• Robert “Hue-Happy Background” Birnbaum talks with crime fiction writer Richard Marnick. Marnick, as reported during our BEA coverage, has led an extraordinary life as an ex-cop, ex-con, and a union writer tunnel. And Marnick gives Birnbaum the goods on Boyos and more.
• Pope John Paul II approved of Harry Potter, but Ratzinger doesn’t. Pope Benedict XVI has also gone on record to state that ice cream cones and roller coasters are the work of the devil.
• I must say that this headline is wrong. It should read “Coffee shop offers no chance or tablespace for writers.”
• The SF Weekly offers a brief blurb for Michelle Tea, who would probably make a better modifier over the Warfield than the SF Weekly.
• Introducing BritLitBlogs, a consortium of six British literary blogs.
• If you thought the Patriot Act library and bookstore records battle was over, think again. Librarians are concerned with the Bush administration’s determination to make reinstating Section 215 a top priority this year.
• Mike West really doesn’t like Spin.
• Tayari Jones on going to Bible school while atheist. (via Maud)
• Rake has the goods on Cormac McCarthy from this month’s Vanity Fair.
• History textbooks aren’t just being diluted in American schools. Otawara, Japan has approved a book downplaying the Rape of Nanking, completely overlooking the sexual ensalvement of women.
• Back in the 1960s, San Quentin was one of the few prisons that attempted “bibliotherapy.” Because of this, prisoners became literate and several of them became writers. (And in fact, Eldridge Cleaver wrote and sold Soul on Ice while in San Quentin.) So it’s very good to see that new reading programs are being tried out at various Bay Area prisons. (And for a related story, check out Mark Sarvas’ account of teaching writing to at-risk juvenile offenders.)
• Terry McMillan’s latest homophobia: “He’s the one who is gay.” I didn’t realize that one’s sexual orientation mattered as much as one’s actions do in a messy divorce. So am I to conclude that not being gay means you’re not “a habitual liar” or “a sociopath”?

Tito alerts me to this article at the Voice that involves sharing absinthe and conversation with William T. Vollmann. There’s some fascinating revelations about what Vollmann thinks about post-9/11 politics and how Vollmann tries as hard as possible to live, as well as observe, the lives of others. But the most interesting remark is this:

“There are people dead as a result of [American] political and religious praxis,” he says. “Whether we owe those dead bodies a tight, middle, or panoramic gaze, we owe those dead bodies a story.”

(And for what it’s worth, long gestating in the Future Entries Department is my final entry on The Rainbow Stories for The Vollmann Club. I finished the book a month ago, but hope to go through it story-by-story.)

Kevin Smith now has a blog. What’s odd is that the man is determined to chronicle everything. He has a post up every day. Even more disturbing: the man casually reveals that he eats almost nothing but sausage and fesses up to “delicious little fuck sessions.”

(All criticisms of Mr. Smith’s public posturing aside, I should note that Jersey Girl was unfairly maligned, that the film dared to offer a visceral take on fatherhood and life choices when Smith acolytes expected more Jay and Silent Bob, and I hope that Mr. Smith continues to develop as a filmmaker.)

Washington. The White House.

Enter KARL ROVE

Rove: Now is the moment where Plame will pay
Made glorious by our gov’ment secured
And all the clouds that lowr’d upon the Left
Not nigh the bosom of state secrets buried.
Now are our brows bound with unilateral wreaths;
Our bruised reporters thrown in jail;
Our false alarums changed to random orange;
The dreadful bias squashed by delightful measures.
But I, that am not shap’d for Adonis tricks,
But made to court a haughty looking-glass;
I, that am rotundly stamp’d, declared an evil genius
To strut before a wanton bumbling Bush;
I, that will be pardoned before thrown away,
Eluding social justice, and bars which confine;
To set the hounds upon Prince Scott
My fingers fold for further plans;
Hark, reporters come!

Enter JOURNALISTS, chasing SCOTT MCCLELLAN. ROVE hides behind curtain.

Journalist #1: How now, odd Scott? What falsehoods hath thou wrought?
Journalist #2: In June the King did plege to purge, and now your hands are caught!
Scott: Do scratch thy pads. I’ll never ‘fess. The investigation’s on.
I’m well aware of what I said. Your questions do now con.
I’m glad to talk when an apt sun sets
Or our polls go up, or your appetite whets
If you’ll let me finish, I’ll aid and abet…
Did I say that? Shit, I’m toast.
Journalist #3: You’re not saying much.
Journalist #4: Where’s your Midas touch?
Journalist #2: It’s the same thing through and through.
Journalist #3: It’s a bad spot, Scott.
Journalist #1: Out out damned spot?
Journalist #2: I’d cop or you’ll be through.
Scott: Again, I’ve rejoined. You’re aware and I know.
You continue to ask. Let me breathe.
I appreciate questions and welcome suggestions
Will you titter when I go home and seethe?

ROVE from behind curtain.

Rove: They’ve unearthed my grand plans!
But I’m Bush’s brain. And they daren’t loosen my hold
If they fry me in jail or a scum pounds my tail
I’ll return, raging wolf in the fold