaha, with predictably vapid results:

"How are readers supposed to trust reviews if they don't know who the reviewers are and what their biases might be?" Absolutely, Margo. So why not cough up your own biases up right now and explain why you allowed Norman Mailer to get away with that ridiculous New Journalism claim a few weeks ago? Or why you and Ellen didn't press Keller further? Or how you both remain silent over the pre-NYTBR regime change's move to non-fiction? You two think you're covering the book scene?

"Everybody is entitled to an opinion." Everybody's entitled to an informed opinion with a reasonable argument, Ellen. And confessing your love for a has-been as tripe-heavy and WASP-blindsided as Anne Tyler suggests to me that you might be unqualified to review literature.

I Must Confess That This is REALLY Good Tylenol

Janet Maslin demonstrates how you can write a redundant-laden lead about nothing: "The history of Texas would seem to be a natural subject for the popular historian H. W. Brands. For one thing, Mr. Brands, biographer of Theodore Roosevelt and Benjamin Franklin, is a professor at Texas A&M University. For another, the much-vaunted wildness and wooliness of Texas' story would seem to lend itself to Mr. Brands's accessible, personable approach." That's three mentions of Texas in three sentences and more adjectives than you can shove onto a Hometown Buffet plate. Hasn't Maslin learned anything from Twain?

The Daily Californian has a modest Octavia Butler profile up. Apparently, Butler's working on a vampire novel.

Who needs the amateurism of Writer's Digest when you can hear the same obvious swill for free from romance novelist Debbie Macomber? Before her writing ritual, Debbie reads the Bible and devotionals. And of course, Debbie's convinced that women aren't interested in steamy sex scenes (and, as she states, what does she know about sex being married?). Yes, kids, Debbie's that best-selling romance novelist that you can read in the break room without embarassment. Sexed up trash? What are you thinking? Pick up Debbie Macomber tomorrow. Remember, kids: a Debbie Macomber "airport novel" purchased from a Barnes & Noble is a purchase for America! You too can turn your head away from reasonable standards and become a published romance novelist!

"Tilda! The real Tilda! Tilda and her beautiful voice! The real Tilda and I meeting in a gay bar! Tilda! Tilda! Movie-life and real-life often do not bear any resemblance to one another, but Tilda!"

Don Kleine -- quirkyalone professor? I hope not.

Kevin Smith's on tap to write and direct The Green Hornet.

No less than four recently published books agree upon the notion of an "American empire." And in the first half of 2004, 25 books critical of Bush will be published by commercial houses. Yee haw! It's beginning to look like 1968 again, isn't it?

Fuck No

Sarah Jacobson has passed on. She died last night. She was only 32. Cinetrix points to this forum for those as bummed out about this news as I am. And if you're lucky enough to be in the East Village, tonight, there's a screening of all her films at the Two Boots Pioneer Theater. Words fail me.

Too Good to Keep the Silence

The Observer: Camille Paglia, who traded blows with Ms. Wolf in the early 1990’s over their radically different views on female sexual power, said she was no longer at war with Ms. Wolf, but was "shocked" to learn of Ms. Wolf’s accusations against Mr. Bloom, who is a long-time mentor of Ms. Paglia’s.

So I guess in Camille's world, "you are either with us or against us." I'm guessing here that Wolf is Oceania and Paglia is Eastasia. Either way, I'd love to see how Bloom gets out of this. This could be the Greer-Mailer matchup of our time.

And in the same article: Caitlin Flanagan's been hired by the New Yorker to write pieces on "modern domestic life." Would that involve how a well-to-do mother can blow $100,000 a year on child care? I think that's something within everyone's resources, don't you?

Okay, back to recuperation.

A Respite

Away for a few days or more.

Sorry, the Bronchitis Has Made Me Angry

Asimov's somehow emerged as a magazine choice in a school fundraising drive. But one mother flipped through the magazine and was "shocked" to read about "young girls with no panties, young girls in white socks, young girls looking at his wank-mags with him, young girls doing it with one another while he watched." What pisses me off about this is not only does Ms. Suburban Mom miss the point about what spec-fic is about, but that this perpetuates the impression that spec-fic is nothing less than stories about bug-eyed monsters and gender domination. A quick glance through the collected works of Urusula K. Le Guin, Octavia Butler or Margaret Atwood (the latter having escaped the "science fiction" ghettoization) shows that it's a lot more than this. And if Ms. Suburban Mom can rally against the "naughty" qualities of spec-fic, how dare she remain silent about the sexuality expressed on magazine covers, television commercials, album covers, advertisements that eroticize children, and the like. Fuck the yokels in Grandville, MI. And fuck 'em hard.

The New York Times interviews Anne Tyler by e-mail. Amazingly, she characterizes her work as "truthful." Hey, Anne, I've got your truthful right here. It's called five figures a year. Apparently, Tyler's based in Baltimore these days. If that's the case, please, Hag, beat some sense into her.

Following up on the Jacqueline Wilson news, the Guardian has the top 100 borrowed books in the UK up. It's not inspiring.

Well, fuck me, the Globe has tried to examine "fuck" without mentioning it.

But What If You Want Them to Live?

Cinemorgue: Easily one of the most disturbing sites I've ever encountered.

An Uncharted Desert Isle

Rashomon's been asking bloggers what their top 10 albums to take on a desert island are. Here's my ten (at least right now in my present quasi-bronchitis mood, and discounting classical):

1. Johnny Cash, At Folsom Prison
2. Bob Dylan, Blonde on Blonde
3. Janis Joplin, Cheap Thrills
4. Jurassic 5, Quality Control
5. The Kinks, Something Else by the Kinks
6. Miles Davis, A Kind of Blue
7. Minor Threat, Complete Discography
8. Nirvana, Bleach
9. Sly and the Family Stone, Fresh
10. The Who, Tommy
10. Hank Williams, The Complete Hank Williams

Meeting Minutes for the Sunday Major Metropolitan Newspaper Review Society, Sioux City, Iowa Branch -- 2/15/04

7:15 PM: Meeting Coordinator Alice Koon let down the gavel, deferring floor to President Horace Henrietta Woosey (hereinafter "HHW"), who slid the curtain (meager partition to be replaced with available funds from till; note to self: cost benefits analysis) and called meeting to order.

7:17 PM: Till noted to be $4.37 for month. Detailed accounting to be taken up at next meeting.

7:18 PM: Alfalfa (not real name, but sobriquet he prefers) had not arrived with organic nonfat snacks. Cell phone reception was poor, confirmed unavilable by Sprint PCS, T-Mobile and AT&T Wireless. HHW went outside, trying to call Alfalfa. Koon carried out roll.

Attendees: Horace Henrietta Woosey (not present at roll, but present @ 7:15 PM and likely to be present approx. 7:22 PM), Alice Koon, Milagro Sanchez (self/secretary), unnamed bearded gentleman who declined to reveal name (unless "I'm here for the free food" is legitimate answer; the Secretary leaves future scholars to make the distinction between declaration and Christian/surname shenanigans).

May Arrive: Alfalfa (real name not to be jotted in lodger)

7:21 PM: Estimation correct. Secretary pats back without anyone noticing. HHW returns. Alfalfa on way.

7:22 PM: Paper of Record (hereinafter referred to as "Lady of Off-Black Hue," aka "LoO-BH") presented to Society. HHW asks if all attendees had read it. 3-1. Free Food Man declined to vote. Counted as nay to add exciting plurality.

7:23 PM: Alfalfa arrives with food. Dried fruit is not organic. Koon calls for Alfalfa's temporary explusion, declined. HHW notes that all snacks are nonfat. Alfalfa would have subcommittee on his rear end if he violated dichotomous snack conditions. But he has only overlooked one. Free Food Man grabs package, sets up in back of room.

7:25 PM: Daniel Okrant's Week in Review column discussed. Has Okrant gone off deep end? Koon adds testimony to record: she received call from (212) 557- prefix last week, man initially breathing into phone with "obscene fortitude" and then claiming to be LoO-BH reporter. Koon provided necessary information, but notes that Okrant singles out ancillary prefix. HHW notes that all email has gone unanswered and that average length (according to Powerpoint data) is 23 words.

7:31 PM: Free Food Man deposits empty package into collections box, asks for more food. Koon consults Robert's Rules of Order, sees no precedent. Free Food Man persuaded to sit down after given second package of dried fruit.

7:40 PM: Additional discussion about Radosh deal, as addressed by LoO-BH's Corrections column. Is Peter Landesman legit reporter? HHW adds to record that Landesman threatened financial and professional ruin to Radosh and that current till amounts to $4.37, not enough for a retainer agreement. Koon makes note to look for "ACLU type" who will take on Society's legal defense pro bono should Landesman find out that Society is discussing his article, Landesman call Alfalfa on cell with harsh language and threats, et al.

7:42 PM: Free Food Man, stirred by Landesman discussion, offers to be Society's "bodyguard" and brawl with Landesman (or anyone else) should he hinder society business. Free Food Man (now identifiying himself as "Dennis") then places a $100 bill into till and vows to attend every meeting. Dennis's intervention offers nice segue away from dangerous Landesman topic. Dennis is inducted. HHW calls for vote on whether Society Funds should go to three month gym membership. 4-0 in favor.

7:45 PM: Meeting adjourned. Aside: Dennis has nice pecs.

Anonymous Eggers Review: You Make the Call!

Since Sarah did some digging, I became a bit curious myself. The following review has a very similar feel to McSweeney's house style. Is it from Eggers?

From "A reader from San Francisco, CA," February 6, 2004, four stars, for Vendela Vida's And Now You Can Go:

Unlike some close-minded readers, I found the premise of basing an entire novel around one incident fascinating and was hooked after the first page. However, it was El's dry wit and sharp, detailed observations that I quickly found I could laugh out loud at and even identify with. The often sarcastic and self-deprecating tone kept me chuckling, even at seemingly serious, inappropriate moments. Unexpected moments like that are what make a story truly stand out to me. This is a terrific first novel that keeps up a swift, satisfying pace, which kept me up, finishing the book late in the night.

I recommend this highly to those who are open to examining a potentially harrowing incident from a fresh, and often very witty, perspective.

[REASONS IT MIGHT BE EGGERS: The obvious reason: Vida is Eggers' wife. And given how protective he was towards Julavits, he'll be tenfold so to his main honey. The short-hand reference to "El" instead of "Ellis," implies greater attention to detail. There's the implication that other readers are "close-minded" (deliberately misspelled?). The follow-up phrasing, which is very much like Eggers: "and even identify with." The annoying McSweeney's modifiers: "often," "seemingly" and the like. The deliberately awkward phrasing: "Unexpected moments like that are what make a story truly stand out to me" instead of "These unexpected moments made the story stand out." The extraneous Eggers-like clause after "kept me up" (which already implies that the "reader" stayed up all night).]

Current Feelings Towards Unfinished Books on My Bed

The Crimson Petal and the White by Michael Faber: Oh, come on. I'm almost done with you. You've been good for about 500 pages. But isn't this getting a bit anticlimactic? I've followed you this far and I'll finish you, of course. But you can do better than this, even though I still love you. For the most part.

The Fifties by David Halberstam: Lots of info there, pal. Too bad I'm reading another longass book. And a couple of recent dense reads burned me out a bit on history. But I'll finish you up eventually. You've done your homework like a good boy. But what's up with the "us" shit?

Empire Falls by Richard Russo: Sorry, boss, you're a bit too simplistic and cartoonish for my tastes. In fact, you resemble a popular novel. But I have to finish you this week for the book club. What were you thinking naming the daughter Tick? And sure, you can move characters around on a chessboard, but I'm a bit puzzled why you won the Pulitzer. The blue-collar people here are fey facsimilies of upper-class upstate types: both in their makeups and their problems. 50 pages in and no one's hurting. Please tell me, Mr. Russo, that all of your books aren't like this, and that things will get more effed up here.

American in the Twenties by Geoffrey Perrett: I'm not quite sure why I haven't jumped into you. You're sincere, you're informative, you're a labor of love. But you're not quite my cup of tea right now. Maybe we can both blame Halberstam. Can't wait to get into you, but there's still this quasi-bronchitis thing. Go figure. Maybe we'll sleep together sometime this week.

Fuck Me, It Had to Happen on a Long Weekend

I get sick very rarely, but one thing I do know: the current loss of appetite, aching muscles, headaches, lack of concentration, and weird pain in my alveoli is not normal. Plus, I'm having difficulty putting sentences together and revising dialogue. And I'll need to rack up some energy for my obligations tonight and this weekend. What this means is probably not much here over the weekend. But for couples, happy Valentine's Day. And for singles, avoid the propaganda. You're all sexy too. But you don't need a partner/date or some Quirkyalone bullshit to affirm this.

In the meantime, check out some of the fine folks on the left, or revel in Lindsayism's IM conversation or Tom's description of "the Witch." Or keep track of the closing days of Will Leitch's Life as a Loser. (To hell with Dave Sim. Leitch only has seven columns left!)

Sad news from Lusty Lady: Sarah Jacobson has cancer. For those pipsqueaks who weren't in San Francisco during the mid-90s, Jacobson was a shining beacon in the indie filmmaking community. I saw Mary Jane is Not a Virgin Anymore back in the day, and dug it. All my best to Sarah, hoping she can beat the rap.

The Effect of Reviewing Backwards

Big news from the Times this morning: An Amazon glitch unmasked the psuedonyms of reviewers. One "David K. Eggers" (confirmed to be Eggers) called Believer editor Heidi Julavits' novel "the best book of the year." Eggers' response was put up to counter negative criticisms that he believed to stem from the Underground Literary Alliance. But it turns out that everyday people thought that the Julavits book sucked. Did Julavits author the anti-snark manifesto to prevent not so much "savage" reviews, but the singling out of her own mediocre writing? Most people in this business have thick skins and can simply ignore negative reviews. Furthermore, how ethical is it for a close associate to post a book review because of their own paranoia? The more I hear about Eggers' shenanigans, the more I am convinced that, behind the "nice guy" image, the talent, and the charity, lies an unethical and highly scrupulous enfant terrible. Then again, much of this impression is, like Eggers' ULA conspiracy theory, framed on hunches and things I've heard from bookstore clerks. The difference is that I'm willing to admit that I might be wrong.

Sins of the Father

"No man can cause more grief than the one clinging blindly to the vices of his ancestors." -- William Faulkner, Intruder in the Dust

A Special Guest Column by Dale Peck

Several weeks ago, the Village Voice told me never to write for them again. My literary outing had come, as it were, as a hatchet man. But after talking with my therapist and having lots of sex one wistful Friday evening with my main man, it suddenly occurred to me that I could continue to write articles about the articles I had already written. Furthermore, I could become something of a schizophrenic, wavering between long savage reviews and a kinder, gentler Dale Peck. A Dale Peck as adorable as a plush toy, a cuddly critic, but not too cuddly.

So it was with some relief that I accepted Edward Champion's offer to clarify a few things on his blog. What Mr. Champion realized, unlike my other enemies, is that I would never shut up about my thoughts on the novel. And so he encouraged me.

If criticism can be called a sandwich, then it is composed of tuna fish. Nearly every critic today fails to consider the mayo once they've opened the can. But I, Dale Peck, am always capable of mixing my tuna with the mayo. Sometimes with relish, sometimes without. If you get my obvious metaphor, properly preparing a tuna fish sandwich is a duty that has eluded the current generation. And while the Voice and others may not appreciate this, someone very important out there does. Namely, Dale Peck.

It's destiny, I'm sure, to take up space on the blogs that celebrate literature, sandwiched between the LiveJournal entries and the link-plus-commentary approach which counts for punditry. The reasonable argument is for the loser. And the true critic must remain chronically bitter, because the situation is well out of control.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not blaming any particular book blogger for the phenomenon. I lost my love for literature the minute they started publishing my books, but certainly I'd rather write about my enmity than work in an office. Either way involves a unique form of hatred. If I didn't express my contempt for authors, I'd probably be expressing it to a manager. I'd make any manager's life a living hell, possibly stalking them after work.

When I read any sentence I get angry with it, and I am convinced that all sentences are out to get me. Thus my hatred is directed lovingly towards anyone who composes a sentence in the English language. This is because I see myself as a kind of self-loathing human being, not so much towards others but to the sentences they crank out.

So when Roddy Doyle goes after Joyce, I say, let the man go hog wild. I support Mr. Doyle's ranting because I happen to think his nose is sexy, and I'm sure he would be a good lay. Mr. Doyle hasn't yet returned any of my calls, but as any writer knows, perseverance is what counts.

The plain truth is that I am less and less capable of intellectual engagement because I no longer have any ideas or emotions left in me, save one that you probably aren't interested in.

In Defense of Terry

Since everybody wants to see some dissing (well, maybe only Mark), and Terry's been accused of "joining the ranks of other conservative authors and commentators who have recently been expressing their disdain for 'modern art' and literature," I thought I'd weigh in.

Terry has been called "conservative" for expressing his dislike for Virginia Woolf, who he dared to call "marginally readable." But how precisely is this conservative? Is Terry conservative because he writes for Commentary and The Wall Street Journal? Is Terry conservative because he expressed disfavor towards a woman? (And if that were the case, why then did he also praise the Algonquin Round Table, led by Dorothy Parker, in the same post?) What precisely is it, in Robert Green's mind, that makes Terry the literary equivalent of a gun-toting right-to-lifer?

Point of Order: "One would think that conservatives would value an approach to literature that keeps the emphasis on its literary qualities, on its capacity to reinvigorate the aesthetic impulse, to exemplify imaginative 'human accomplishment,' to use Murray's phrase. In my mind a truly conservative approach to art would seek to preserve the Western tradition of artistic skill and innovation to which writers like Joyce, Faulkner, and Woolf decidedly belong."

Beyond the extremely conflicting manner in which Daniel "I Came Off the MFA Assembly Line" Green lays down his terms, what this basically boils down to is another literary vs. popular snobfest. I can imagine literary champions shoving such terrible misfires as Faulkner's Sanctuary and Woolf's The Voyage Out down throats like plastic polymer vitamins we have to enjoy, that we must not admonish, and that we must hole up with, a glass of claret in our hands, killing all doubts, extolling the literary qualities in the same shameful way that an unemployed steel worker stands in the dole line. The Grand Literary Author, it would seem, can do no wrong.

And how reactionary is that?

The conservative critic is the one who falls into line, who likes everything handed to him from the canon, and who regurgitates the same tired arguments. The conservative critic is the one who stands against snarky fun, setting forth the "play nice" dogma into a bullshit manifesto for a fledgling magazine. The conservative critic is sometimes like Heidi Julavits, Dale Peck, Laura Miller, and (in this case) Scott Green: replacing valid criticism and the joys of reading with a stunning need for attention.

Terry may not have elucidated his reasons for disliking Woolf, but I can give you a one sentence exemplar, res ipsa loquitur really, that might express why:

She thought of three different scenes; she thought of Mary sitting upright and saying, 'I'm in love -- I'm in love'; she thought of Rodney losing his self-consciousness among the dead leaves, and speaking with the abandonment of a child; she thought of Denham leaning upon the stone parapet and talking to the distant sky, so that she thought him mad.

That's from Night and Day. And if you think that convulted attempt to get at consciousness is even remotely readable, then I shudder at your sensibilities. Woolf may have been among the first authors to describe every nicety of existence under the sun, but that doesn't mean that she should have.

Excluding A Room of One's Own and Mrs. Dalloway (from what I've read of Woolf -- and I started, unfortunately, at the beginning), I'm in Terry's camp. But then I whole-heartedly confess that I am bored by ponderous and humorless prose.

Now That I Have Your Attention

H Bomb is one thing, but now that a Yale panel has concluded that the U.S. is too uptight about sex, I'm convinced that the next wave of unfettered sexuality's coming from universities.

Today, Kerry plans to respond to Drudge's claim. Predictions: Much ado about nothing and a Playboy spread for Alex Polier.

In South Korea, activists are miffed by an actress's muff shots. Lee Seung-yeon is selling nude and semi-nude photos of herself donned in WWII sex slave attire.

The Fort Worth Star-Telegram copy desk must be bored. How else can we explain this headline?

And a German edition of Psychology Today reports that men can remember how many women they sleep with (even if they boast about it), but seldom remember their names. Women, by contrast, have total recall.

Norman Mailer: Innovator In His Own Mind

A couple has donated $100,000 to the University of Mississippi for the only national scholarship devoted to the work and life of William Faulkner. "We hoped that we could stop Cliff's Notes from publishing summaries of Faulkner's work, but Cliff wanted more cash," said Campbell McCool. "So we thought: Why not get the kids spinning cart wheels?"

Ernest Gaines has been nominated for this year's Nobel Prize in Literature. Not a single American has won in ten years. (Toni Morrison was the last winner.) So it might be our time. Then again, both Bush and Blair are nominees too (for the Peace Prize). So who knows? The winner will be announced in mid-October.

Jacqueline Wilson is the most borrowed author in UK libraries, unseating last year's Catherine Cookson. But it could be worse. Danielle Steele was number two.

The following quote may not explain why Bernardo's obsessed with the bump and grind (namely, in his new film, The Dreamers), but it does offer compelling evidence that Bertolucci may be insane: "The passionate love I have is for the cinema. It is very strong, so that the first time I meet the director Jean-Luc Godard, I vomit on him; that was the expression of love. He understand. We have a talk in the bathroom of the Mayfair Hotel, where we are cleaning our suits."

The March Atlantic (which hasn't yet been posted online) deals with the issue, but, for the nonce, "America's oldest college newspaper" has the scoop on the SAT's new writing section According to the new standards, Shakespare, Hemingway and Stein are slipshod. Ted Kaczynski, on the other hand, scores off the charts.

Sometimes, sex doesn't sell. Thor Kunkel threw in sex, Nazis, and Nazi pornography into his novel, finished his book, and then returned home from vacation to discover that his publisher dumped the book two months before its release. One of his editors reported, "He's read too much Thomas Pynchon and has over-estimated his artistic possibilities." If only Manhattan could be as honest about certain "political satirists" on our side of the Atlatnic.

Focus on the Family's latest target? Christian porn addicts. They even have fey billboards up. (via Quiddity)

Jose Saramago gets medieval on Bush's buttocks. (via TEV)

And Norman Mailer claims he's the father of New Journalism: "Tom Wolfe claimed he was the discoverer of New Journalism ... Actually, we were both doing it quite separately. But I'm much older than he is ... by eight or 10 years. So I'm the only one of the post-World War II generation to practice it. Sorry if I shoot down your theory." What most people don't know about Mailer is that he also invented beat poetry, postmodernism, and the footnote. No word on whether he's still terrified of the word "fuck" or getting his ass kicked by Germaine Greer in a debate.

Woo Hoo!

We're in. Look for Wrestling an Alligator, written and directed by Edward Champion, at this year's San Francisco Fringe Festival, sometime in September 2004. More details later.

Nebula Award Nominees

This year's Nebula Award nominees are up, with links to most of the short stories and book excerpts. Among the nominees: Carol Emshwiller, Neil Gaiman, Harlan Ellison, Cory Doctorow, and Jeffrey Ford.

Drudge on Deck for Old Sparky

Does Matt Drudge seriously believe that an unconfirmed rumor is going to stop Kerry? Because if he does, and groundless character flaws are the best he can muster against Bush's National Guard AWOL, his failure to offer an Iraq-WMD link, and the skyrocketing deficit (to name just a handful), then his finger ain't even close to the American pulse.

Let's say the allegations are true (and, so far, the burden of proof is shaky). Does anyone really want to go back into Monicagate territory? No. Been there, done that. Trivial, really, in a post-9/11 world and a shaky economy. And there's no simply way that Bush will be able to escape deficit/lack of Iraq-WMD link questions, even if Kerry slept with an intern. The media, even with its shaky ethical plinth, wouldn't let that double standard happen. Call it the fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me syndrome.

If it turns out to be true, then this may be the piece of news that destroys Drudge's career, much as Harry Knowles' credibility was eviscerated when he "predicted" the Oscars. It's a shame. Because there are Internet columnists and bloggers out there of all stripes who actually bother to fact-check.

Elder Statesmen

Ann Taylor Cook, aka the Gerber Lady, has been using her postpartum postergirling to move copies of her first novel. Cook said that she sold 10 books in an hour when the Gerber drawing was on the table next to her. The 77-year old newcomer plans to start drooling and repeatedly banging her spoon into a bowl for future in-store appearances.

Harlan Ellison's copyright case against AOL has been revitalized by an appeal. The 69-year old curmudgeon declared that his blood pressure hadn't dropped and that he would "beat the shit out of those motherfuckers, tearing their obsidian sphincters out with my bare hands." When asked how he would unleash this violence before a judge and jury, Ellison offered no explanations, but he called the journalist asking this question "a parvenu of the first order."

A "quirkyalone party" has been planned in New York for Valentine's Day. Several dateless thirtysomethings plan to attend, crying for hours into a collective cistern, and then spending the afternoon dwelling on their misery rather than ignoring the silly holiday (like most single people). The Quirkyalone label that has now been trademarked. An I Am Quirkyalone! Hear Me Wilt! affirmation video can be found in Wal-Mart in August.

The Guardian reports that, far from being a dour bore and a real pissant, Immanuel Kant was a wild and crazy guy. According to three new biograhies, Kant was actually known as "the Robert Downey, Jr. of his day." So committed was Kant to debauchery that attentions are now being paid to a recently discovered treatise called "Critique of Crystal Meth."

New census results reveal that Americans would rather curl up with a good book than surf the Web. It was also reported that book bloggers would prefer this to, but that most of them could not refrain from posting links because "their jobs were unbelievably boring."

And happy birthday, Sarah!

The Cultural Debate of the Century. Obvs.

Pollack vs. Grambo on Lou Dobbs. If anybody Tivoed it, let me know.

Katharine the Great

Rush & Molloy reports (via Darwin Porter's upcoming bio) that Katharine slept with the following people: Claudette Colbert, Greta Garbo, Judy Holliday, Judy Garland, Laura Harding, Irene Selznick, the daughter of Louis B. Mayer, the wife of David O. Selznick, Ernest Hemingway, John Ford, George Stevens, John Barrymore, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., Robert Ryan, Robert Mitchum, Burt Lancaster, Paul Henreid, and (of course) Spencer Tracy.

Edwards Appeals to Former Clark Supporters With Hand Shadow Show

AM Quickies

Maya Angelou is profiled by the Boston Globe. Several paragraphs focus upon Angelou's effect on a crowd. There are comparisons made between Angelou and Lorraine Hansberry. In fact, the general gist is that if you haven't read Angelou, you probably should, though without explaining why and without outlining an argument. It's the kind of tepid summary that spells out what's wrong with current book coverage. Instead, of inviting entree into the I've Read At Least Three Angelou Books And I Liked 'Em club, the article admonishes why you should read it in a way that resembles an Atkins Diet manifesto, though without the immediate payoff.

The Age notes that spending ten minutes a day writing in a journal improves mental health. However, writing three hours a day and failing to publish a book after ten years will turn you into Laura Miller.

The new Paris Review is up. Michael Frayn offers some interesting advice: " Let me say for a start that I don't think it is a very good idea to write different sorts of things. If I were to give serious practical advice to a young writer about how to succeed I would say: Write the same book, or the same play, over and over again, just very slightly different, so that people get used to it. It takes some time, but if you do it often enough, finally people will get the hang of it, and get familiar with it, and they'll like it. "

Of course, Frayn notes that he hasn't done this personally. I'd like to think that this revelation is a circumlocutory way of taking out the competition. But it bears striking similarities to recent quotes by Bill Keller.

Newsday interviews Ana Menendez, a Cuban exile turned novelist. She once believed that Fidel had supernatural powers. But she changed her mind after reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, realizing that just about everybody does. Millenialists are courting Ms. Menendez as a possible spokesperson.

The NYRoB has a Helen Keller pfoile up. It quotes heavily from the correspondence between Henry James and Keller and examines their relationship.

And the Post dwells upon confession, trying to find the line when a memoir or an essay becomes Too Much Information (or TMI, to use Post vernacular). Susan Shapiro notes that her memoir Five Men Who Broke My Heart has resulted in her husband writing a response, The Bitch Beside Me. And Dale Peck has responded to this memoir by writing The Bitch Inside Me.

New Bookslut

The latest issue of Bookslut is up. There are two interviews, a thoughtful Dorothy Hughes profile by Sarah Weinman, and some disgraceful malarkey.

Roddy Doyle Damns Geisel

Ireland's best-known writer, Roddy Doyle, has shocked the world. Just before realizing that his books weren't selling as well as they used to, and looking for a desperate ploy, anything really, to get in the press, he decided that hate was in his best interest. "Green Eggs and Ham is a piece of crap," he said. "Who the hell does that Seuss bloke think he is? He's no doctor, that's for sure."

Roddy Doyle, a writer with a very ridiculous nose and the winner of some scrappy Booker thing that they also gave to Vernon God Little, announced that he would burn all of his Dr. Seuss books in a bonfire. "Who's with me? I'm finished with him," Doyle told a stunned audience in New York. "If he weren't dead, I'd beat the shit out of him. You can dig up his coffin and I'd still beat the shit out of him. His bones aren't so tough. I don't care how short his books were. It's clear to me that he needed an editor."

Shortly after this statement, Doyle pulled out a small postcard. On one side was a photograph of his ass, his trousers draped around his legs. The words "Seuss Schmoose" were printed just underneath this terrifying image. On the other was Green Eggs and Ham, condensed to a mere twenty words.

"See? Too bloody long. I did my best to abridge it. And why did he nick Irish green?"

The timing of Doyle's outburst could hardly have been worse, what with the recent release of The Cat in the Hat, the worst movie of 2003.

The Irish government -- still guilty for the way that Doyle fulminates in public -- are trying to prevent Doyle from ever addressing an audience again. Unfortunately, they allowed Doyle to slip past customs. Doyle, shortly before getting on board the airplane, offered a series of raspberries to perplexed security officers.

Actors Abandon Oscars; Winners to Be Determined by Staring Contest and Ro-Sham-Bo; Penn Reported to Introduce Shirtless Brawl Involving Photographers

I Guess So

The Guardian asks Ursula K. Le Guin a few questions. She spends much time clarifying opias and isms, and, at one point, even impersonates the French.

A Canadian realtor made the find of a lifetime when she put the late Marian Engel's house on the market. Hundreds of letters were thrown away in garbage bags, from such heavy-hitters as Robertson Davies, Alice Munro, and Margaret Atwood, many of them of a very private nature. "Dear Marian," read one. "Robertson keeps speaking in naughty epigrams. Do you know anyone who can drown Robertson in paper and get him to shut up?"

Mark Evanier has a tribute up to the recently departed Julius Schwartz. Schwartz was a tremendous figure in comic book and science fiction circles.

Locus has a recommended reading list up for 2003's books, along with a tally rundown, essays from Claude Lalumière and Cynthia Ward. One Locus editor has promised science fiction fans that this incredible coverage was intentional, and that "it will be impossible for any of you to keep up."

Time, of all places, tackles the troubling new territory of dude-lit. Although in Kyle Smith's case, perhaps monkey lit might be a better term.

Frances Partidge, the last of the Bloomsbury set and a lady who had the decency to avoid Danny Bonaduce, has passed on at 103.

Michiko compares Thoreaux's new collection to "an embarrassing letter to Penthouse magazine." But this may have something to do with the unrelated news that men wearing nothing but coats have been buying a lot of extra copies of Old School.

And Padma Lakshimi has been spotted with an engagement ring. Asked if Rushdie, still married to his third wife, plans to marry her, she replied, "I guess so." However, another journalist was asking Lakshimi about her jeans. So nobody has a definitive answer.

Assault on Carpenter's 13

It's bad enough that Hollywood Reporter has announced a remake of Assault on Precinct 13, one of the goofiest and grittiest John Carpenter films to come out of the 1970s. It's bad enough that Ethan "Whiny Caucasian is My Middle Name" Hawke is slated to star in it. But the true crime here is that Carpenter's racial dyanamic has been drastically altered for a safer, reactionary age.

One of the beautiful things about Carpenter's film is that, much like Night of the Living Dead's African-American protagonist (whose race was never addressed), Carpenter had the guts to cast Austin Stoker in the aw-shucks, do-goodin' sheriff role and the white-bread Darwin Joston in the criminal role of Napoleon Wilson (whose unlikely first name was never explained, despite Joston's repeated offers to "tell you sometime"). Beyond Assault's unapologetic shooting of a kid and its guns daringly prodding out of moving cars (in 1976, no less), the film improved upon what could have been just an entertaining low-budget ripoff of Rio Bravo by taking the sheriff-criminal buddy movie dynamic and casting against racial type. It was a nice way of acknowledging the camaraderie, while very subtly suggesting to an exploitation film audience that ultimately one's skin color didn't matter when up against a common evil. Who needed Walter Brennan for comedy relief when you had black man and white man trying to defend an abandoned outpost? (Laurie Zimmer's presence is a side issue I won't go into.)

Laurence Fishburne's a great actor, but to cast him as the criminal in the remake and Hawke (any Caucasian for that matter, but especially Hawke, an actor who, let's face it, we all needed to see bitch-slapped by Denzel in Training Day) reinforces the terrible precedent that Carpenter was working against. Did we learn nothing from the multicultural universe of The Matrix: Reloaded? Did we learn nothing from Lando Calrissian? I fear that Fishburne will come off not so much as a goofball asking for a smoke, but as a mean bastard who momentarily mends his ways, ultimately with his own interests at heart.

One other major change involves this: "As the sun sets and a long night begins, a motley crew of policemen and prisoners reluctantly captained by a cop (Hawke) must band together to fight off a rogue gang that wants to free the mobster."

Anyone who saw the original knows that the gang simply came out of nowhere and that Napoleon Wilson wasn't even one of their concerns. Napoleon was just the wrong guy in the wrong place.

But Hollywood, somehow believing that the audience needs explanation, has modified Carpenter's agile balance to appease their suburban focus groups. Once again, we'll see an African-American helping Whity, his benevolent protector, and then abdicating back to a state of serfdom.

Criminal, I say. Outright criminal.

Vote Safe, Vote Smart, Vote Crichton

For those voting in the Southern primaries tomorrow, remember that there's only one person right for the NYTBR editor slot.

True, the NYTBR race has little to do with a boring predetermined primary race. But don't let that stop you from writing an angry letter to Bill Keller, urging him to hire Sarah Crichton as the new book reviews editor and to keep it smart and literary. Send those letters to:

Bill Keller
Executive Waffler
NEW YORK TIMES
229 West 43rd Street
New York, NY 10036

Be sure to include the phrase, "If you let the Times book coverage go to hell, then how can you shower convincingly?"

Mr. Chris

His last name was unpronouncable. All that was known was that it had a glottal stop, six vowels in succession, and could only be uttered correctly by three living people (none of them friends or family).

This caused problems. Adopting a nom de plume was out of the question. Why betray identity? Why become a Smith or a Jones, when there were already too many of them to be found in the White Pages?

Setting up appointments and meetings was problematic. And he became known among his peers as "Chris," which was, believe it or not, his first name. But because the receptionists couldn't depart from surname protocol, because there were traditions and employee handbooks to live up to, thanks to the boys in corporate efficiency, he was often announced as "Mr. Chris" and, if a form field called for "Last Name" and a particular program refused to cooperate, he would often be entered as "Chris Chris."

It is safe to say that publicity and impeccable reputation did not come to him as easily as happiness. America was a nation that prided itself on easy memory. There had been two Adamses, two Roosevelts and two Bushes as Presidents. Furthermore, it looked pretty likely that a second "JFK" would be running on this year's Democratic ticket.

He delivered bouquets to anyone, male or female, who could spell his name correctly. This gestures were often mistaken for romantic overtures, when in fact he simply liked to reward attention to detail, something with which he was concerned about in the bedroom, both with himself and other parties.

Pay no attention to the loose slipknot or the wrinkled shirt. There's more to Chris than appoints the retina.

Advisory

In the event that the reader has failed to notice it, dementia can be found happily within these pages. And the author has faith in the reader to discern between honest convictions and outright prevarications. However, because the author happens to like most of his readers, and because at least three of them don't believe in evolutionary theory, the author also notes that the origin can always be found at the URLs nestled within the tomfoolery.

Tom Ridge Justifies Homeland Spending Allotment for Personal Penis Pump

Lesson #1: Don't Blow Your Wad, Cash or Otherwise

The Nanny Diaries ladies don't seem to be hacking it with Novel No. 2. Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus, despite having a $3 million publishing deal, didn't agree with Random House's changes and have sought other opinions. Including Kurt Andersen's.

Updike profiles Walter Abish.

Jessa Crispin covers graphic novels for the Post.

The Guardian dares to ask Paul Auster where he gets his ideas from.

Edwardian Noises

Crackling latches reverbate down the hall. Doors opening, closing. Footfalls against hardwood aren't the issue. Any movement you make will be upstaged by creaky hinges, the turn of a doorknob, or the slide of a lock.

In default position (doors closed), there's no harm. Things remain relatively silent. And even a casual "motherfucker" shouted lovingly to a friend will escape without notice. But when this state is unrustled by a person's need to move from one room to another, it's a veritable snap crackle pop. Minus the cushy krispies.

The snap of the bathroom door is the worst. The john's close to my room. So anytime my roommate or his girlfriend uses it, it's a bit like an exploding firecracker cross-pollinated with the motions of a Victorian automaton. Or it could be a taut broom whacked against a jamb within millimeters of a microphone, then slowed down and amplified through a deafening home theater system. Or it's one of those sounds nobody really knows about. A bag of popcorn crackling inside a microwave oven.

One thing is certain: It scares the bejesus out of me.

I tolerate this sound, even when it jars me from a book or something I'm revising. There's an extant idea that somehow I can adjust to it. Get accustomed to its timbre. That hasn't happened. I've been at this place for seven months and sometimes when I hear it, I jolt up half-awake from my futon ready to brawl bare-chested and bleary-eyed.

Certain sounds provoke me, some terrify me. And I know I'm not alone. My sister, for one, is frightened by the sound of broken glass. When I was a cruel teenager, I exploited this fear by blasting a recorded sound effect, howling and pretending that I had been injured by fallen shards, and then earning (rightfully) my sister's silence for two weeks. This prank's callousness can be further framed by the fact that, when I was nine, I collided into a sliding glass door. The idea was to jump into my grandmother's backyard swimming pool. I thought the door was open. I bled upon the carpet, great gushing red rivulets streaming from my clavicle, howling in shock and feeling the pain later as the doctors stitched up my right shoulder in much the same way my grandmother mended loose buttons. A mere six years later, perhaps influenced by Andy Kaufman, I had no problems anesthetizing myself against this memory and exploiting the pain, the sling I donned for three months, the trauma and solicitude of my extended family, and of course my sister's concerns. I paid a dear price.

And that's why I tolerate these unexpected interruptions. It's penance in a way. More than the faded scar on my shoulder. But it also keeps life around here exciting.

I Used to Love the Math Teacher, But I Had to Kill Her?

Li'l GN'R. (via Tom)

Update

Other things tie me up. Cool, quasi-important things. Said things may tie me up further, depending upon what happens this week. And, no, it doesn't involving that taffeta sun dress that I haven't told you about or becoming a born again Christian. Sadly, sex isn't involved at all. But it's all good, I assure you.

What does this mean to you the reader? Well, instead of being deluged with 4,000 words a day, you'll only be hit with 500 or so. At least for the next couple of days.

So Part 3 of The Huge Response to the Huge 2 Blowhards Post will have to wait. At least for now. Though I'll still be here to offer the usual book links and smarmy asides. Thanks, as always, for reading.

First Chapters

The NYT has the first chapters for Apprentice to the Flower Poet Z and The Confessions of Max Tivoli online.

American Sucker

As if three mentions of American Sucker weren't enough, Laura Miller devotes most of her column to it. If Anthony Lane were to write a memoir called I'm Funnier and Happily Married, would it get this kind of press?

A Post With Too Many Sausage References

Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye faces school board censorship in Ohio. School administrators fear not so much the sexual description, but the sudden spike in jokes involving "one-eyed trouser snake." Students responded by saying they were inspired more from Eric Idle's "Penis Song" than from the book title. In one student's words, "they had seen it all before." The review committee, however, fears that referring to the penis in an educational setting is "dangerous for the mind."

The Kenyon Review is sponsoring a Poetry Prize for Young Writers. Dirty limericks will not be accepted.

Germany is such a big-time lit importer that they're determined to get it to you online. Loads of wurst, thankfully, are not involved. (via At Large)

It's bad enough that Courtney Love is offering a tell-all memoir to the world. But apparently her proposal letter claims that her book "rivals David Foster Wallace at his best." Love's literary agent, David Vigilano, hoping to make this claim stick, has encouraged Ms. Love to include more footnotes and "maybe a chapter or two on game theory."

In a recent survey by Harlequin Enterprises, Australian men were found to be low-rated lovers. It didn't help that the men selected McDonald's as their number one romantic restaurant. Sarah, for one, is not surprised. I'm not either, given Max Barry's troubling photo.

Apparently, there's a doc covering the infamous Norman Mailer-Germaine Greer debate. Laura Miller weighed in on the subject in less bitter days.

The Guardian has put up excerpts from Francis Wheen's How Mumbo-Jumbo Conquered the World.

And for those interested, my hope is to conclude my "The State of Books & the NYTBR" series tomorrow. Michael, in the meantime, has posted a followup.

Charlize Theron: A Case in Industry Sexism

One thing that disturbs me about all the attention given to Charlize Theron's performance in Monster is not so much the plaudits of the performance (of which, not having seen the film, I cannot comment), but the fact that for an actress hoping to yield praise, it takes looking ugly or deglamourized.

Theron, who won the Golden Globe, is pretty much guaranteed to win this year. But who was she before this? A supermodel starlet in Woody Allen's Celebrity, Keanu Reeves' delectable wife in The Devil's Advocate, the sweet girl trying to get an abortion in The Cider House Rules, and Robert De Niro's doting wife in Men of Honor. In other words, Theron was thrown into roles that were unoriginal protrayals of women. The woman as nurterer, the woman as sex object, the woman as sweet and carefree.

And yet critics were astounded that Theron could actually act. Here are a few samplings of their assessments:

"The process that transforms the glamorous Charlize Theron into the haggard, homely Wuornos is nothing short of astounding. And, while a measure of the credit must be given to the makeup artists, the lion's share belongs to Theron - not only for her willingness to play 'ugly,' but for the uncompromising approach she employs to become the character. In addition to gaining 25 pounds and letting her well-toned body sag in some unflattering areas, she perfectly adapts the attitude and mannerisms of a white trash prostitute." (James Bernadelli) So it's not really the performance that matters, but the appearance that's uncompromising.

David Edelstein, to his credit, noted that Theron has "always been a good actress," but not until he had already devoted a chunky paragraph to Theron's appearance.

"But the miracle Theron performs is more than an Oscar-begging stunt. She gets under the skin of this woman whom the media called a monster." (Peter Travers) It may be more, but there's Travers' implication that Theron's acting is, in some small way, a ploy.

David Denby's review reads like a jilted pornographer about to jism on his keyboard: "...she was unmemorable, almost decorative. She has a long, willowy body, golden skin, and a smile like a sunburst; she seemed a commercial fantasy of beauty—say, a domestic goddess in a Life magazine ad from 1954, or a prettily drawn Breck girl." What the hell does this biographical tawdriness have to do with anything?

Stephen Holden calls it "the year's most astounding screen makeover," but likewise avoids what makes Theron's performance tick.

Of the major critics, only Roger Ebert concentrated heavily on Theron's performance, going out of his way to prioritize how Theron used her eyes and body language over Toni G.'s makeup job. And Salon's Stephanie Zacharek is perhaps the most honest about the predicament: "Part of the impact of Theron's performance may lie in the fact that, for the movie's first half hour or so, we're working hard to find Theron inside the character of Aileen."

The fascinating thing about the coverage is that not only are very few critics willing to dwell upon what makes Theron's performance work, but very few are willing to consider Theron's talent overall.

This dilemma for actresses is nothing new. When we look at the last four years' Oscar winners, we have the same racket:

2002: Nicole Kidman, The Hours: Kidman, now the last word on Hollywood glamour, wore a prosthetic nose and altered her facial features to resemble Virginia Woolf, an emulation that was much debated in film and literary communities.

2001: Halle Berry, Monster's Ball: For the portrayal of a working class mother, Berry forewent makeup and dressed herself down in a sweater and jeans.

2000: Julia Roberts, Erin Brockovich: An exception to the rule. More of a token Oscar than anything else.

1999: Hilary Swank, Boys Don't Cry: Swank lost serious body fat for a wiry physique and cut her long locks.

So what we're seeing here in 21st century cinema is a clear trend: If you're an actress hoping to garner kudos for a part, then you have to look "ugly" (what others might call normal). You have to put on weight, abandon makeup, and otherwise throw your looks to the wind. But, sweetheart, if you want to keep working in this town, you better doll yourself back up for the money men. That Oscar's just for the C.V.

Myopic Gaze

If you're a Cure fan (or even if you're not), you probably remember the terrible day back in 1992 when Wish came out. Robert Smith had suddenly become cheery. The band had lost its edge, and the tunes shamelessly mined previous territory.

Well, I'm extremely saddened to report that the Cure Syndrome has befallen The Beautiful South. Paul Heaton is no longer dangerous. Gone is the subversiveness of "Don't Marry Her," "Alone," or "Window Shopping for Blinds." Gone is the bleak solitude masked within cheery melodies ("Rotterdam" or "Song for Whoever"). Gone is the fundamental thing that made The Beautiful South work.

Now understand that I have loved almost everything Paul Heaton has created. Everything from the Housemartins on. I was even willing to forgive the Painting It Red's weaknesses. But Gaze is downright criminal in its betrayal. A fey celebration of transvestites in "101% Man?" That's so 1987. We waited three years for this?

Perhaps the most disappointing $30 an American music fan can spend this year is on the Gaze import. After listening to Gaze, I had to listen to old Beautiful South albums just to recall what the band was about. The new album is a surprise disappointment, given the baroque lyrics and experimentation Heaton was trying with his solo album, Biscuit Boy. The Beautiful South has jumped the shark. And we we are all the lesser for it.

Wesley Clark Becomes Entranced by Sweater Pattern; Remains Frozen and Unblinking for 34 Minutes

Round Robin

Today: Not so literary.

B is ordered to cease and desist by UFS. His crime against humanity? A link and a screenshot of that goofy Charlie Brown video.

Spike interviews J.G. Ballard.

Al Martinez on Stephen Glass's The Fabulist: "There are some books you can't put down and other books you can't wait to put down. Into the latter category falls 'The Fabulist.' Not only is it bad, it's embarrassing."

"Cinema Redux" by Brendan Dawes condenses all the cuts of a film in a single image. Samplings include The French Connection, The Man Who Wasn't There, Vertigo and Taxi Driver. (via Radosh)

Wilde's influence in Pynchon.

The Online Video Game Atlas (via The Map Room).

Low Culture sums up Dennis Miller's demise with a single image.

The Severity of Offensive Language on UK Television (via LinkMachineGo). [Related: John Lydon calls viewers "fucking cunts."]

Tower has filed for Chapter 11.

Vegan porn? (NSFW, via Menlo).

Judge Noonan -- the New Wapner?

MGM v. Grokster, et al. turns into The People's Court. (via Kottke)

Because A Nice Sentence is Needed Between the Longass Posts

Happy birthday, Terry!

The State of Books & the NYTBR, Part 2

In Part 1, I tried to ascertain the state of books before responding more completely to 2 Blowhards' take on the NYTBR brouhaha. I concluded (and agreed with a few previously voiced perspectives) that the book was a medium that was nowhere nearly as democratized as the movie, and that, because there were so many books out there to select from, it was almost impossible for a neophyte (or even a literate type) to keep track. The additional problem, determined partially from an empirical approach, involved an outsider trying to discern "literary" books from "popular" ones -- particularly, when the distinctions between these two subsets had often become blurred with crossover titles.

I feared that I was subconsciously channeling Marshall McLuhan in my last post. So I dug up my dogeared copy of Understanding Media. He had this to say:

Under manuscript conditions the role of being an author was a vague and uncertain one, like that of a minstrel. Hence, self-expression was of little interest. Typography, however, created a medium in which it was possible to speak out loud and bold to the world itself, just as it was possible to circumnavigate the world of books previously locked up in a pluralistic world of monastic cells. Boldness of type created boldness of expression.

Uniformity reached also into areas of speech and writing, leading to a single tone and attitude to reader and subject spread throughout an entire composition. The "man of letters" was born. Extended to the spoken word, this literate equitone enabled literate people to maintain a single "high tone" in discourse that was quite devastating, and enabled nineteenth-century prose writers to assume moral qualities that few would now dare to stimulate. Permeation of the colloquial language with literate uniform qualities has flattened out educated speech till it is a very reasonable facsimile of the uniform and continuous visual effects of typography. From this technological effect follows the further fact that the humor, slang, and dramatic vigor of American-English speech are monopolies of the semi-literate.

McLuhan's suggesting that technological development of the printing press created a distinct chasm. Since books could be printed off en masse (and for the starving grad student, the invention of the copy machine assured that any given screed could be further distributed for overpriced books), nearly everything was game for distribution. The reader, by way of throwing himself substantially into books, risks being tainted by a tome's vernacular. And, in turn, the book's influence upon a reader's conversation and everyday manner, likely to be an exchange with other readers recognizing bookspeak, creates an additional chasm between the average person who reads a mere three books a year and the literate person, who may read the same in a week.

So factoring in the Oprah Book Club, we may have a taxonomy along these lines:

Encouraging people in the popular camp to step up the ladder isn't helped by English instructors who speak in literate vernacular, which involves the facsimile McLuhan was talking about. But it would be foolish to dismiss the power of Oprah. The astonishing book sales which follow an Oprah selection indicate either a desire to read, or a hope that one can read, and thus advance further up the ladder. Likewise, the spectacular profits from the Harry Potter series indicate that reading is far from dead. Humans still need their stories. There are never enough of them.

Going back to the movies comparison, there's one major reason why I think the public is smarter than the media conglomerates give them credit for: dropoffs. When word got around that The Matrix: Reloaded stunk to high heaven, it plunged from its initial week's gross of $91.8 million to $45.6 million. This would suggest that audiences have either developed short attention spans or that they have less tolerance for the dumb lavish movie. But when we consider "the Oscar bounce", we see people flocking to movies almost immediately upon learning that a particular film's been nominated. There are perceived merits in these films, or at least conscious efforts by people to be on top of the competition. Even last year's low-key ceremony, with reduced ratings, had 37 million people watching.

Does the book world have anywhere near that kind of impact? No. At least if you're looking at it from a commercial point of view. Sure, you could catch Stephen King's NBA speech on C-SPAN. But it was hardly the sort of thing advertised in the newspapers, trumped up with overwhelming ads and news coverage. In fact, the whole NBA ceremony was shot with one camera.

But in long-term impact, books beat out their movie counterpart. Because while movies can be gobbled up almost immediately, books are not quite so immediate for the mind to digest. Bookpiles accumulate, bookshelves are loaded with titles that are never touched again. This is both good and bad: good in the sense that a 1998 award-winning book still has validity (by contrast, who today actually wants to talk about that year's Best Picture winner, Titanic?), bad in the sense that a quality book (or literary book) or author is likely to go out of print, if it does not sell or even if it does.

If there is a commonality between Oprah and the Oscars, it involves television. Both reached out to their viewers, and both elicited a response. A sales spike for an Oprah Book Club in one; the Oscar bounce for the other. In fact, I've never understood why the publishing industry doesn't use television more. One of the reasons there are so many Scientologists running around is because there were all those silly mid-1980s commercials with exploding volcanoes.

Most recently, television's power was on tap in the UK, where David Brent's quotations were more memorable than Shakespeare. More 25-to-44 year olds recalled, "Remember that age and treachery will always triumph over youth and ability" over "Brevity is the sole of wit." While this is dismaying to say the least, I don't necessarily believe that this means people are stupid. They are still capable of recalling quotes, but only (and this is the distinction) because the quotes were framed in a manner that they could understand, rather than the literary facsimile. Shakespeare has continued to endure for centuries, but only because compelling instructors could convey passion and speak to their students in a language they could understand. It's quite possible that, through the power of television, the vernacular chasm has widened, with the latitude allowed by students narrowing.

Television, on its basic level, involves a person sitting in a room watching an image, and sometimes responding to it with peers. One of the DVD's fascinating developments is a distinct rise in chatter when people go to movie theatres. The chatter goes down as the movie's happening. Now, the theatre is confused with the Dolby Digital-enhanced living room. In fact, multiplexes have become compartmentalized to the point where a theatre may very well be the size of a living room. The lack of distinction between theatre and living room has become increasingly prominent with commercials placed before a movie -- in many theatre chains, replacing the quiet pre-movie chatter.

But the television (or the movie) doesn't involve the sense of touch that a book offers, nor does it quite offer the book's lack of interruption. There are no ads in a book. Unlike television, a book can be taken anywhere: under a glen, within a bedroom, in a cafe. It involves a silent contemplative process that offers nothing in the way of auditory offense save the rustling of pages. Offensive to no one, unless an adjacent stranger is psychotic. (Which is more than you can say for a blaring television in a bar or a stereo blasted on the back of a bus.) And as a form, the book has remained an intact medium ever since its Gutenburg beginnings.

If anything has changed about books, it has been marketing. To dwell upon these many factors would produce another essay, and already I fear that I'm heading into chapbook territory. Needless to say, on a basic people-reaching level, the publishing industry's answer to television has been the book tour. The author now must head out on foot, shuffling from city to city, looking and speaking well (in addition to writing well). In other words, the author must convey a telegenic image not through the boob tube, but in person. And even then, since an author signing is free, there's no guarantee that a single book will be sold even with a full house sitting in a bookstore backroom.

So given these environmental circumstances, how does a book maintain public awareness? Where does book review coverage fit in? And will I ever get around to addressing Michael's post? Tune in for Part 3, where I'll try desperately to conclude this thing.

The State of Books & the NYTBR, Part 1

2 Blowhards has chimed in on the NYTBR imbroglio. I started drafting a comment, but I feel that the points Michael raises within his monumental post need to be responded to at length:

First off, Michael's hubris (nothing new for 2 Blowhards regulars like me) gets the better of him. Not only does he single out his "mature reaction," as if the idea of expressing passion about books is a bad thing, but he even dares to place himself in the slot. In so doing, the question of what is good for the Times becomes what one particular individual would like to do. However, he may have inadvertently pinpointed why people have reacted with such vitriol. John Keller's statement hangs on "literary fiction" and a new editor not covering this area nearly as much as Chip McGrath. Certainly, for any serious reader of "literary fiction," this apparent ignorance on Keller's part came as a shock. But what is literary fiction? Is it tracking the obscure? Is it focusing in on conscious literary efforts? Is it something that eventually makes the National Book Critics Circle Award shortlist or something written by one of Granta's 20 Young Novelists? Or is it something, like Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections or Michael Faber's The Crimson Petal and the White, which splits the difference between pop and lit?

Mark tried to answer these questions in a post not too long ago. He posed a question that would, on its face, seem obvious: Why is the serious novel no longer relevant? He ended up taking a bold idealistic position that the novel could be both serious and accessible to a wide audience. But this brings us back to last year's King-Bloom-NBA debacle: If a novel is understood by the masses, then does it willingly capitulate its literary roots? Can any reasonably literate person justify John Grisham or Tom Clancy as legitimate writers? It's all well and good to applaud reading on any level, but it's a no-win scenario. Promoting popular books downsizes the importance of the literary books. And finding the halfway point draws sneers from the literati. (Consider Pulitzer winner John P. Marquand, who went to his grave overlooked for his literary, though popular satires. Today, he is largely out of print.)

Dwelling upon genre ghettoization is a whole different ball of wax. Mysteries, comic books, and "sci-fi" continue to remain separate entities in and of themselves. And it's something of a faux pas to refer to these authors among literary types, even when they write as clean as Donald Westlake/Richard Stark or as intricate and spellbinding as Gene Wolfe.

To offer some personal perspective on this, last year, I started a book club. The idea behind the book club was to unite the literary-minded with those who were simply wanting to read.

Now in this club, I've attempted to select books that fall somewhere within the literary but "readable for a person within a month" category. We've read and discussed Jose Saramago's Blindness, Jeffrey Eugenides' Middlesex, Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin, Paul Auster's The New York Trilogy and Richard Russo's Empire Falls -- all of which probably wouldn't have garnered a slot back in the Oprah days, because they were just one rung up the ladder from "pure readability," or the state that Oprah recognized in East of Eden, when she said, "the pages won't fly fast enough."

I received all sorts of responses. Some from people who were just coming back into reading after a long absence, some who were aspiring novelists, some who were simply looking for leads on books. Above all, there was an urge to read. Hopefully something fun and important. Even those who have yet to attend a single meeting have written in thanking me for the choices, which they have taken up on their own time. As one lady wrote me, she was overwhelmed by the number of choices she saw on the bookstores -- a fact of bookstore life that we bibliophiles know so well, but that's probably overwhelming for someone just getting started or reacquainted. She didn't entirely trust what was selected on the tables. And she felt there was no real way to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Unlike movies, which can be experienced in a mere two hours, and then reflected upon almost immediately, books take a larger investment of time. Talk movies with anyone and, if you've seen enough of them, you can easily suggest a few titles (based upon their choice) and in a week or so, the person may come running back for more. Beyond its art house/Hollywood, cult/mainstream dichotomies (which, as Peter Biskind suggests in his new book, Down and Dirty Pictures, may not be as Manichean as we all believe), there are film snobs, sure. But there's also a spirit of swapping behind the medium, much like tape-trading was for music for anyone who grew up in the pre-digital age. Above all, there is a more democratic passion which extends from the insomniac video store clerk to the highfalutin Manhattan type looking for deeper meaning within a pop film like Terminator 3.

But the book is a harder sell. Not only are a great number of them published, but the book world is, if anything, snottier about their tastes. So we're also dealing with a medium in which the book neophyte may be up against the wall from the get-go, due to choice, time investment to finish book, and insular pretentiousness. The literary book, regardless of how "accessible" it is, will mean something different to different people. At the same time, defering to a mentality that champions only Grisham and Clancy prevents people like the book club lady from finding that proper point on the pop/lit spectrum.

(And, oddly enough, this very topic also involved posts from 2 Blowhards and Mark. The problem, again, with attempting to find an all-encompassing answer is that it too boils down to individual sensibilities and generalizations, never something that any two people can agree upon. One book lover's passion for Franzen may be DOA banter at a cocktail party.)

So the question now is what the NYTBR should become: Should it be a place that abdicates to the popular mass market paperbacks? Or should it recapture the magic of John Leonard's reign?

I hope to address these points in Part 2, where I'll finally get back to Michael's post.

So Long As Gerald Ford Stays Away From the Computer, We're Okay

Jimmy Carter has a blog.

Nothing to See Here

The Register (oddly enough) reports that Congress is trying to pass legislation that will force all U.S. residents to go to jail for seven years and pay a $150,000 fine if, when you register your domain name, you don't tell the world your email, home address, and telephone number. H.R. 3754 (PDF) was introduced this morning on the House floor by Lamar Smith (R-TEX). Stalker lobbyists are reported to be stuffing Mr. Smith's garter strap with twenties.

[UPDATE: I misreported the implications of this bill. The seven years is tacked onto a felony charge. As the bill itself states, "The maximum imprisonment otherwise provided by law for a felony offense shall be increased by 7 years if, in furtherance of that offense, the defendant knowingly provided material and misleading false contact information to a domain name registrar...." That's what I get for falling prey to the Register's paranoid copy.]

Pot, Kettle, Black.

Lizzie (and her auxillary first person self) is not amused by the Believer's dismissal of any writer deigning to scribe Sweet Valley High novels. She notes that these writers have trivial concerns: such as, oh say, eating at least one meal a day. Isn't this kind of snark contradictory to the Julavits manifesto? I guess it's all right to play nice and snotty when you're talking about someone as overrated as Salman Rushdie. But when it comes to the hard realities of being a working writer, for the Believer crew, they can be rolled off as easily as a LifeStyles from a parvenu's knob.

A New Woody Allen Film: Every Cineaste's Miserable Yearly Duty

Terry can't stand Woody Allen's films. Can't say I blame him. For my own part, Allen's been the one auteur whose films I go to see, even though there's about a 60% chance I'm going to be disappointed (a percentage that has risen considerably in the last decade). His unfortunate disaster-to-gold ratio has left me reluctant to revisit his ouevre. I haven't loved a single films of his since Everyone Says I Love You. But I still love Bananas, The Purple Rose of Cairo, Hannah and Her Sisters, Crimes and Misdemeanors, and Manhattan (and, hell, even Deconstructing Harry, which I hoped would usher in a more down-and-dirty Woody, but didn't). The titles in this bunch more than make up for such nauseating misfires as The Curse of the Jade Scorpion, Don't Drink the Water (1994), Celebrity, and Stardust Memories,, the insufferable Bergman clones (Interiors and Shadows and Fog), and the so-so attempts to find an "earlier, funnier" Woody that no longer exists (Manhattan Murder Mystery and Small Time Crooks).

They Write for Smut Apparently

Matt Shinn speculates speculates on the connection between Dickens' later readings and his subsequent death: "Dickens's friend and doctor, Francis Carr Beard, finally called time on the public performances. His medical notes, featured in the exhibition, show that Dickens's heart rate was raised dramatically each time he read, particularly when his text was Sikes and Nancy. His final readings, like the others, were a huge success, but he ended them like Prospero: 'From these garish lights I vanish now for evermore.' Within three months he was dead."

Michiko covers Doris Lessing's new book. Not only does she reference Ashton Kuchner and Demi Moore, but she uses the word "icky." She calls The Grandmothers "oddly uneven," but she seems more perturbed by the idea of elderly women lusting after their grandsons, rather than its execution. Yes, incest is unsettling, but, by that token, she'd have to say no to The Color Purple, Bastard Out of Carolina, and King Arthur. More proof that John Keller's influence isn't just tainting coverage of literary fiction, but literary fiction dealing with unsettling issues? Michiko, say it ain't so!

Some details on Wong Kar-Wai's next film: 2046 has taken him four years to shoot. The film is a continuation of In the Mood for Love, with Tony Leung playing a novelist instead of a newspaper editor. 2046 is not just the date that Hong Kong autonomy ends, but also the hotel room number where Leung has a tryst with a prostitute.

Chip Scanlan examines the adverb, but Scanlan's argument is obliterated by the fact that he uses the dreaded first person plural.

This year's Francis Mac Manus Short Story Competition shortlist has been announced. Many of these will be broadcast over RTE Radio.

James Ellroy has been tapped to write a script for William Friedkin. The Man Who Kept Secrets deals with Hollywood lawyer Sidney Korshak and will be adapted from a Nick Tosches Vanity Fair profile.

Jose Luis Castillo-Puche, friend and biographer of Hemingway, has passed on.

Richard Kopley claims that Hawthorne nicked portions of "The Salem Belle: A Tale of 1692" and several other stories for The Scarlet Letter.

And "the Oprah effect" has hit the UK. Sales for Joseph O'Connor's Star of the Sea shot up 350% after it was mentioned on a popular British program.

On Grudges

The effects and consequences of people misinterpreting other people fascinate me. Effects that go well beyond a simple mishearing or a slipshod conversational rejoinder that results in: (1) brisk stumble, (2) bemusement from all parties, and (3) laughter, fantastic segue, or sympathetic or gibing attempts to understand said fuck-up. What I’m talking about is all-out war, an obdurate fixation handed down from one person’s inner demigod. The combative cant, the bitter visages, the determination to despise over something that really isn’t worth the trouble. The grudge gone awry.

Under normal circumstances, a misunderstanding can be cleared up with a fleeting tete-a-tete, or a phone call, or an e-mail (though the latter is the most impersonal and, as such, capable of allowing the intentions to be further misinterpreted). Or it can be settled with a thick skin or a sense of humor extant within one or both parties involved. In fact, there are any number of clarification methods which can be carried out within 30 seconds. But sometimes the default response involves damning the other party, or one party going completely crazy over a comparatively trivial remark (priced at a hawker’s con against, say, the disparity between the rich and the poor, or the tearing down of yet another nifty art deco building to build some Southern California Cinder Block Revival monstrosity). Behavioral patterns, when adopting this limitless enmity, again over something very silly and pedantic, beget this form of grudge. The grudge calls out, “Hey! Adopt me! You’re going nowhere in life by your own assessment! And there’s never room for mellow!” And so another mark is scratched onto the Sam Browne belt. Another person to hate, another soul to rebuke.

Perhaps this upsurge, which seems in greater stock these days, has something to do with the shortened days. Or a lingering side effect from the scared shitless sloppy seconds hovering around post-911 American life. There is no jobless recovery this time around. And there certainly aren’t the jobs we enjoyed in the 1990s. Perhaps what it amounts to is etiolated folk jonesing for their precious Daylight Savings Time. Once the daylight returns, it is my firm belief that more folks will chill. But whatever the cause, the response generally involves the nastiest and ugliest of remarks. Words devoid of frivolity or obvious subtext. We’re talking serious castigations. And the only difference between the deliberate grudge and the sentiments of a schizophrenic vagrant is that the vagrant is mentally troubled, tragically ignored by most people, and decidedly less coherent.

86 sheets or blacklisting (and sometimes perceived exclusion) can be effected at the grudge’s worst level. Opportunities passed over to someone who fits the head honcho’s bill. Other results include "flames" (in the online world), or threats of professional and/or financial ruin (if you're a hotheaded journalist du jour who simply can't let the work speak for itself).

One often sees the grudge develop when the human animal is placed in conditions of extreme boredom, or has something to prove, or possesses a partially self-loathing nature, or simply perceives something he disagrees with. The grudge holder wants to fulfill his antipodal realization (which is nowhere nearly as Manichean as the grudge holder believes). And the disgrace which caused the grudge, no matter how insignificant, is tantamount to the offender pissing on some statesman’s grave, or sleeping with his s.o.

In its most innocuous form, the words "Fuck you" (and sometimes "Fuck you, motherfucker") are the telling indicator. At first listen, these words are, of course, harmless and, beyond the colorful connotations and the association with filth, omnipresent and benign -- probably an effort by the declarant (whose remark may make him a potential grudge holder or target) to let off some steam. It could be an admonishment directed towards some negative quality in another individual, something the declarant can't voice gently or politely, or (in most cases) something completely different. But quality may very well be something the grudge target may not be aware of. Since society frowns upon addressing these qualities, and since mistakes often result in “probe teams” being formed by television networks who feign astonishment over halftime hijinks, the environment is more tailored to fierce negativity.

Before dwelling upon the grudge’s ramifications, it’s worth noting that there are a sizable number of things that people will not refer to in everyday discourse: an adjacent individual's body odor or banal cell phone patter, the bad combover, and an African-American granted license to call his associates "niggas" (while the Caucasian is declared racist for expressing this same loving tone). Beyond this, there’s rudeness and unpleasant behavior which is ultimately subjective, understood by parties possessing similar interests -- name your annoyance of choice to a peer. Often accord on these latter points is reached through events known as "bitchfests," often healthy avenues that help parties to avoid forming grudges. The great irony is that it is perfectly acceptable for Person A to mention Person B's negative qualities to Person C, provided that Person B is not around or unlikely to hear Person A's assessment. The relationship between Person A and Person B still holds, though often with Person B unaware of his own deficiencies.

These extant factors practically ensure that a remark will be misinterpreted, misperceived, dwelt upon too much, or otherwise identified as cavil. The grudge maker will often take the declarant’s words too much to heart, resulting in the offense either being expressed to the declarant (with some chance of resolution) or, most likely, held in check. And when this voicing is avoided, the chances of another remark stinging and turning into a full-grown grudge increase.

Now all of us carry a certain amount of rage and get fired up over particular issues. Within the context of a legitimate argument or an honest framing, there is nothing wrong with this. It is an all too human response to feel, and even the most rational mind can be brought to tears by something bizarre or inoffensive to an altogether different person. But when this feeling gets out of hand, when complete castigation is brought upon by flimsy pretext, when said target has not, shall us say, murdered another individual, one wonders why the fuss exists or the grudge is allowed to manifest.

The grudge is a curious byproduct of Western life. Here we all are, including those who toil in the shit service sector, making a hell of a lot more than someone in an export processing zone. Whereas the EPZ worker is drudging for pennies an hour, often for products that Westerners use and consume, and has such pressing concerns on his mind like whether his family will eat this week on the penurious salary, the Western grudge maker musters ado over comparatively nothing. The bitch who cut me off on the highway, the party guest who dared to make an off-color joke.

One clue to this focus is that, out of all the scenes in Dirty Harry, most people remember Clint Eastwood's famous "Do you feel lucky?" speech. It’s a monologue detailing the precise method of revenge. In Eastwood’s speech, there is no question as to whether the revenge is earned. The vicious hoodlum has it coming. To hell with rehabilitation.

There have been backlashes to being realistic about human emotions, namely through Heidi Julavits' anti-snark manifesto and similar sorts of touchy-feely ersatz influences (cf., Quirkyalone, New Age, Who Moved My Cheese?, Dr. Phil, et al.) – all of which show no sign of dying. And even if they do perish, there will be another. Self-help is the elxiir. If there is a common theme to these movements, it involves being nice and sanguine, with the acolytes consciously aware of how pleasant they are. One considers why Howard Dean’s infamous Iowa yell was declared to be in bad form or “unpresidential.” When in fact it was, unfortunately for him, all too human.

Where does this leave the grudge? When considered against a limited existential template, the grudge is just itching to come out. It is unreasonable to be emotional (i.e., “negative”), and yet it is all too pragmatic for the grudge maker to go out of his way to hate or exclude without wit or frivolity.

Or to put it another way: How many lawsuits were filed last year?

For the Record

Much as I'm honored to be one among a sharp cookie's favorites, let me be clear on this: My name is Edward Champion and I'm the guy behind this blog. A simple enough confession, given that the name is bandied about here every now and then, along with my voice, and that I've posted on and off to this domain (and its previous incarnations) since 1998 or so. The true fanatics can find a better picture than the one below if they really want to. (And, yes, Teachout and I have been trying to keep our thing under the table.) I'm not anonymous, but I play an anonymous blogger on TV. I was, however, stalked at one point for my writings posted here (and elsewhere) sometime around 2000. And that is no joke. So I reveal biographical tidbits here and there, but nowhere nearly as candidly as I did before. But I try to keep it real. Dig?

Too Many Finds Spoil the Mystique (But People Have Been Quibbling Over the Broth for Decades)

MM Kaye, author of The Far Pavilions, has passed away. She also used her experience in Africa and India to write detective stories.

What most people don't realize about Orwell's 1932 treasure is that it's actually a bundled collection of his bills. Orwell buried them so that he could tell his creditors that he never received them. Of course, there were more solipsistic concens than mere finances. Orwell's relationship with his Gordon Setter was on the skids. So he needed to demonstrate to his pet, an aspect of Orwell's life often overlooked by his biographers, that he was legit.

Andrew Sean Greer notes that Updike was right about his influences. "I don't know how he did it," said Greer, "but I was reading The Runaway Jury over and over while writing this book. I'm not really a big Grisham fan. But I was trying to read anything that would give me an edge. I needed to land a deal."

About 50 of Eudora Welty's photographs are on display at the Mississippi Musem of Art. Photography and writing were just two of Welty's pursuits. She also played the ukelele and cooked a mean roundhouse, if, of course, she decided that her visitors were "nice enough."

The Rocky Balboa statue is now up for auction. "Nobody really cares about Stallone anymore," said a spokesman for sculptor A. Thomas Schomberg, "and, frankly, Thomas is embarassed. He was caught up in the 1970s frenzy and now it's damage control time. This is the first step." Adding insult to injury, the statute has been put onto eBay.

Running Low on Bandwidth This Month

Hey Chica!

He Grins That Way All the Time...Really.

This photo accompanied this Post item which began, "DEREK Jeter's going out of his way to avoid his ex-girlfriend."

Most Anticlimactic Pair of Sentences Seen This Week

Craig's List: "Do you enjoy writing, sex, and writing about sex? FuckFish.com is currently looking for its News Editor."

Never Mind the Bullocks

Lord Bullock, author of the first definitive history on Hitler, has died. Bullock was also responsible for St. Catherine's, an all-male society that raised substantial cash and that operated under the illusion that women were incapable of math and science proficiency. Bullock, who was the inspiration for the British term for the naughty bits and the later Sex Pistols song, is mourned by Bulwer-Lytton fans, Brie-sniffing octogenarians, and anyone who laments that John Major is no longer Prime Minister.

And Elsewhere

Rory writes about the Germaine Greer controversy, and then has the courtesy to relay the internal politics in personal terms for us non-Australians (and non-expats).

Michael Moore, Average Joe? I don't think so. Not when you're sitting on royalty receipts and grosses receipts from a bestseller and an Oscar-winning, commercially successful documentary. (via Sarah)

Hypergraphia -- this condition reminds me of that Sandman story. (via Maud)

Would You Like Syrup With Your Waffling, Mr. Keller?

Bill Keller now states that the NYTBR "is not written for the publishing industry." However, the bigger revelation is that Ben Schwarz is on record saying that literary fiction "doesn't play the same role in the lives of intelligent, informed Americans as it did 50 years ago."

Since Mr. Schwarz did not follow this statement up with any particular enthusiasm for literary fiction and since he underestimates the power of book freaks (and, also, since he hopes echoing Mr. Keller's words will get him the job), we here at Return of the Reluctant withdraw our endorsement for Benjamin Schwarz and move to Sarah Crichton's camp.

We urge all readers to vote hope for Ms. Crichton to take over the Book Review, which is in really silly shape at the moment.

If Only I Could Go Chopping

The Arthur C. Clarke 2004 shortlist has been announced, as have the British Science Fiction Association Award nominees. On both lists: William Gibson's Pattern Recognition and Tricia Sullivan's Maul; the former just out in paperback, the latter only available in the UK. Maul deals with quasi-feminist themes and profiles a world after "Y-plagues."

Cinetrix has tracked down the infamous Teachout/OGIC interview.

Joyce's "House of the Dead" has been resurrected.

And the Guardian has put up a cohrent greatest hits version of the Haddon interview.

AudBlog #5 -- Bookblog Primer

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The Rove and the Spender: The 21st Century's Legacy to the Underclass

Presidential candidates are now in the business of revealing their favorite books.

Wesley Clark: "'I like Hemingway and I like a lot Jewish writers (such as) Saul Bellow,' he said. The former general also expressed a preference for the novels of John Updike and Pat Conroy."

Howard Dean: "Dean's favorite books: All the King's Men, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Ken Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion; also Barbara Ehrenreich's Nickel and Dimed and David McCullough's Truman ('It is one of the books that has had the most impact on me in the last ten years')."

John Edwards: The Trial of Socrates by I.F. Stone.

Bush: The Raven: A Biography of Sam Houston, by Marquis James; The Good Life and Its Discontents: The American Dream in the Age of Entitlement, by Robert J. Samuelson; The Dream and the Nightmare: The Sixties' Legacy to the Underclass, by Myron Magnet.

Quickies

The Globe and Mail excerpts Atwood's 2004 Kenserton Lecture. She speaks on how Orwell has influenced her and her own personal dystopia taxonomy, seen in Handmaid's Tale and Oryx and Crake.

Updates on literary film adaptations: Colin Farrell starring in A Home at the End of the World, Kirsten Dunst as Sugar in The Crimson Petal and the White (with Curtis Hanson directing), Julianne Moore as Burroughs' mom in Running with Scissors, and, perhaps the most apt matchup for safe-and-sane mediocrity, Ron Howard and Akiva Goldman behind The Da Vinci Code.

The Oreganian covers a local reading contest. Apparently, Sue Gatton read 482 books and 157,672 pages in one year. Unfortunately, Gatton's too busy reading that she doesn't have the time to summarize her thoughts on the books.

And Kurt Vonnegut's promoting Linux!

Bush Decides Upon "Handmaid's Tale Look" for Women in Photo Op

Truncated Proboscis

Posting will be light over the next 1.2 days, with scattered showers, assorted links, and minimal involvement. I'll be spending the next day and a half sorting out pantalettes (you know who you are). And a few other things. Feel free to visit some of the fine folks on the left. Or, if you're really bored, organize a bunch of people and head over to a football stadium. At the stroke of twelve, remove your shirts and reveal the painted words ,"I AM TMFTML," preferably with Justin Timberlake in attendance.

When I Think Brouhaha, I Think Bacardi

The Chronicle follows up with the Book Babes, coralling a few responses but giving us pretty much what we know already, with several "publishing insiders" refusing to speak on the matter or not returning calls. Ferlinghetti, however, weighs in against it.

Super Bowl Sunday

Apparently, people are getting worked up over something called the Super Bowl. I have no idea what it's all about. From what I've been able to tell, it involves large men, donned in heavily padded clothing, who like to run into each other and slap their fellow teammates on the ass, when they're not busy dislocating their shoulders or otherwise ensuring that their considerable physical prowess will be worthless before the age of 35. There are also lots of exciting commercials, which involve companies giving lots of cash to advertising agencies and flashy directors, and the advertising agencies, in turn, giving lots of cash to television executives.

Cash transfers and lavish time-wasting aren't limited to the boys in the Ivory Tower. Men (and women) are using this "event" as an excuse to drink lots of beer, roar like wild cougars at the television screen, and gorge upon hideous snacks, many of which are loaded with polysaturated fat, with a sizable chunk of these eaten directly from noisy plastic packaging.

Furthermore, former football stars (referred to as "commentators," a kind term that implies expertise, but is really about giving the more telegenic ex-quarterbacks a job) will be on hand to offer "analysis." Said analysis, which does not involve Kant or Kirkegaard, will have these men dressed in gaudy suits that are silly and unflattering, meting out comparisons with previous Super Bowls, remarking upon how some quarterback "looks good this year," or how "nobody saw that coming," or how a team, a coach or a player "is in trouble," and doing all this without poetics or a remotely interesting argument. There will also be something called a "halftime show," whereby men will urinate en masse, and the reluctant people yawning on the divans with their football-loving significant others will try to justify the three or so tedious hours. They will note how nice this underwhelming display of sensationalism is. When, in fact, they hope the interminable thing will be over and pray to all known gods that the game doesn't go into overtime. These reluctant types will also try to find artistic merit in the commercials, casually forgetting that the commercials are created, first and foremost, to move products. Ultimately, their feelings will be unvoiced. They will tolerate this Super Bowl thing the same way they do every year. The luckier ones will be get out of the house, or spend the three hours having sex with "an unmanly man," or go shopping, or have a girls' afternoon out.

The men (and women) watching the Super Bowl will offer something for these people to talk about around the Monday morning water cooler, though most of the arguments will be mined from the sports pages and the shaky "analysis" of the "commentators."

Ultimately, lots of time and money will be spent for no apparent purpose. But then what else is new in America?

Pop Lit: It's Everywhere!

Anne Rice has decided to move to the suburbs in order to "simplify her life." She also plans to shop more at The Gap, eat more at Denny's, and spend her afternoons writing at Starbuck's. Her novels, Rice promised, will retain their mediocrity. The move will also allow Rice to be more in touch with her suburban reading audience.

Okay, something sillier than Ann Beattie's attempts to intellectualize Leonard or Dwight Garner's simile-laden minefield. In this Rising Up and Rising Down review, with the exception of the first paragraph, every paragraph begins with "Vollman [verb]." What does The Globe and Mail think book coverage is all about? Five paragraph essays? And Dear Gray Lady, what the hell's going on this week?

Lord Armstrong, the man who tried to stop Spycatcher from being published, has become president of the Literary Society. The British literary elite is furious. Beyond expressing concerns that the society now has a would-be censor at the head, members are concerned that Armstrong simply isn't snotty enough, and wouldn't know Brie from Jarlsburg.

The Times has, predictably enough, a tremendous amount of info and documentation on The Well of Loneliness.

Elmore Leonard talks with the AP about his new novel, Mr. Paradise.

1974 was the year of Gravity's Rainbow, the first of Robert Caro's mammoth biographies, the founding of the National Book Critics Circle, and All the President's Men. So what better way for Auntie Beeb to look back than with an expose on a trashy blockbuster novel?