The transition to mean bastard did not go as planned. It is the unfortunate duty of the author to inform his reading public that while he remains partly a nice guy, a good deal of his concentration has been sapped. Reading comprehension was among the first of his few abililties to depart, along with the limited social skills he still had. His intelligence, striated with the rigors of too many side projects, is for the moment dubious.

The author is now in the habit of saying stupid things and frightening people. And while this may have been an ideal mental condition for Spalding Gray on a stage, for the author, it is diminishing his credibility and his ability to work.

As a result, corners will have to be cut or considerably curbed as the author picks himself off the floor and, with an almost Randian determination, prepares early for later days this year when he will no doubt resemble Keith Richards.

The author suspects that all this might have something to do with not taking a vacation for several years. (And in fact he counts his recent sick days as a form of vacation.) But he knows that once the dirty work is done, he will feel much better and articulate with greater cogency.

Ms. Weinman in the Post!

To hell with Martin Amis. For my money, Richard Ford’s outdone all of Amis’s antics. And we’re talking just this week alone. He spat on Colson Whitehead, apparently in retribution for Whitehead’s review of A Multitude of Sins. Who knew that the man behind the passive-aggressive Frank Bascombe was so belligerent? Ford is at work on a third Bascombe novel right now, and, at this rate, I’m wondering if Bascombe is going to transform into a Bronsonesque, gun-toting vigilante. (via MacIntyre)

Within mere blocks of 826 Valencia lies an open underworld of drugs, prostitutes, and assorted refuse. Cadaverous figures huddle within the shadows, shooting up what they’ve managed to collect, greed and addiction flickering within their eyes. What will they get today or tomorrow?

Endless trash covers the streets. Fast food wrappers, leaflets that have drifted from the northwest, bottles rolling under the tires of cars. Skeletal women dressed in nearly nothing, with dark red streaks covering their faces, their arms covered with the tell-tale blotches of a bad heroin habit. These ladies wander to the ends of alleys, looking to spread their legs for a quick score. Cars pass by. Horny bargain hunters who have no problem getting off into victims open their doors. For twenty dollars and a reduction of standards, they jism into an overused orifice.

It is almost impossible to walk down some sections of Shotwell or Capp Streets and not encounter cracked vials or used syringes. It is almost impossible not to be propositioned or hectored by those who would suck cock for a pittance to maintain their addiction.

And then there’s the fascinating Hispanic/Caucasian culture war that’s been going down since the mid-1990s. Walk along the edges of 16th Street at night and you will find brightly lit neon restaurants and bars that are clearly trying to compete with the urban identity that came before. The telltale signs are through the windows. Smug, pomaded white boys with their pearly whites sitting in their inner sanctums, ordering for their girls from an overpriced menu and ready to hightail it to Marin so they can get the hell out of this godforsaken strange land. Upscale sushi joints adjacent to biker bars, tattoo parlors next to ridiculous oxygen bars. Steel grilles over windows next to walls plastered with flyers for some musical act from Berkeley next to a pizza-by-the-slice joint that welcomes all. But mainly we’re talking the doctrine of separate but equal. More delineated than ever before.

But when these white boys saunter down the streets, you can see the fear in their eyes. And it’s not just the fact that many of them can’t speak a word of Spanish (although they try). You can see them curl their gym-toned arms around the shoulders of their honeys. You see them sidestep around blacks or Latinos raising a ruckus. These white boys are intimidated by volume. They can’t seem to distinguish timbre, between folks having a good time and folks trying to intimidate. While it’s true that addicts can be found looming in certain quarters, in the eyes of the privileged (for they blow a few Franklins on a Friday night without a second thought) nearly everyone of color is an addict. Addicted perhaps to having a good time, in most cases.

I mention all this because, as I said, this world is within a few blocks of 826 Valencia. It’s a fascinating world. And I love it. You can learn a lot about human beings just by standing on the corner of 16th and Valencia for a few hours.

But for all of Dave Eggers’ purported streetcred by way of the locale, not once have I seen him dwell upon this cultural microcosm. In fact, in the latest McSweeney’s, he boasts about editing the issue at some Northern California B&B. And there is also mention of Daly City, a suburb south of San Francisco that is really no different from any other minimall magnet.

Which makes me wonder what the hell he’s doing in San Francisco. I’m pretty hard-pressed to demonize a guy who managed to get William Vollmann’s longass treatise fact-checked and published. But if he’s so ignorant of the culture that surrounds him, if he cannot recognize the fascinating struggles and conflicts and characters that populate this majestic sector of the City, then frankly he has no business being here.

“Book Babe”: A book critic who makes crude generalizations and cowers in the face of literature.

“Coetzee”: To snarl during an interview. (Ex. The subject prefered to Coetzee rather than answer the stupid question.)

“drowning in Mitchell”: Whereby the avid reader obtains the oeuvre of a “difficult” writer, with an overconfident swagger and the vain hope of being ahead of the curve, only to find themselves thoroughly confused by previous books (such as Ghostwritten) in anticipation of the next labryinthine title (e.g., The Cloud Atlas). (Ex. I thought I had the time for the Baroque Cycle and Cryptonomicon, but it looks like Neal has me drowning in Mitchell.)

“Gabo”: In its original use, “Gabo” was a nickname for Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Now it is used as shorthand for any author’s name that a reader is fearful of uttering in full. Particularly used with names that Caucasians have difficulty pronouncing, such as “Jose Saramago.” (Or: Oprah Winfrey.)

“Jayser”: An act involving inserting leaflets into multiple copies of a hardback after several shots of hard liquor.

“plowing the dark”: Refusing to leave a library or a book collection and failing to experience life. The term was inspired by the obsessive readers drawn to Richard Powers’ intricate yet spellbinding books. Often, readers who plow the dark must have a book forcefully extracted from their fingers. The process of plowing the dark is, in most circumstances, altruistic. But somehow a forceful argument must be propounded by the friend hoping to recalibrate a heavy reader’s sanity.

“tanner house”: To face unreasonable expectations before taking on an important task.

“to Tivoli”: The original verb transitive involved an older human behaving like a child. The usage has now broadened to include older readers who read books that that are clearly beneath their regular comprehension. An example would involve a septuagenarian guffawing over Mad Magazine or E. Nesbitt. It is also worth noting that the initial pejorative use has lightened somewhat since its entry into the vernacular in February, and is now used in an affectionate context. (Or. Sarah Weinman)

World Book Day: Any well-intentioned event that falls upon deaf ears.

The Age: “When the US State Department designated a Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist as a ‘cultural ambassador’, it probably did not plan for him to go around the world calling his president a ‘moron’ who governs an ‘evil empire’. Nor did it expect him to boycott Israel because of US foreign policy, nor to warn Australia that its culture would be ‘gobbled up’ by a free trade agreement.” (via Literary Saloon)

The transition from nice guy to insufferable bastard has been proceeding quite well. But I would be remiss if I didn’t stop in and mention Safe for Work Porn, a collection of photos that is pure genius. Particular standouts are the water sports and the man standing behind the couch with the receding hairline. Okay, back to the cocoon, sans Don Ameche. (via Weirdsmobile)

A few people have been pointing out to me during the past two weeks that I’ve been too nice. A sweetheart, in fact. Just the other day, a friend of mine threatened to disown me when I dared to buy her lunch. “What the hell are you doing, Ed?” she said. “Only kind and extraordinary people do that sort of thing.”

Not only have I had email volleys that have been pleasant, thoughtful and without incident, but the tone and demeanor of these communiques have been too kind and considerate. The cheery level of conversation and socializing has kept me swapping book recommendations and shooting the breeze over literature with equally kind and keen people.

I was getting a little worried about all this. So, tonight, I went to an attitude specialist. Even he had to confess that I was being just too damn friendly to people. The cause of this sudden joy and commiseration, and the reason why I was spending all this time thinking about other people, apparently had something to do with breathing in too much oxygen. A combination of preternaturally beautiful California weather and extra lung capacity garnered from a post-bronchitis state.

Well, frankly, I was astonished by this news. I didn’t realize that there was a limit to being nice. And I certainly didn’t realize that it had anything to do with oxygen. But the attitude specialist, a gaunt thirtysomething man with bushy hair fond of Hawaiian print shirts, showed me his “Attitude Specialist Certificate.” When I saw that the certificate had been notarized by the proprietor of the corner delicatessen (with the notary associated with “the state of Freedonia”), well I was immediately convinced of his qualifications.

So to anyone I’ve cheered up, to anyone I’ve given inspiration to, and to anyone who cried on my shoulder, I apologize. I blame the oxygen. The simple truth is that I’ve been far too nice lately. I promise to be a mean bastard from now on and to call you names. I’ll make your children cry, I’ll steal your wallets, and I’ll be sure to cop a feel from your spouses. The last thing the world needs is more kindness. So I’m going to try and scourge myself up until further notice.

This probably means I won’t be posting anything here until Monday.

Really, I’m going to hunt this demon down, this hideous beast that’s too kind to be cruel, and I’m going to put this scarabic fucker back into my soul.

And I’m going to breathe less oxygen. If I can modify my life so that my blood pressure will go up, then I guarantee that you will reap the benefits of my cruelty.

Maybe I can take some lessons from Jack Shafer, who clearly needs a hug from Denton.

Tim Robbins has written a play called Embedded. In These Times has an excerpt. And it demonstrates what happens when a well-intentioned writer goes crazy with the preaching:

Dick I’d like to call this meeting of the Office of Special Plans to order.

Gondola Here, here.

Dick War in Gomorrah progress report.

Gondola War in Gomorrah progress report.

Dick Rum Rum, how does it look?

Rum Rum We are currently sufficiently deployed, locked and loaded, cocked and ready, chompin’ at the bit, poised for engagement, steady ready Freddy.

Dick Excellent. How’s the coalition building?

Rum Rum Slow, but good news. Luxembourg is in. As to the rest of them—Germany, France, Russia—I say, fuck ‘em.

Pearly White Double fuck France.

Well, double fuck me.

Tim Robbins has written and directed some compelling movies. Bob Roberts is pointed in its comic targets, Dead Man Walking is gripping as hell, and the finale of Cradle Will Rock is really something special. But there’s a reason why Stolen Kisses stands the test of time, and Woodstock (also made around 1968) doesn’t. And I’m not sure that Tim Robbins knows it.

Here’s a few hints, Tim: All Quiet on the Western Front, Paths of Glory, Grand Illusion.

(via Greencine)

The Son of Kingsley doesn’t have a U.S. publisher. To my mind, Martin Amis has made several mistakes. Here’s how he can make a comeback.

1. He needs to lose the 1970s high-collar shirts.
2. He needs to realize that a bad boy image is more applicable to Russell Crowe than a guy who’s starting to look like Keith Richards.
3. He needs to understand that an author’s hubris is deflated when the books turned out are dreadful. Talk the talk when you can walk the walk, Marty.
4. As near as I can figure it, Marty can make a last-ditch effort by playing the sympathy angle along the lines of Time’s Arrow.
5. He needs to buy someone off at the Booker Committee.
6. He needs to know that most people scorn privileged sons of great literary figures, regardless of their talent.

(First scouted at Moorish Girl, who I hope is recovering from her terrible flu.)

Since it appears that Poynter will continue publishing the Book Babes, inspired by Ron, I’ve begun a Book Babes Watch. Hopefully, drawing attention to the aspects that most of us have found infuriating will help Margo and Ellen improve their work, or Poynter to make the right decision.

This week, the big surprise is Ellen’s honesty with regard to criticism: “What’s a reviewer to do? Well, maybe the right answer is: Do NOT defend the status quo. We may be so inside the Book Beltway that we’re part of the problem instead of the solution. We write too much about marginal books that enhance book publishing’s precious image, and too little about the form and substance of fiction that catches the popular imagination. This becomes a problem for publishers of any size.”

Well, hell, Ellen, this is what we’ve been saying all along! I’d like to think that the floodgate of comments which greeted last week’s column may have helped Ellen to start asking some solid questions. But I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and suggest that it was the close proximity of other book critics that initiate this brainstorm. I will note that mentioning Richard Flanagan’s underrated Gould’s Book of Fish is sexy by just about any standard, and a good way to live up to the “book babe” label. And in trying to determine the critic’s role in relation to the reader and the publishing industry (specifically how wide the swath is), Ellen has helped start a potential upturn in future columns.

Unfortunately, after Ellen posed an interesting Charles Taylor quote to Margo, Margo responded with yet another tired popular/literary dichotomy. Worse still, Margo fails completely to address Ellen’s issue. In light of the regime change over at the NYTBR, it’s criminal to ignore the importance of what a critic should cover or to speculate upon recent developments. Do coverage decisions enhance or alter what may influence a reading public (or the uninformed dullards like Stuart Applebaum, who base their tastes on reviews without reading the books)? Margo never addresses this and concludes that the publishing industry is one happy umbrella in which everybody is passionate about books and, presumably, all the wild animals dance together.

Margo also fails to understand the “industry” part of “publishing industry.” As unpredictable as the publishing industry is, some people go into the biz to make a profit. It is extremely naive to believe that a publisher isn’t hoping for that breakout hit like The Time Traveler’s Wife or Cold Mountain, and that they are publishing books merely out of their kindness of their purty li’l hearts.

Ellen responds to this and, rather smartly, returns to the Taylor quote unaddressed by Margo. Plus, she uses “jump the shark” and points out the hypocrisy regarding The Da Vinci Code

CONCLUSION:

Much as Comrades Mark and Ron (among others) have noted, it is the opinion of this Court that the Book Babes are improving, but that ultimately Ellen is the more thoughtful of the two. She also seems to listen. This Court urges the 32-member jury to modify its petition and Dump Only One of the Book Babes. The concept of a dialogue between two bookish ladies is a good one, but a proper dialogue involves two people offering their take on topics, and Margo can’t even understand the concept of call and response.

In 1958, Ray Kroc said the following to the McDonald brothers:

“We have found out, as you have, that we cannot trust some people who are nonconformists. We will make conformists out of them in a hurry. Even personal friends who we know have the best intentions may not conform. They have a difference of opinion as to various processing and certain qualities of product….You cannot give them an inch. The organization cannot trust the individual; the individual must trust the organization [or] he shouldn’t go into this kind of business.”

And that’s just what Kroc that of his franchise operators. His customers (meaning you) are another story.

Found in John Love’s McDonald’s: Behind the Arches, New York: Bantam, 1986.

David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas has been called “even better than the best sex that you could possibly have” by Time Out, “a novel that will take over your life and prepare you to stalk Mitchell” by the Times Literary Supplement, and “tastier than all the food I ate during my formative years” by the Spectator. But it won’t be getting coverage from the Telegraph. Harry Mount, a critic who has actually been paid to review every Dick & Jane book ever published and the author of a 800-page piece of literary criticism entitled The Deep, Deep World of Paddington Bear, has declared Cloud Atlas “unreadable.”

Mount’s impatience recalls Jack Green’s polemic, Fire the Bastards!, which took umbrage over similar boasts made by critics who dealt with William Gaddis’s The Recognitions in 1955. Needless to say, if newspapers can find the time to cover Rising Up and Rising Down, then they should provide the same circumspect coverage to “difficult” books. To cop out with the “unreadable” excuse is a bit like damning The Passion of the Christ without having seen it. And besides, some books take a little longer to read. The real question here is whether Mount’s ever heard about this nifty concept called note taking. (via Literary Saloon)

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My sources tell me that Sam Tanenhaus is the next NYTBR editor. Publishers Weekly has more. Tanenhaus has authored bios of Whittaker Chambers and Louis Armstrong (and has an upcoming one on William Buckley), contributes to The New Republic and is a contributing editor to Vanity Fair. He is a writer primarily known for nonfiction bouncing between politics, biography and literature, which is what Keller was looking for. Here’s Tanenhaus on Updike.

[UPDATE: Maud found the link to the memo.]

Charles has dug up some fascinating info about Bailey’s. Apparently, the creamy liquor is preserved through the whiskey. And it can last as long as two years. However, Bailey’s suggests that you drink it within six months. Charles, however, was able to detect a suitable creamy taste after a year and a half. Presumably, in sharing this information, the company isn’t considering its profits at all. It has only its customers’ best interests at heart.

But all this talk of alcohol preservation has me contemplating the future of liquor, should Bush be elected to a second term.

After the Super Size recall and Ashcroft’s hijinks, I genuinely suspect that we’re going to see bottles that are modified for each individual. A tiny blade will extract a blood sample from each individual purveyor at a liquor store and decide in an instant just how much liquor is good for them. The blood sample will be compared against a database (specifically DUIs and D&D charges), as well as that individual’s tolerance for alcohol.

This will be necessary. Because the state remains convinced that people cannot be responsible for their own lives and, with states bereft of funds, there aren’t any additional funds to educate people. (Plus, parents and people in general are offended too easily. To introduce anything beyond the limited parameters of the No Child Left Behind Act will cause too much trouble.)

Beyond preserving the national supply of Bailey’s, this new bottle technology will raise the price of alcohol (and expand profits and consumer confidence; good for everyone, yo). But, more importantly, it will prevent auto collisions. And the state, in extracting a liberty, will be able to look upon this declining statistic and proudly proclaim its progress. Forget the people thrown in prison on trivial charges or the suspected terrorists hied away to closed military tribunals. Or for that matter the individual’s ability to decide how much alcohol s/he can drink.

Meanwhile, the drugs that harm no one and that do not cause a single fatality will remain criminalized. And the street peddlers susurrating “green bud” will be arrested by a renewed police force. Never mind that these small-time merchants have the same preservationist interests at heart and are probably just as ruthless in their dealings as R & A Bailey & Co.

The important result here is that liquor will be preserved. And people will no longer be sauced on a Saturday night. They will stare like lucid does into the headlights of that steamroller about to mow them down and, with stupid uncritical eyes, not understand that their spirits have been diluted.

The happy Pullman train doesn’t stop with Chabon. The Archbishop of Canterbury notes that despite Phillip Pullman’s “anti-Christian” stance, he finds the trilogy a near miraculous triumph. The Left Behind books, meanwhile, remain miraculous only in dramatically underestimating how many readers are willing to defer to guilt and paranoia.

Dame Muriel Spark, best known for The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, is 86 and still writing, despite arthritis, failing eyesight and an inveterate biscuit addiction. She’s just published her 23rd novel.

Harvey Pekar has nabbed a three-book deal with Ballantine. The first will be a followup to American Splendor, dealing with the making of the film, and the next two will be biographies rather than autobiographies. Pekar’s wife, Joyce Brabner, noted that, “We can at last afford to add protein to our diet.”

Judy Blume must be trying to avoid soup kitchens these days. She’s just signed away her books to Disney. Whether Deenie‘s infamous masturbation will be addressed on screen (preferably with Donald Duck involved) remains to be seen.

Online reference sites have cut into the encyclopedia. If there’s any boon to this sad news, it means less encyclopedia salesmen hectoring you at the door. However, Jehovah’s witnesses, hoping to take advantage of this downturn, plan to step up their efforts.

Liverpool has come up with a unique way to celebrate its writers: a beer mat. Some of the initial ideas included a commemorative toilet brush, collectible maxis, and an Alan Bleasdale nose hair trimmer. Fortunately, the Liverpool lads settled on the beer mat. Declasse, yes. But truer to the Liverpool spirit.

The PEN/Faulkner nominees have been announced:

Elroy Nights by Frederick Barthelme
Drinking Coffee Elsewhere by Z.Z. Packer
A Distant Shore by Caryl Phillips
The Early Stories by John Updike
Old School by Tobias Wolff

The winner will receive $15,000. The other finalists will nab $5,000. Between the endless New Yorker pieces and the backlist lucre, I’d say Updike’s due a tax audit right about now.

A version of Sam Shepard’s True West playing at the Baruch College Theater turned the sisters into brothers. Shepard was not amused and ordered the play shut down through his agent. The play’s fate is up in the air. (Also in the article: David Talbot has hired Sidney Blumenthal as Salon’s Washington bureau chief. Between this and The Clinton Wars, does this sound like a man whose reputation was completely decimated by Matt Drudge?)

The Hollywood Reporter does the math. Mel will get about $115 million from The Passion. Which means he’ll never have to work again. Let’s hope not.

First, the Age gets intimidated by Coetzee. Now it’s frightened by Sara Nelson? Two different writers, same newspaper. What’s the matter with journalists at the Age? Are they terrified of all interview subjects? Someone Down Under needs a hug. (via Sarah)

Maud: “She and my stepdad and all the other mourners except my sister and Mr. Maud went to their cars. They were all wringing their hands and shaking their heads, clearly mortified at our behavior. People just don’t watch the lowering of the casket in Baptist cemeteries in Bumcombe County, I guess.”

Christopher Farah’s second Salon book review has a low-concept spiteful approach that seems perfect for one of those free liberal weekly rags that you pick up at a cafe and read on the crapper. Farah is a critic incapable of enjoying science fiction (apparently, this is how he categorizes any novel involving magical realism), let alone putting aside genre distinctions for the sake of enjoying a book. Farah is a needlessly bitter and angry worm who cannot put aside a goofy premise for the sake of a good read.

Or is he? The review shifts near the end and suddenly plays nice.

Salon wants us to whip out our credit cards for this?

Of course, in a free weekly, the reviewer’s name would be subject to ridicule — and the review would be trite, overly ad hominen and shallow. Perhaps with a touch of genuine passion, but ultimately unprintable in any place publishing serious criticism. Instead, Christopher Farrah’s review purports to be a serious work of criticism, housed in an online outlet that believes itself to be PBS, with the ads functioning as surrogate pledge breaks. It is a review written with too many clauses and lots of bitter modifers, presumably with the hope that this will transform what is obviously an out-to-lunch attack piece (or at least half an attack) into an essay that doesn’t even understand the basics of speculative fiction.

Imagine a thirtysomething critic that you hope to get a reasonable opinion from on a book. But instead, he pulls down his pants and moons you. Then he calls you an idiot for daring to find something positive about the piece of turd coming out of his ass. And then he turns around and kisses you on the lips.

That is Christopher Farah in a nutshell. No subtlety, no wit. Strange flip-flops (several of them in fact) inside paragraphs. Not even a hint of reason. Just a man going after the strangest targets with unjustified piss and vinegar. It recalls the French revolution in 1789. But instead of crazed mobs calling for “liberty, equality and brotherhood,” Christopher Farah calls for the anonybloggers to reveal themselves and books to clarify their literatary categorization. I could be wrong, but there might be more pressing issues of our time.

And now the Tivoli review which, at its essence, is neither a love story, a hate piece, nor fantasy or science fiction. One would hope that its unchecked fire and its cross-spectrum fulminating represents something satirical. But, no, it appears he’s serious. What’s really odd is how Farah, after spending paragraphs bemoaning the “gimmick,” then turns around to call the book “an excellent read.”

Either Farah is a schizophrenic writer, or he’s unintentionally amusing us. You make the call.

(Hat tip: Beatrice.)

“I will permit no man to narrow and degrade my soul by making me hate him.” — Booker Washington

“Confidence comes not from always being right but from not fearing to be wrong.” — Peter T. McIntyre

“Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.” — Will Durant

“One of the keys to happiness is a bad memory.” — Rita Mae Brown

“The opposite of love is not hate, the opposite of love is ignorance.” — Brian Hwang

“If the person you are talking to doesn’t appear to be listening, be patient. It may simply be that he has a small piece of fluff in his ear.” — A.A. Milne

“Those who are convinced they have a monopoly on The Truth always feel that they are only saving the world when they slaughter the heretics.” — Arthur M. Schlesinger

“Beware the fury of the patient man.” — John Dryden

“When one begins to live by habit and by quotation, one has begun to stop living.” — James Baldwin

He may not be as hunky or as lucrative as Nick Laird, but Boris Starling is cadaver-crazy. Not only are his novels filled with corpses, but he also appeared as one on television. “I’ve already started making plans for how my own corpse will look like,” said Starling. “My family has a proud tradition of being buried in open caskets.” Clearly, Jim Crace has nothing on this guy.

Alex Beam calls Charles Portis “the greatest writer you’ve never heard of.” Ron Rosenbaum’s also crazy about him. So is Tin House‘s Cassandra Cleghorn. Portis is having four of his books reisused by the Overlook Press. And if you can’t wait, the Atlantic has one of his stories available online.

[UPDATE: Ron points to this helpful Ed Park profile. Today, I read the first four pages of The Dog of the South and laughed my head off. It looks like Portis may live up to the hype.]

Carol Shields’ stories are have been adapted for Canadian television. Sarah Polley makes her directing debut with one story. John Doyle suggests this might be the way to market dramatic television to Canadians.

Speaking of television, for those (like me), who don’t have cable or (unlike Peter Sellers) don’t watch, here’s the edited highlights of a conversation with John Updike. Updike writes 1,000 words every morning and says the great secret is “sitting ability.” Nothing new under the sun.

Inspired by Sarah’s repeated hosannas, the search for Rankin’s early Rebus novels continues. No results yet, but on the way home last night, I did find two perfectly good, barely touched Jane Smiley hardcovers left in a box on the street. (The box had been recently put out. Despite bearing a preponderance of chick lit, several people dug into it right after me with telling avarice.) It’s amazing what kind of gems people will discard on the streets or at garage sales. It’s also fascinating how a particular book you’re looking for will crop up when you least expect it.

In the case of Rankin, oh sure, I could have ordered the book through Alibris. But that would be too easy. I enjoy the hunts through used bookstores, the conversations with the proprietors and tome-happy, toe-tapping and criminally underpaid clerks, and the tips other people offer on books. Of course, if I don’t find the Rankin book by the end of the month, then I’ll go the Alibris route. But I think there’s some serendipitous discovery being lost when we order a book online. The spine sticking out adjacent to another book, the different editions, the strange cover art. There’s something magical in the way our brains index all this visual intake and retain unexpected authors, which in turn lead us to unexpected books. We may not remember every title, but we are capable of noticing a recherche edition on the stacks that we haven’t seen elsewhere.

The online book buying experience doesn’t offer anything close. You can’t reach for a dusty book at the top of a shelf, or climb to the top of a ladder while impersonating Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face. It doesn’t offer anything close to the silent “A-ha” whisper when you enter these sanctums santorum with fellow book freaks. The obscure author, part of this pleasant tomb for the unknown titles, signaled with a protruding finger and a deep assurance that you must read him.

The used bookstore may take time away from one’s life. Time away from reading or writing or loving. But it does offer a way for one to amalgamate the reading experience with living. Or possibly the illusion of it. The books, as usual, come first.

Jay Griffith’s A Sideways Look at Time has won the 2003 Discover Award for Non-Fiction. The award, sponsored by Barnes & Noble, grants Griffith $10,000 and heavy promotion in B&N stores. There’s just one problem. The people at B&N can’t keep track of publishing dates. Griffith’s book came out in 1999.

Michael Chabon on Philip Pullham.

The 2004 Northern California Book Award nominees have been announced:

Best Novel:

L’Affaire by Diane Johnson
Dream of the Blue Room by Michelle Richmond
And Now You Can Go by Vendela Vida
Daughter’s Keeper by Ayelet Waldman
Old School by Tobias Wolff

Short Story Collections:

Red Ant House by Ann Cummins
Denny Smith by Robert Gluck
How to Breathe Underwater by Julie Orringer
Drinking Coffee Elsewhere by Z.Z. Packer

Poetry:

Life Watch by Willis Barnstone
The Starry Messenger by George Keithley
Notes from a Divided Country by Suji Kwock Kim
Apprehend by Elizabeth Robinson
The Room Where I Was Born by Briane Teare

Non-Fiction:

The Chinese in America: A Narrative History by Iris Chang
Her Husband: Hughes and Plath, a Marriage by Diane Middlebrook
Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach
River of Shadows: Eadweard Muybridge and the Technological Wild West by Rebecca Solnit

Children’s Literature:

The City of Ember by Jeanne DePrau
Oh No! Gotta Go! by Susan Middleton Elya
Just A Minute: a Trickster Tale and Counting Book by Yuyi Morales
The Day the Babies Crawled Away by Peggy Rathmann
Vampire High by Douglas Rees

Special Award: Translation: TBA

Lifetime Achievement: Philip Levine

The winners will be announced on March 24, 2004, and since the event is local, I may just be covering it.

And if there’s any lesson to be learned from this deal, it’s to keep your relationship with a best-selling author and take advantage of the nepotism. Nick Laird has won a six-figure deal for two books. The first one is titled Utterly Monkey. Kyle Smith is no doubt steaming after passing on a date with Z.Z. Packer. (via Maud, who I will never refer to as diminuitive)

The X-rays and dental records match up. Spalding Gray is dead. The world is lesser because of it.

Rasputin: “Trust me on this one. Rich people will be okay. I am officially giving you permission to not give a rat’s ass about them. When a person achieves a certain amount of wealth, they become permanently okay forever. In fact, the only thing that can ever unseat them from this vaunted status is their own grotesque stupidity. Now, you don’t feel bad when poor people manage to get themselves fucking killed, why should you feel bad when rich stupid people get themselves thrown in jail or rendered poor?”

Sarah Jessica Parker: “Part of me is happy that people who could not afford HBO will now have the opportunity to meet the four women whose love lives were chronicled on the show.”

Who are these people, Sarah? Okies wandering the Midwest? Crazed gypsies? Hobos? The rabble? The great unwashed? With invitations like yours, I’m sure these people that we shall not identify, probably smart enough to do other things than sit on their asses watching HBO all day, will love strutting into your vapid world of shoes and affluence.

I saw the first season of Sex and the City shortly after reading Bushnell’s book. I haven’t seen a single episode since. Beyond my DVD rental and reading mistakes, I regret nothing.

(via Beatrice)