Month / November 2005

by Edward Champion

Roundup

by Edward Champion

More Podcasts with Laila

And speaking of audio literary offerings, it looks like Megan has entered the fray[1], preserving Laila‘s appearance at her bookstore in podcast form.

[1] In one of the nuttiest quid pro quos ever devised, I pledged recently to someone that I will no longer be using the phrase “weigh in” on this blog. All future references to “weigh in” will be replaced with “enter the fray,” since using a war metaphor in an ironic and peaceful context is not as egregious as a junior high school wrestling metaphor.

by Edward Champion

The Rain in Spain Falls Mainly on the Net

If, like me, you are obsessed with dialects, then William Labov’s project, Atlas of North American English is a really handy tool. You can click on interactive maps to determine just what portions of the United States and Canada speak with glides or specific open vowels and hear excerpts of precisely how they speak. This is a godsend if you’re an actor, an impressionist, or you’re just plain crazy about language. And Labov’s work has justifiably earned him a writeup by John Seabrook in next week’s New Y0rker.

by Edward Champion

Concerning the Tattooed Lady

Mr. Wilson (if indeed such a Jared come lately can even be called “mister”) has suggested that I am obsessed with bodily fluids. He alludes to an incident that once occurred at my Missolonghi pied-a-tierre regarding a woman with a tattoo of a dagger in a particularly sensitive anatomical region. Understand that I was not the one in the bedroom who embarassingly asked for a user’s manual, nor was I the one who propositioned the tattooed stranger at a watering hole located on the edge of the Gulf of Patras. If Wilson wants to evade the issue here (namely, the poor quality of his novels), rather than address my wholly legitimate concerns about his continued assaults on the written word, then it’s only fitting that he should throw the arc, as it were, upon bodily fluids, a pivotal element of Wilson’s unpardonable disgrace.

Allow me to quote you a stanza from Wilson’s abominable poem “She Stabbed Me in the Heart, She Kicked Me in the Ass” (inexplicably published in The Paris Review #121, where George Plimpton took momentary leave of his fine sensibilities):

In the shade of the glade, her boob had a blade
But the real brain bared was my own
If she stopped with her mouth, and her body swayed south
Then my nightstick might harden to stone

That such doggerel, with its childish rhyming scheme, its crude metaphors (“nightstick,” the “brain bared” ) and the preposterous allusion to the unnamed woman’s body swaying south, would hold any regard among today’s MFAs is yet another telling indicator that the apocalypse is upon us and that Jared Wilson is one of its chief instigators.

I know that my critics have taken me to task about the incident involving the tatooed B-girl (who spoke not a word of French!) and have assumed that my riff with Mr. Wilson stemmed from this unfortunate incident. Regardless of this calumny, my ultimate concern here is over Mr. Wilson’s skills as a novelist. I trust that this puts the matter at rest.

by Edward Champion

Stop the Illegal Marriages in Texas!

The people of Texas have spoken. They have passed Proposition 2, which states:

This state or a political subdivision of this state may not create or recognize any legal status identical or similar to marriage.

The time has come for Texas to form the Marriage Police to enforce this law. We need to see special forces units bursting into homes and tearing husbands and wives apart. All marriages must be annulled! No more marriages can happen! This is the will of the Texas people and the letter of the law.

Since sodomy was legislated as a misdemeanor (until State v. Morales, 869 S.W. 2d 941 overturned it), and there is a spirit among Texas voters to legislate against any unsual sort of sex outside of marriage, and since, after passing Proposition 2, there is likely a considerable sum of illegal marriages now being practiced among some 20 million Texans, we must therefore conclude that sex within marriage is the only acceptable form that Texas supports. Of course, since Texas can no longer “create or recognize any legal status identical to marriage,” the time has come to arrest any Texan copulating with someone they may identify as “spouse.” There shall no longer be any marriages in Texas and there shall no longer be any fornication outside of marriage. Which means, in short, that there can no longer be any fornication at all!

I trust the majority of the Texas people, who have always been a pigheaded and law-abiding sort, to enforce this law fully, starting of course with George and Laura Bush, who were married on November 5, 1977 at the Glass Chapel of First United Methodist Church in Midland, Texas. Give this “First Lady” her marching orders right now, George. Your Texas marriage is no longer recognized and you are, as a result, living in sin. In the White House no less! Or marry her in another state, if you truly want to preserve the legal status of your marriage.

by Edward Champion

Election Night

At this point, Props 73 and 75 are leading by 50.2% (both of them at that figure strangely enough). These are the propositions I’m truly against and I’m really concerned. Here’s what I know about California: We’re a funny place when it comes to propositions and, hell, politics in general. The state that prides itself on sunshine and good health and New Age philosophy is also the world’s fifth largest economy. Because of this strange confluence (or perhaps just to prove ourselves distinct), the state has a sizable red-blooded American streak. We proved this with Props 187 and 209 a few years ago. And I suspect that, as close as the race is, we’ll prove it again and pass these two wretched propostions by a hairline margin. Then again, maybe not. Maybe Arnold’s low approval rating will somehow have an impact. I certainly hope to hell that the state population doesn’t buy Arnold’s argument that taking away what precious rights a young woman has to get an abortion or stripping a health care professional of her rights somehow “empowers” the California population.

But then I could be wrong. In the time I wrote the above passage, Prop 73 has just slipped into the no margin. Whoopee! Prop. 75, on the other hand..

[MORNING UPDATE: All of Arnold’s props lost. Very proud to be a Californian.]

by Edward Champion

Beginning a Literary Feud

When I first met Jared Wilson, I knew instantly that I was in the presence of a small rodent who can’t refrain from burrowing into a skull he can never hope to penetrate. One encounters such muskrats, of course, on an everyday basis. But never ones quite like Mr. Wilson, who, not coincidentally I think, shares the unfortunate name of the most boring character (indeed, the one who deserves all vengeance wreaked by the young Dennis) ever created for the Sunday comics page.

Far from a mere bag of bones, Mr. Wilson is a walking accident who has clutched to the sad illusion that he is some kind of seminal artist. Unfortunately, when one writes Wilson’s novels — the kind of books that have the appeal of unwiped semen stains in a taxi cab seat — one wonders if Wilson subconsciously had a different sort of seminal in mind.

An epicurean with a solid literary instinct might sustain an ardent hope that parvenus of Jared Wilson would expire gracefully from the world of letters. But so long as the four steady notes of Wilson’s out-of-tune Fender guitar find favor with the charnel houses of the publishing industry, even the basest of literary arts is doomed.

by Edward Champion

Voting Problems in San Francisco?

At the Page Street Library, there’s something crooked going on.

I voted this morning. Not only was the Eagle machine which recorded my vote malfunctioning (it took about eight tries before the Eagle machine took the ballot, but the lady (whose name, I have discerned, is Irena) actually looked at my ballot and said to me, “Are you sure you want to vote that way?” Further, I did not receive a voting stub back from my ballot. Just the offer of an orange sticker that said “I voted today.” Did my vote even count this morning? Was the machine even recording my results right? Further, are Irena’s remarks swaying other voters from making an informed decision?

I wasn’t the only person subject to Irena’s catty questions. My neighbor also experienced this.

I am greatly shocked by all this. I have voted in every election since I was 18 and have never once seen such political influence, in clear violation of election laws, maintained within the inner sanctum like this.

I’ve tracked down the appropriate person (a very nice lady named Hortensia) at the San Francisco Department of Elections and got them to pledge to replace the Eagle machine and look into Irena’s corrupt behavior today.

Needless to say, if anyone else in San Francisco is experiencing anything fishy, please let the Department of Elections know about this. The phone number is 415-554-4375.

by Edward Champion

John Fowles Dead

BBC: “Fowles died at his home in Lyme Regis, Dorset on Saturday after battling a long illness, his publisher said.” Does this mean a moratorium on scathing reviews for any posthumous journal volumes released from Cape? (via MeFi)

[UPDATE: More on Fowles from Jenny D, who feels that Fowles’ passing marks “the end of an era.”]

[UPDATE 2: Mark has a smorgasbord of links.]

[UPDATE 3: Another tribute from Litkicks.]

by Edward Champion

Burn Balm

Robert Birnbaum insists that he has “chewed the fat” with Ron Rash. This strikes me as a potentially dangerous activity, particularly if you are watching your carbs. If I were of a more carnivorous mindset (it is, after all, the morning), I would fully expect Mr. Birnbaum to “chew the thin” at some point — ideally, sacrificing a few anorexic chickens into the barbeque.

But no matter. This is a silly question of semantics. The important thing here is that Birnbaum has talked with yet another writer, squeezing more Southern writers into the talk than chicken into jambalaya.

by Edward Champion

Vice Squad

Both Michelle Richmond and Dan Wickett have the scoop on a plagiarism case involving Brad Vice. Vice’s book The Bear Bryant Funeral Train won the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction. What was not known, until librarian Margaret Butler pointed it out, is that one of Vice’s stories, the title tale in Vice’s short story collection Tuscaloosa Knights, plagiarized one part of Carl Carmer’s Stars Fell on Alabama. The University of Georgia Press revoked the award, recalled all the copies of the book that had been issued and pulped the remainders.

Now here’s the interesting thing: Michelle’s compared the stories and says Vice’s story pays homage to Carmer. And at StorySouth, Jason Sanford has wrtten a passionate defense, claiming that Vice’s slip was “an honest mistake.”

But I think the comparative passages reveal the real story:

Carmer: “Beneath the tall elms on Queen City Avenue rode three horsemen robed in white.”
Vice: “Underneath the towering elms, three horsemen robed in white down the middle of Queen City Avenue”

Carmer: “One of them raised a bugle and again the minor four-note call sounded. Behind the mounted trio stretched a long column of marching white figures, two and two, like an army of coupled ghosts, their shapeless flopping garments tossing up and down in the still night air.”
Vice: “One of the horsemen raised his hood and blasted the same four mighty notes on the bugle. Behind the troika stretched a long watery line of white figures marching side by side like an army of ghosts, their shapeless garments shimmering in the night.”

Carmer: “Look,” he said, “can you see their shoes? They tell a lot.”
Vice: “Look.” Pinion pointed at the Klansmen. “You see their shoes? Invisible empire, my ass. I know everyone of them sum’bitches. Every one.”

Carmer: “Moving under the edges of the white robes were pants-leg ends and shoes, hundreds of them. A pair that buttoned and had cloth tops, a heavy laced pair splashed with mud, canvas sneakers, congress gaiters — a yellow pair with knobby toes swung past. At the very end a long figure in sturdy grained oxfords, his sheet twisted awry, stepped gingerly — a little uncertainly. Knox laughed.”
Vice: “Moving at the hem of the white robes were pant legs and shoes, dozens and dozens of shoes. One pair of button-ups with terrycloth tops, another heavy-laced pair splashed with mud, brown work boots, canvas sneakers, congress gaiters—even a green pair with knobby toes swung past. Pinion chortled. Only the thick holly hedge separated us from the street and the long line of marching shoes.”

I’m not certain if pulping Vice’s book fits the crime, but, with all due respect to Michelle, this is undisputedly plagiarism, with Vice almost reproducing the passages in their entirety. And Vice should have known better. Homage is when T.C. Boyle names his short story collection Tooth & Claw after Tennyson’s “In Memoriam” or when Star Trek VI takes Hamlet‘s “The Undiscovered Country” as its subtitle. Certainly the history of referencing other works and characters goes all the way back to the Iliad, where Homer referenced endless gods and figures steeped in Greek mythology.

Brad Vice may be a good guy, but when a writer takes entire sentences from another’s work and draws attention to himself by naming his short story collection after the story in which he has done this, he is setting himself up for inevitable discovery and the consequences that come from it.

by Edward Champion

The Bat Segundo Show #12

Author: Lydia Millet

Condition of Mr. Segundo: Repentant, perpelxed and adjusting to a sudden change.

Subjects Discussed: Beer at 11:30 AM, Richard Rhodes, Wold Newton, American Prometheus, getting biographical details wrong, the influence of fiction vs. nonfiction, the displacement of major historical figures, narrative juggling acts, freakishness in literature, Lynda Barry, obstacles in being a woman writing dark humor, the gender divide in the publishing industry, outlining novels, finding humor in Hiroshima, humorless book reviewers, lip service in government, ignorance, literature which reassures, fiction that reaches a mass audience, Richard Nash as publisher, the I Am Charlotte Simmons paperback, Richard Nash as editor, how characters are named, meterologists, cigarettes, Lydia Millet’s father, the various pronunciations of “missile,” Leo Szilard, Eminem, blindness, compassionate satire, John P. Marquand, Kirby Gann’s Our Napoleon in Rags, Ignatius Reilly, porn culture, working at Hustler, Jonathan Ames, imaginary figures in literature, on whether Dave Eggers deserves to be punched, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, substance in fiction, authenticity, the endless McSweeney’s lists, irony and cynicism.

by Edward Champion

Postnadru

Although some agua was imbibed last night to soften the blow (thus hindering credence of this conclusion), here is the final verdict on the Hangman’s Blood: As Burgess reported, there is no hangover to speak of. Despite a good deal of champagne, several whiskey and cokes, a nutty rum and whisky concoction invented on the fly, a few Guinnesses and, of course, the HB. The HB then is recommended for people who have a fully stocked bar, aren’t terrified of a cocktail with a noxious taste, and greatly desire to have alcohol affect their head, arms and various portions of the upper torso with celerity.

Burgess was quite wrong, however, to impute a “metaphysical elation.” The results were almost immediately corporeal, but not extra or supernatural in any real sense. The metaphysical failings here are likely my own, since I am certainly not as smart as Burgess, limited only to casual philosophizing, and I don’t really associate drinking with any rise of the intellectual bar.

As it so happens, Pinky’s Paperhaus did participate in last night’s festivities and Mr. B is to be commended for his cartoons and personal riffing. I cannot imagine the hangunder poor Jeff will have from all that coffee, but I do hope he got some solid sleep. Heaven help poor Wholesale Pants Warehouse, who not only went off the deep end but lost track of his wedding ring in the process. This is the kind of typing that some of us were striving for, but somehow failed to achieve. And leave it to Abroad Abroad to post drunken letters to Dave Eggers, among other things.

by Edward Champion

#10 — t-shirts

I am now wearing an Incredible Hulk t-shirt. This was simply because it was the nearest tee within arm’s reach. It appears to be a bit dirty. But no matter. I am doing laundry tomorrow. Of course, after that abominable Ang Lee movie, the Hulk is the least hep comic book figure to have emblazoned across your chest. But I like the Hulk. I grew up reading the Peter David issues, the good Gray Hulk stuff, and the Hulk, I suppose, is a figure that is my guilty pleasure. Almost as guilty as the Fantastic Four. (Under duress, you will hear me saying, “It’s clobbering time!”)

Anyway, at my local cafe, I’ve become known as the laconic writer who comes in with “crazy” tee shirts and a laptop. The staff at this cafe is very nice. But they have rather strangely identified me as the man over 30 with the T-shirts (“The Brain That Wouldn’t Die,” “The Cabinet of Dr. Calligari,” the like). I have obtained some dubious neighborhood-related mystique. Why would such a man with a clearly receding hairline deign to espouse this sort of adolescence? There seems to be a silent consensus among the staff that there might be something serious going on.

But it’s really quite simple. For whatever damn reason, I feel tremendously comfortable writing while wearing a strange T-shirt espousing unfashionable cultural trappings. Where other people might roll up their sleeves, I feel the need to replace my shirt (and I am more inclined to wear dress shirts than tees) to get down to bidness.

In fact, there seems to be an odd crap tee revival of sorts amongst the hipster community. There is a rather obnoxious cafe known as Cafe Reverie up in Cole Valley. I once went in there with a Spam T-shirt, expecting to be ridiculed and otherwise demeaned with snobbish looks. But what I found instead was that the people there really dug my shirt. A friend of mine tried to explain to me that adopting these T-shirts involved a certain trailer trash chic that was currently in vogue. I had no such plan. I wore the tee because I liked it and there was some strange need to provoke yuppies who believe they are entitled to everything. But it was just the reverse.

So the moral of the story is this: a T-shirt may not be the symbol of rebellion you think it is.

by Edward Champion

#9 — what now?

The champagne is gone, the whiskey is a go-going down my throat, and it appears that Mr. B himself has, at long last, entered the fray. After writing that linoleum story, I’ve been staring at the hardwood floors with some uncertainty.

1. I should note that the Burgess beverage has caused me to burp quite a lot. I’m not really in the habit of burping, but if anyone should seriously consider this noxious beverage as a drink of choice, they may wish to know this.

2. I looked out the window about ten minutes ago and saw that some folks across the street were moving. The house with the interesting pink glasswork on the windows. Seeing them, I went outside and asked them if they needed any help. Foolishly, they assented. I carried two boxes and when they noticed that I was stumbling with the box, they asked me to leave. It’s a fair cop. The last thing you need when you’re moving on a Saturday night is some drunken stranger stumbling about with your possessions. I asked them if they wanted any of the stout and they insisted that I leave. So much for public community.

3. There is a noticeable misstep in my gait.

4. I’m wondering if should hie to my neighborhood bar.

5. I haven’t really been thinking about sexual possibilities. I wonder what’s wrong. Have I become resigned?

6. Battle Royale II has been on pause now for two hours. I’m thinking it’s not worth it.

7. I had intended to write about Mike Leigh’s films, but I’m not sure if I’m pellucid enough.

8. Ideas here are always welcome.

9. There is a lot of water in the fridge, come what may.