• I’ve started reading Kevin Starr’s Coast of Dreams (due for publication in September 2004 by Knopf), the latest volume in Starr’s underrated California Dream series. While I remain a fan of Kevin Starr, the big surprise here is not the volume’s 700 page length, but the less scholarly tone than its predecessors. The chapters are surprisingly short and snappy, without the ambition or all-encompassing portraits we’ve come to expect. This time around, Starr’s opted for a more anecdotal flavor. This isn’t as disappointing as it sounds. But given Starr’s ebullience and lifelong devotion to his material, my feeling so far is that the tome could have been more substantial. Perhaps, as Starr suggests himself in the preface, a book chronicling 1990-2003 is a bit premature. Or perhaps Starr’s histories (or any history for that matter) work more effectively when they are removed from present events. I have a few more ideas why, but they will have to wait for my forthcoming review in a few months.
• Stephen Policoff has weighed in at Mark’s and he has some horror stories about his first novel, Beautiful Somewhere Else.
• The California Supreme Court has ruled that a teenager’s poem about a shooting at another school was not a crime. The Academy of Arts might want to pay attention to these little things called precedents.
• The latest literary property to be at risk? John Buchanan’s.
• Michael Cunningham has gone Hollywood. Not only did he write the film adaptation for A Home at the End of the World, but he’s dyed his hair blond. At 51.
• It’s subscription-only, but Variety is reporting that Neil Gaiman is in negotiations to make his directorial debut with an adaptation of Death: The High Cost of Living. Gaiman writes, “Well, things are getting closer, and there may well be something that we can announce at San Diego. Or not. (Blinks innocently.)”
• Turning 30 No Cakewalk for Many Women. It ain’t exactly easy for us dudes either, but we’ve passed the stage of acceptance and we’re well on the way to putting our twenties behind us in a week and a half, thank you very much. Dave Chappelle probably has the most compelling reasons why.
• And new to the blogroll, Chekhov’s Mistress.

George Will: “Time was, books were the primary means of knowing things. Now most people learn most things visually, from the graphic presentation of immediately, effortlessly accessible pictures.”

GEORGE WILL: “Sheet, boss, you see dat ALA survey? Not nobody be reading no more.”

GEORGE WILL’S EDITOR: “Yeehaw! You’re darn tootin’. Who need dem books? Hey, Georgie, why not write a piece wi’ some of dem rash generalizations. You’re due a column, aintcher?”

GEORGE WILL: “Well, boss, you and I’ze know dats true. And I been lax o’ late. And I’m shures youze understand. I reckon I never learned no nothing from dem books.”

GEORGE WILL’S EDITOR: “Footnotes, sources, dem stuff’s worthless, right? Ain’t nobody pay no attention to scholarship.”

GEORGE WILL: “I reckon. No real mind anyhows.”

GEORGE WILL’S EDITOR: “All visual, like dat issue of Archie where Jughead’s laughing his teenage butt off after Archie falls on his butt.”

GEORGE WILL: “Oh, dat shure was funny.”

GEORGE WILL’S EDITOR: “Reckon you got 750 words dere.”

GEORGE WILL: “On Archie?”

GEORGE WILL’S EDITOR: “No, dang it, boy! Readin’! Easy. Say sumpin’ bout Dickens. You might wanta ask Ol’ Jack Bedford up the hill. He know lotsa stuff. He read. He give you sumpin’ if you give him a dollah.”

GEORGE WILL: “A dollah? Really? Darn tootin!”

GEORGE WILL’S EDITOR: “Maybe sumpin’ bout Roosevelt or World War II.”

GEORGE WILL: “Youza sharp one, boss! The piece will write itself!”

More fun from Kevin, based on the recent Orange Prize essential list. Your mission: Bold the titles you’ve read. My count is 22, or less than half of the 50.
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One of the greatest living movie composers, Jerry Goldsmith, has passed on. He was 75. Goldsmith composed over three hundred scores (more than Ennio Morricone) and nearly every one of them was a barn-buster. I’ll have more to say on this later. Needless to say, Goldsmith’s death is a loss to cinema beyond compare.

Powell’s is hosting an essay contest celebrating ten years of bidness. Put that credit card down! That credit card is for buyers! You think I’m fucking with you? I am not fucking with you. The good news is you’re fired. The bad news is, you’ve got, all you’ve got just one week to write an essay for Powell’s starting with today’s contest. Oh, have I got your attention now? Good. Cause we’re adding a little something to the Powell’s shopping experience. First prize is $1,000 in books. Anybody want to see second prize? Second prize is $100 in books. Third prize is you’re fired. Fuck you! That’s my name. You know why mister? Cause you purchased a cheapass Penguin paperback before getting here tonight. I purchased a rare limited hardcover edition with a misprint on the dust jacket. The books are weak, the books are weak. You’re weak. If you can’t write an essay with these books, hit the bricks pal and beat it! Cause you are going out! (via Chicha)