Year / 2005

by Edward Champion

Disagree With a Politician and You’re a “Security Threat” — Even When You’re a Minor

Common Dreams reports on a very disturbing incident that occurred at a Delaware Barnes & Noble (as more specifically reported here). Eighteen year-old Hannah Shaffer saw that Senator Rick Santorum had a book called It Takes a Family and that he would be reading at Barnes & Noble. Shaffer decided to go there with with some friends the idea of telling Santorum that he disagreed with his policies. Noting Santorum’s stance on gay rights, someone suggested that Santorum sign a book by Dan Savage.

Apparently, an advance team working for Santorum overheard this, concluded that Shaffer and her friends were “a security threat” and asked them to leave by a Delaware State Policeman named Mark DiJiacomo. The group was then told by DiJiacommo that anyone who didn’t leave would be sent to prison immediately on a trespassing charge. Most of the people left, with the exception of two brave kids named Stacey Galperin and Miriam Rocek, where more threats apparently ensued.

Even worse: DiJiacomo didn’t consult B&N’s store management and he was on Santorum’s employ.

by Edward Champion

An Open Letter to Fake Squealy Women

Dear Fake Squealy Women:

First off, allow me to distinguish between you and your counterparts: specifically, those genuinely squealy women or women with naturally adenoidal voices. I have no specific grievance towards this particular population cluster. Because they are, at least, authentic. Rather, my beef is with you.

Here’s the way it works: Every so often, as I listen or otherwise get my tongue tied up in knots over you, you open your mouth and begin to talk back, thus beginning an amicable colloquy. With most women, this is quite pleasant and intoxicating — particularly if you are smart, sexy and playful. But, with you, fake squealy women, what transpires during this rejoinder is something infinitely disheartening. You see, instead of responding with a natural voice, you decide to adopt a squealy and nasal air, as if the entire world has somehow transformed into helium and entered the confines of your skulls. There is a decided effort and highly noticable inflection in the words you speak. There is often fake laughter directed at statements we make that are not, in fact, jokes but sober ruminations that we are intending to share with you and feel you out on. Yet somehow you think that we have absconded with Oscar Wilde’s throne. What you put on here is clearly a performance. And yet you insist that this is the way you naturally talk. Little do you realize, fake squealy women, that despite being male and relatively clueless, we are not dumb. We do in fact talk with your friends and ferret out the truth.

Even in non-dating circumstances, fake squealy women, you still do this, particularly if you are employed in the public relations or human resources department. Why is this? Do you want to perpetuate this heinous gender divide? Do you want to sustain the atavistic notion that women are somehow dumber than men? Do you not realize how unbecoming and unattractive these faux oxygen-sapping vocal inflections are? Do you not realize, fake squealy women, that when you are over thirty and still doing this that you come across not as cute but sad?

My obsession with sex and the female anatomy is no less ineluctable, juvenile and boundless than that of my colleagues. Nevertheless, there is a clear line of demarcation between putting on a funny voice for a bit of adolescent fun and objectifying yourself by completely coming across as an idiotic airhead (when you are likely smarter). I’m hoping that I can appeal to all of you to stop this damn nonsense and speak with your genuine voices. When you have a conversation with a man longer than five minutes, I should point out that the man is not a policemen and this is not a speeding ticket that you are talking yourself out of.

Or perhaps, fake squealy women, you’re terrified of being yourself.

Very truly yours,

Edward Champion

by Edward Champion

A Case for the Larger Canvas

Today, the New York Times noted the arrival of Paul Anderson’s debut novel, Hunger’s Brides, commenting upon its 1,360 page length rather than a more important attribute to gauge — namely, how this book rates as literature.

I’ve never understood people who complain about length in art. One encounters this with film critics as they are bombarded with three-hour Oscar epics. But why should length even matter? To me, it smacks of a petty excuse to kvetch or to boast, rather than assess a book’s worth. Besides, there are plenty of 200-pagers I’ve read that drag as dully as a man holding onto his chastity in a motel room.

However, like Scott, I find myself ineluctably drawn to these mammoth affairs. (Case in point: I’ve read every comparative book mentioned with the exception of Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy (which Brian managed to tackle for all of us.) I suppose it’s because I really enjoy the pleasure of getting lost within a world, the specifics of characters or a particular vernacular — the kind of submergal that a sustained length (or its cousin, a sustained density) is likely to offer. I couldn’t imagine, for example, William T. Vollmann’s The Royal Family being shorter. The Royal Family‘s considerable length almost forces the reader to come to terms with the unpleasant underworld depicted. Likewise, Richard Powers’ The Time of Our Singing, at around 640 pages, is the kind of family saga with historical context that a shorter book couldn’t possibly suggest.

Some have argued that this so-called “prodigious fiction” is an inevitable byproduct of the Age of Information (perhaps in collusion with the word processor). But if the world has indeed become more complicated and our knowledge of the world does indeed double every fourteen months, does it not make sense to remain flexible and supportive of these larger canvases?

[UPDATE: Mark weighs in, but I think he’s confusing the argument. It’s not a question of heft being tantamount to significance, but the issue involves whether the story itself works. To reiterate my argument, I think it’s a bit superstitious to refuse a book because of length.]