Genuine and Cool as Hell

Michael Rice keeps up the pace with yet another fascinating interview with Brian Copeland. Copeland’s theatrical one-man show, Not a Genuine Black Man, is now the longest running solo show in San Francisco history. Which is interesting, given that Copeland was initially told that black people aren’t interested in theatre. Copeland talks about race, San Leandro being named one of the most racist suburbs in America, and on being considered a sellout, among many other things.

More Fun with Amazon

Amazon has recently instituted “text stats,” which measures a book by Fleish-Kincaid index (the higher you go, the more difficult it is to read), percentage of complex words and words per dollar. Now if this is the basis for why one should read, let’s see how the thickass literary heavy-hitters stand up:

Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace
Fleisch-Kincaid Index: 9.3
Complex Words: 11%
Words Per Dollar: 25,287

The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing
Fleisch-Kincaid Index: 7.3
Complex Words: 9%
Words Per Dollar: 24,553

The Recognitions by William Gaddis
Fleisch-Kincaid Index: 8.4
Complex Words: 9%
Words Per Dollar: 25,458

Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon
Fleisch-Kincaid Index: 9.5
Complex Words: 10%
Words Per Dollar: 24,086

The Royal Family by William T. Vollmann
Fleisch-Kincaid Index: 6.6
Complex Words: 9%
Words Per Dollar: 31,532

Ulysses by James Joyce
Fleisch-Kincaid Index: 6.8
Complex Words: 10%
Words Per Dollar: 16,777

The Gold Bug Variations by Richard Powers
Fleisch-Kincaid Index: 8.5
Complex Words: 14%
Words Per Dollar: 20,944

And here are the winners.

Best Words Per Dollar Value: William T. Vollmann
Author You’ll Need Your Dictionary For: Richard Powers
Most Difficult to Read: Thomas Pynchon (w/ David Foster Wallace a close second)
Easiest to Read: William T. Vollmann (w/ James Joyce a close second)

A Tour of “Cliterary” Blogs and Websites — XXXVIII

The other day, while bemoaning the fact that my tongue had not touched a clitoris in seventeen years and remembering that my life had become so vapid and meaningless that I had resorted to this ongoing “tour” of cliterary blogs in an effort to get linkage (4,300 visitors last week! Thank you, Terry Teachout!), I came across this letter in one of my scholarly periodicals:

Dear Penthouse Letters:

My wife and I were trying to spice up our sex life. One evening, she suggested that I dress up in a human-size cocker spaniel costume. I asked her why she wanted me to do this. And she confessed that she had been dissatisfied with me for some time. She had resorted to illicit relations with Pumpkin, our pet cocker spaniel. She had persauded Pumpkin by putting a Milkbone up her cunt, which Pumpkin proceeded to masticate upon. And then, attracted by my wife’s smell, Pumpkin proceeded to perform cunnilingus on my wife.

I must confess that after hearing this, I was torn as to whether I could even waggle my tongue within my wife’s inner recesses and, in particular, her clit. But once I had donned the dog suit, I became comfortable with performing cunnilingus — often with Pumpkin helping out whenever he craved a Milkbone.

— A NEW KIND OF DOGGY STYLE, Fayetteville, NC

Allowing “A New Kind of Doggy Style” a little leeway, we can see that this isn’t a sad story at all. It seems to me that his wife has gusto and a creative solution to an ongoing problem. Cunnilingus has always struck me as a practice that is, quite frankly, too much effort for the typical male. Why should anyone be burdened by it? Further, why should anyone write about it when their critical skills are bankrupt? The short answer, I do believe, is that these cliterary bloggers are not critics. They are that rare species of thinker known as the enthusiast. And they should spend less time writing about the clit and more time licking it. One should grant these moonlighters scant stock, given that the real cliterary enthusiasts, however misguided, are hidden behind locked doors, evading strange and antediluvian North Carolina laws that are, rather inexplicably, still on the books.

In fact, it seems to me that some of these conditions are reflected in cliterary blogs such as John Bruce’s. I’ve already discussed Bruce’s failure to say anything positive about the clitoris. He writes like an embittered and impoverished muskrat who has not fondled a bare breast in some time or, failing that, a man who would need an instruction manual to discover the advantages and pleasures of his own cock. One can infer from Bruce’s writing that his penis is quite small and flaacid.

In fact, if you were to put an ice cream cone in Bruce’s hands, he would probably throw it instantly into the garbage can, declaring it a foolish distraction. So miserable a man is Bruce that one wonders why he expends endless pages saying nothing but negative things about the clitoris. Perhaps, if properly coaxed, Bruce might learn to lick and love the clit.

But then why should he? What are we likely to get from a man so hopeless in reasoning, so clueless in connecting, and so diffident about the clit? Why did you choose to write about the clit, John? If you don’t like clits, shouldn’t you consider the anatomy of another gender?

Further, there is the strange association of clits with some unspecified hillock known as Mt. Hollywood. While any competent scholar is well aware that much of the porn industry can be found in the Los Angeles area, why stand in the shadow of some dubious mountain? Is it possible that Bruce will never climb the mountain? Even a few steps up the incline? Even in a half-hearted way?

I’m still learning more about these cliterary bloggers, but I’m sure we can all agree that careless reading and an inflexible mindset is the ultimate justification for being an inveterate wanker.

The Moral of the Story: If You Haven’t Changed Your First Name to “Jonathan” by Now, You Should Consider It

A hearty congratulations to Jonathan Lethem, who won a MacArthur Genius Grant this year. Lethem, beyond being a standout correspondent, is also an adventurous stylist and one of the few novelists working today who has written successfully across multiple genres. If you haven’t yet read the gritty The Fortress of Solitude or his futuristic take on Chandler, Gun, with Occasional Music, get thee to a bookstore and sup.

[UPDATE: Matt Cheney argues that while Lethem is deserving, “this choice continues the unfortunate trend of the MacArthur award often going to writers who have already found a lot of success.”]

I’ve Got Your POD Right Here. It’s Called the Next-Generation Camera Phone

New Scientist: “Commuters in Japan already anger bookstore owners and newsagents by using existing cellphone software to try to take snapshots of newspaper and magazine articles to finish reading on the train to work. This is only possible because some phones now offer very rudimentary optical character recognition (OCR) software which allows small amounts of text to be captured and digitised from images.”

So how will the publishing industry respond to this? Digital watermarks? A new paper with some harsh reflective surface? Each book issued with a digital code? As the OCR-enabled camera phones make their way into the hands of the public, I foresee a small spike in book piracy four years from now.

No Love for Slow Man

Not even from Francine Prose, who opines, “The problem was that every word I was reading was not only reminding me of, but making me desperately wish that I was reading, another book that, as it happens, begins with a man struck by an automobile while riding his bicycle, and that also follows his slow, painful attempts to recover some damaged, recognizable version of his former self. That is Denton Welch’s extraordinary A Voice Through a Cloud, his last novel, published unfinished and posthumously in 1950.”

[UPDATE: The Literary Saloon has a nice overview of the Slow Man coverage thus far.]

Zadiegate

[PREFACE: For those who are coming into this ridiculous issue (as quite rightly pointed out by Maud) late into the game, I apologize for giving into the kind of gossipmongering that passes so ignobly for journalism these days. In the end, all you need to know is this: Zadie Smith said something negative about England. It wasn’t really that big of a deal but Smith flipped. And the statement itself can’t really be corroborated because the journalist who initially asked the question keeps changing his story with additional points of “clarification” without producing any evidence. Thus, without hard evidence and with Smith’s hazy memories, the real answer as to what was said lies somewhere between the two extremes. This is neither an indictment of the journalist (Boris Kachka) nor of Smith. It is, rather simply, the only conclusion that can be drawn. And this has, contrary to the steaming dollops of high and mighty ethics being preached by all parties (including myself), become the most tedious issue ever exposed on this blog.]

Earlier in the week, I was prepping to have Zadie Smith on The Bat Segundo Show. Publicist Stella Connell, a sweet lady with an adorable Texan dialect, and I talked and we confirmed the details.

I hadn’t placed too much stock in the remarks and the subsequent press reaction that Maud had dug up. The remarks originated in this September 12, 2005 New York Magazine article written by Boris Kachka. Ms. Smith had said, “I’m not interested in being stared at in coffee shops. America’s a big country. In America only a few weirdos read. I mean, it seems like a lot of weirdos, but that’s because you’re a very big country.” But what really set the Sunday Times on edge was this statement about England:

“It’s a disgusting place. It’s the way people look at each other on the train; just general stupidity, madness, vulgarity, stupid TV shows; aspirational arseholes, money everywhere.”

The UK press had a field day. But maybe Ms. Smith was having a bad day. After all, no place is perfect. Everyone vents from time to time. As passionate as I am about San Francisco, I’ve bitched regularly about the vapid yuppies in Cole Valley, the horrid policies against the homeless, and the air of corruption and favoritism that fuels pretty much every political decision that many of these genteel crooks at City Hall make. And I suspect that Kachka caught Smith during a moment when she was bummed out. It happens.

But Smith had insisted during a Radio 4 interview that this statement was taken out of context. For those who don’t have audio capabilities, here’s the selective transcript:

INTERVIEWER: This morning, you’re widely quoted as describing England as “a disgusting place.” What is it that makes you say that?
SMITH: I didn’t say that. I’m incredibly embarassed it’s in the papers. And I’ve been a bit weepy this morning because of it. [choked up a bit]
INTERVIEWER: So it’s not what you think.
SMITH: No, of course not. I was asked by an American journalist. He kept on saying, “England’s changed a lot. Hasn’t it? And we get your trash TV.” And I said, “Yes, I love England, but the things which I don’t love about it are those things.” I don’t love trash TV. And I’m sad when I see people glaring at each other on the tube. And those things upset me. But they only upset you when you love your country so much. ‘Cause you’re sad when you feel bits of it to be in decline. But you know.

Maud wasn’t the only one looking into this. Galleycat’s Ron Hogan actually tracked down Boris Kachka and had him play the tape, noting, “[S]he certainly did say those words in that order, whatever the context might have been and whether she’s willing to stand by them now.”

But yesterday afternoon, I received a voicemail from Cornell stating that “all interviews are canceled.” She didn’t state a reason and was very apologetic.

But what was the source of this decision? Did it come from the head of Penguin or from Smith herself?

I telephoned Kachka and got in touch with him this morning. He said that, in hindsight, he shouldn’t have played the tape for Ron because it sets a bad precedent. He told me that the comments regarding England had come completely from Zadie Smith’s own mouth through a tangential riff.

I was particularly curious if Kachka had asked a followup question after Ms. Smith had said those words about England. After all, when you’re talking with someone during an interview, you want to get as complete a picture as possible.

Kachka did ask one followup question, “What’s so bad about England right now?” Kachka insists that the conversation didn’t come from trash TV, but from the more general rubric of politics and about Smith being in the States during 9/11.

He also noted, rather ominously, “She doesn’t realize that when journalists come under suspicion, we have the tapes to prove it.” He didn’t play the tape for me.

This morning, I also called Cornell back, hoping to get an answer. Cornell told me that Smith had been overscheduled and that she had been forced to cut back because she did not want to exhaust herself. The decision had come directly from Smith herself and Penguin supported the decision. But at the back of my mind, I wondered if the Kachka interview had something to do with Smith’s decision.

In Smith’s defense, it’s fair to say that Kachka was only one of dozens of interviews that Smith gave to New York journalists and that no author can be expected to recall the precise details of every single interview.

So what’s the answer? Possibly somewhere in between. Smith probably recalls that there was indeed a tangent, but may not recall the exact nature of said tangent. But if the question itself is, as Kachka states, a negative one (“What’s so bad about England?”), then it’s small wonder that a negative response was given.

[UPDATE: Maud points to this press release issued by Penguin Books on September 9, 2005.]

[UPDATE 2: Boris Kachka left me a voicemail this morning sometime after this was posted. To add an additional level of irony to this tale, he says that the report here has been taken out of context. Here’s what he had to say:

“Hi, it’s Boris from New York Magazine. I realize that I’m probably making this worse. But I read your account on your blog and it still misrepresents what I was telling you, which is that I did not ask her — I did not lead her in a negative direction. And I have the transcript up in front of me. I’m not going to read it to you. But I will tell you exactly how it went. I asked her whether she protested the war when she was in Boston. She said, ‘Well in the most minimal way. Just like anybody else. But it’s the most European corner of America. So I wasn’t, you know, being stood on my doorstep or anything.’ And then she said, ‘But in a way I’m glad that I was in America and not here. Because I would have been saddened to see what happened during that time. Now that I’m back and I can see it, it makes me very sad. It’s a different country. When I talk about England now, I just think about the England I love and it’s gone. It just doesn’t exist anymore.’

“And that’s when I asked, ‘What’s so bad about England?’ And she said, ‘It’s everything.’ Blah blah blah. You know the rest. So there you go. There’s your full context. And I really don’t think this whole thing should be scooped anymore. But there you go. I’m not going to let this be a he said, she said. That’s exactly what happened. So…thanks.”]

[UPDATE 3: Liz Spiers takes me to task for implying that Kachka was in the wrong. The criticism here is not about flattering a subject or even defending her (besides, I’m more focused on ferreting out the facts), but of uncovering the full complexities of what Smith was feeling about England rather than leaping to some grand assertion: SMITH HATES ENGLAND in 48 point type. I’d say that the “What’s so bad about England?” question, particularly after Kachka’s voicemail, still strikes me as a negative question. Was the interview conducted shortly after the London Underground bombings? If so, my hunch here is that Smith was going through some mixed up emotions. Why didn’t Kachka ask Smith, “Surely there are good things about England.” That would have clarified Smith’s position instead of reinforcing the negative line of questioning. Human feelings often shift into gray areas. And the problem with all the hype from this article is that it fails to even consider this.

If Kachka “has the tapes to prove it,” then why not release the entire tape or the entire transcript to set the record straight. Why pussyfoot around the question with the whole “And then she said” moment between two passages, as he noted in his voicemail to me. It suggests that Kachka is omitting some section of the transcript.

However, I should also note that Ms. Smith is an adult and thus fully capable of knowing what happens when she opens her mouth.

I still contend, without any favoritism directed towards Smith or Kachka (unlike Spiers), that the answer lies somewhere between the two extremes. ]

The Bat Segundo Show #8

Approximate Interview Date: Early September 2005 in a locked hotel conference room.

Author: Bret Easton Ellis

Condition of Mr. Segundo: Cold and impoverished.

Subjects Discussed: The two Brets, finding the voice of Bret the narrator, “ten years on an outline,” metafiction, origins of Lunar Park, Stephen King, the use of brand name description in fiction, the rules of fiction, subtext, B.S. Johnson, the dramaturgy of writing about writers, episodic fiction vs. narrative fiction, pushing boundaries, 9/11, irony, the generation between 1961 and 1971 and the generation after, keeping track of young writers, Stanley Elkin and being cognizant of humor, responsibility within Ellis’ work, on being a wuss, television vs. fiction, BEE’s anger, the Lev Grossman profile, 1941, on being a movie person, the Jayne Dennis website, Jamie Clarke’s Vernon Downs, Ellis’s politics and American Psycho, rich people, corruption, Roger Avary and film adaptations.

When You’re a Fink, You’re a Fink All the Way

If you have a Yahoo email account and you eventually find yourself writing about something that might be considered inexplicably dangerous (if not now, then perhaps in the not-too-distant future), you may want to ensure that your personal information is fabricated. Yahoo co-founder Jerry Yang has confirmed that Yahoo provided journalist Shi To’s private information to Chinese authorities. The journalist was then sentenced to ten years in prison. What was Shi’s crime? He dared to spell out media restrictions in place within China. Former President Bill Clinton also weighed in at an Internet forum, saying, “The internet, no matter what political system a country has, and our political system is different from yours, the internet is having significant political and social consequences and they cannot be erased.” He then went into a panegyric about how none of this had any negative effects on e-commerce.

It’s good to know that in the Clinton and Yang vision of the Internet, business comes first and that political extradition and freedom of speech is as expungable as a spam message.

The Christian Science Monitor: A History of E****** — First Draft

Some scholars have suggested that it all began with a 1749 novel written by John Cleland. The novel’s title was composed of two words: The first being a slightly naughty term for one’s, uh — how shall we put it? That thing you sit on. The second being more acceptable for the Christian ear: namely, “Hill.” However, this hill must be clearly distinguished from the immoral “thrills” one might find on another “Hill” immortalized in rock and roll music. Or perhaps not. It’s clear that the parallels here are inevitable. I must warn you, dear reader, that should you spend at least five minutes contemplating this issue, you may find yourself spending most of the weekend praying to God for forgiveness.

This book, written by Cleland when he was in debtor’s prison, was the first e***** novel. It depicts a certain young woman’s initiation into things we really can’t talk about in this publication. Let’s just say that Ms. Hill, the eponymous character, wasn’t exactly spending all of her spare time cross-stitching.

One might argue whether these unspeakable actions should even be put to pen. The risk of offending so many people clearly outweighs the value of rationally discussing what some have argued to be an everyday and harmless issue.

And yet, almost cavalierly, the writers couldn’t refrain from writing. There were volumes penned by Frank Harris in which this ineffable subject was broached. D.H. Lawrence, thought to be innocent enough with his classic story “The Rocking Horse Winner,” demonstrated his true colors and ineluctable perversion with “Lady Chatterley’s L****,” causing at least four septuagenarians to have cardiac arrests before they had finished reading the first chapter. And then there was that Henry Miller guy who wrote about what shall henceforth be referred to in this essay as It, banging out descriptive passage after descriptive passage of It It It with all the gusto of a man who hadn’t discovered the advantages of tight breeches…

[Whoops! Did I just write that? Editor, please strike.]

…with all the gusto of a man who hadn’t discovered the advantages of, uh, abstienence.

Soon, e****** became a cottage industry. Together with its less steamier cousin, the H******** romance, everyday readers became drawn to cheaply produced paperbacks that not only featured vivid descriptions of It, but dared to suggest It with muscular, long-haired hunks [Editor: Is that too much?] rescuing ripe beauties clad in diaphonous clothing [Oh come on, Editor, you asked me to write about it!].

Gawker Homage to boo.com?

What drugs has Denton been given his design team (perhaps in lieu of proper compensation)? The Sploid redesign is entirely unnavigable, makes little sense from an aesthetic standpoint (Drudge homage? WTF?), and doesn’t even have time-date stamps to separate old news from new news. In short, it’s a waste of Ken Layne’s talents, because the six-column setup has no apparent purpose, much less a heading or a guide or a structure that normal human beings might utilize to, oh say, peruse a site’s contents.

Letter #2 from Donald Trump

To Mr. Reluctant:

Sir! It has been mere hours since I last sent you my all-important message. And you have not recognized the Power of Trump. When I say that I will destroy you, I mean business. Why have you not yet acknowledged the true evils of this world? Does your lack of response indicate that you side with the Mark Singers and the Jeff McGregors of this world? I am a man capable of accurately pinpointing manic depression after being interviewed for two hours by a New Yorker staffer. Understand that you are treading on dangerous ground.

As you sit there enjoying the comforts of your lower middle-class hovel, Reluctant, I am making precisely $2,425.37 for every breath of air I take in. Do the math. That’s a lot of revenue from inhaling alone. You should see what my ledger looks like any time I have blood work. It is frightening, Reluctant. It moves mountains. It is more income than you will ever see in a single month.

I will fly to you on my private jet, Mr. Reluctant. I will humiliate you on my television show, The Apprentice, and make you sorry that your momma ever popped you from her womb. I will use every resource at my disposal to articulate to you that you are clearly in the wrong and that your thoughts are without validity.

Mr. Reluctant, if that is indeed your real name, the New Yorker was saved only recently by blatant advertising — advertising that I helped to effect. David Remnick is a good man, one who has serviced me now for some years. Why are there no advertisements on this petty website of yours? Why aren’t you cashing in on this blogging trend?

I have read Dale Carnegie. I have read Lee Iacocca. I have read the masters that you deign to dismiss. Because of this, you will never find me without a clean pair of socks or enjoying a day without an expensive hot meal.

I hope, Mr. Reluctant, that you are wise enough to understand that, by joining me and allowing me to subsidize your editorial content, you are not selling out, but buying in. You too can have a Melania. (And no, her name is not pronounced like melanonin! That’s your problem, Reluctant. You continue to find humor in the strangest topics. Who do you think you are? A Merry Prankster? Yes, I have read Ken Kesey too!)

Why not have a hearty taste of my kind of America? Everybody else is.

Have your people call mine and take out a high-interest loan with my company.

DONALD TRUMP
New York

A Special Letter from Donald Trump

To the Editor of Return of the Reluctant:

I can remember the day when Marla told me, “Hey buddy, toupee or no toupee, it’s the size of your wallet that counts. No matter how ugly you get, I’ll still happily jump your bone.” Five minutes after she said this, I was on the phone with my attorneys about a prenup. But as we all know, somehow I messed it all up.

You might call me a heartless tycoon. But I’m smarter and better than you. Feelings are the stuff that I reserve for scoundrels named Mark Singer, whose liver I am now using to wipe the floor of one of my many apartments. Let that be a lesson to my critics.

I like to think that my heart of anthracite is an advantage. It keeps my ego in focus. There’s a big DT in my bathtub and a mirror above my bed so that I can get a nice view of Melania’s merkin. Can you say as much?

Whether you like it or not, facts are facts and hubris is hubris. And when it comes to contending with the real pests of our society — namely, beady-eyed freelancers skipping from gig to gig, I know how to sway my muscles.

Jeff McGregor will never be published in the New York Times Book Review again, nor anywhere else. He will work as a waiter for the rest of his life. Because I am Donald Trump and he is not. My terror is great and it has struck godless fear into Sam Tanenhaus’ soul. Your brownie watches, Mr. Reluctant — Mr. Champion, Mr. Segundo, whoever you are — no longer apply. Just before publishing my letter, I made sure that Mr. Tanenhaus’ hair would turn prematurely white. Let his consternation serve as a warning.

Do not dare to cross my path, for I am a human Katrina who sold off his sense of humor on eBay three years ago for the princely sum of $2.2 million. That’s what I call business.

DONALD TRUMP
New York

Tideland: Visionary Filmmaking or Just Plain Bad?

While Galleycat is quick to point to some of the book-to-film successes at the Toronto Film Festival, the literary adaptation that has us interested is Terry Gilliam’s adaptation of Mitch Cullin’s Tideland. Is this a comeback for Gilliam? Could it be that Gilliam has produced a film that is too sui generis? The early reports so far have been interesting:

  • Cinematical: “[W]hile I found the film extremely easy to follow, there are definitely some uneasy scenes. But the result is what I believe to be a wonderful film as told through the eyes of a little girl with such an overactive imagination she can get through situations of death, mental handicap, drug abuse and poverty without batting an eye. This young charismatic actress is amazing and carries the whole film.”
  • Screen Daily: “Tideland does look very beautiful, with Nicola Pecorini capturing some striking images of cornfields and countryside and the camera constantly prowling and tilting to emphasis the way reality has become skewered. The craftsmanship is small compensation in a film that is too often merely weird and uninvolving.”
  • Reuters: “Terry Gilliam’s ‘Tideland’ provoked some of the strongest negative reactions. Told from the surreal point of view of the daughter of two junkies, played by Jeff Bridges and Jennifer Tilly, it inspired some 30 walkouts halfway through a press and industry screening.”
  • The Boston Globe: “The movie’s a classic case of a gifted filmmaker’s obsessions finally sailing over the edge and taking him along, but as the prairie Candide at the movie’s center, 10-year-old Jodelle Ferland has a talent to make Fanning call her agent in alarm.”
  • Indiewire: “…big-ticket items like Cameron Crowe’s ‘Elizabethtown’ and Terry Gilliam’s ‘Tideland’ sank like lead balloons.”

Hiatus (Sorta)

We’ve been working our keisters off here. Two Segundo shows in the works (one we hope to get up tonight with a very special guest), with a third one on the way. So literary news and the like are going to be slow for the time being. Bear with us.

In the meantime, please enjoy:

  • Mark Sarvas talking with John Banville, Part I.
  • Bud Parr’s response to A.O. Scott’s NYT article comparing The Believer and n + 1.
  • Laura Miller’s humorless response to T.C. Boyle’s excellent new short story collection, Tooth and Claw. (Yes, Scott, I know, I told you it was “a mixed bag,” but that was on the basis of reading the first three stories, only one of which was so-so. Since then, the collection has picked up remarkably and I recommend it to all RotR readers looking to restore their faith in the short story, if not for the deliciously caustic finale of “Jubilation” and the near perfect “The Swift Passage of the Animals” alone, the latter being a witty depiction of dating loaded with nuance and quiet metaphors that are apparently quite invisible to Ms. Miller.)
  • Laila Lalami reviews Desertion in The Nation.

San Francisco Theatre Podcasts

The San Francisco Fringe Festival started this week. We’ve been so busy that, disgracefully, we haven’t yet seen any of the shows, but plan on attending a few this weekend and next week. (And if you’re in the San Francisco area, this is a great way to load up on cheap indie theatre. Each show is no more then $9.) Fortunately, the SFist has an early report and there should be more from Chronicle theatre critic Robert Hurwitt over the weekend.

But here’s the really cool thing: This year, the Fringe (or, rather, the fantastic Michael Rice) is offering podcasts with many of the performers, which can be accessed on the main Fringe page and found at the Cool As Hell Theatre Podcast. Among the highlights: El Camino Loco, Show Me Where It Hurts and, in particular, this brilliant podcast about failed artistry with Kirk White.

Up Next from Ms. Skurnick: Check-Out, No Vacancy and Thank the Gods That This Isn’t the Bates Motel.

You’ve no doubt heard of Laila Lalami’s Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits (and rest assured, we here at Return of the Reluctant haven’t even begun to start our coverage of that puppy; stay tuned; there’s something special in the works). But there’s another fantastic litblogger out with a tome. Lizzie Skurnick, aka The Old Hag, has just published a poetry collection called Check-In, which you can now order from Caketrain.

Birnbaum Alert

Robert Birnbaum, who, contrary to current rumors, is not interviewing book warehouse workers, talks with Frederick Busch. And since proper beer nomenclature is of pressing importance these days, I should point out that Mr. Busch has no relation to any novelist named Anheuser.

In any event, these two cats talk about everything from poetry to nameless dogs to Stephen King to the four greatest Hollywood novels. Joe Bob says check it out.

No Second Scoop of Ice Cream for You!

It looks like things are gearing up in Alameda come November for the Alameda Book Fair. A few authors have been signed up, 826 Valencia is hosting “a workshop for youth (ages 14-19) who love to write, or want to,” and there’s even an “open mic poetry reading.” Unfortunately, the reading has set some ground rules for those hoping to push the envelope:

(one poem only, please, and keep it PG-13!)

I suppose perfervid (or perhaps we should say “perverted”) poets will have to unload their family-friendly 400-stanza cantos in order to fall within this threshold.