Charles endures IKEA:
The website, the catalogue, and the floor model were all carefully labelled “King.” They most definitely did NOT say “King if you MacGyver two together with some sort of ghetto-ass connector.” I’m literally turning red as I give the Socialist bastard the all-American one-finger salute, walking back to the checkstand, muttering under my breath that I will never, ever buy another Ericsson product again, on principle.
WEEKLY QUESTION: Will this week’s NYTBR reflect today’s literary and publishing climate? Or will editor Sam Tanenhaus demonstrate yet again that the NYTBR is irrelevant to today’s needs? If the former, a tasty brownie will be sent to Mr. Tanenhaus’ office. If the latter, the brownie will be denied.
I didn’t receive so much as a thank you from Mr. Tanenhaus for the Fat Witch shipment I sent him last week. That’s okay. I’m sure he’s a busy guy.
Even so, if this week’s NYTBR is any indication of things to come, it’s unlikely that Tanenhaus will be getting brownies again anytime soon. This week, it’s business as usual. Tanenhaus has perhaps outdone himself in the irrelevancy department by including this unpardonable two-page review of the Jane Fonda memoir. Whatever your thoughts on Jane Fonda, it’s safe to say that she’s no Vanessa Redgrave or Peter Ustinov. Nor does she need any further press from the considerable largesse eked out by Random House. Why the NYTBR would see fit to depart from the momentum it built up with last week’s brownie victory is a mystery.
I think I’ve been a little too easy on Sam. To rectify any miscalculations, in addition to the three trusty tests, I’ve introduced the BROWNIE BITCHSLAP FACTOR. From now on, should Tanenhaus include content that doesn’t befit the Sunday books section of a major newspaper, he will have additional points deducted against him.
So without further ado, the gloves come off:
BROWNIE BITCHSLAP FACTOR: Jane Fonda? Wasting Maureen Dowd’s time? What were you thinking, Sam? SLAP! (Minus .6 points.)
BROWNIE BITCHSLAP FACTOR: What the hell do Sex in the City-style self-help books have to do with literature? SLAP! (Minus .8 points. Introduction of David Orr column = +.8 bitchslap handicap. End result: 0)
Onto the tests:
THE COLUMN-INCH TEST:
Fiction Reviews: 1 2-page comics overview (half comics, half nonfiction, 1 page calculated), 1 page “On Poetry,” 1 1-1/2 page review, 1 half-page Crime roundup, 1 one-page Fiction Chronicle. (Total books: 11. Total pages: 5.)
Non-Fiction Reviews: 1 2-page review, 1 2-page comics overview (half comics, half nonfiction, 1 page calculated), 1 page and a half review, 3 one-page reviews, 4 half-page reviews. (Total books: 11. Total pages. 9.5.)
Out of this week’s 13.5 pages of review coverage, a mere 37% has been devoted to fiction. While the introdution of David Orr’s poetry column (set to appear “every four to six weeks”) represents a long-term commitment that is better than nothing, and while some graphic novel coverage is better than nothing (of which more anon), “better than nothing” is hardly satisfactory. These are throwaway gestures which demonstrate Tanenhaus’s almost total disinterest in current literature.
That a Jane Fonda memoir would get six times the column inches of a new Donald E. Westlake novel illustrates that either Tanenhaus hasn’t learned that Barbarella is a crapppy movie that most people outgrow before 25 or that, popular writers such as Alexander McCall Smith aside, genre ghettoization is all part of the program.
In fact, if you haven’t been keeping score, it looks like Tanenhaus will never pass the column-inch test (which requires a 48% minimum to fiction and poetry). The last six weeks show that, far from featuring “all the news that’s fit to print,” Sam has shown again and again that even compressed fiction reviews get fewer column inches than the latest political snoozefest:
March 20, 2005: 44%
March 27, 2005: 41%
April 3, 2005: 32%
April 10, 2005: 34.7%
April 17, 2005: 44.4%
April 24, 2005: 37%
So the question now is whether the reader lowers the bar or that the reader demands greater accountability. From where I’m sitting, the choice is obvious.
Brownie Point: DENIED!
THE HARD-ON TEST:
This test concerns the ratio of male to female writers writing for the NYTBR.
Two women review fiction. And, in fact, the longest review goes to Janet Malcolm, who reviews Alexander McCall Smith’s latest from a gender and biblical perspective. But Malcolm’s comparison to Twain based off of five formally placed words is dubious at best and she never quite follows through on her thesis. I’ve encountered the sentence “I do not think so” used in a humorous literary context 300 times in the past two years — perhaps fifty times alone in Susanna Clarke’s overrated book Jonathan Strange & Mrs. Norrell. But Twain’s irony involved something craftier than a tonal rejoinder (think Huckleberry Finn deciding to save Jim).
As any liberal arts major knows, irony itself involves the disparity between what is said and what is meant. And the excerpt Malcolm quotes two people who are clueless about Freud. But that’s not necessarily ironic. It’s endearing and colloquial, and it offers a particular perspective to the reader. But methinks Malcolm’s overstating the case here. Besides, as any good patriot knows, irony died sometime after September 11.
And was it really necessary to announce not one, but two articles that confirmed Smith’s subtext of AIDs in Botswana? Article clippings might get you a gold star from a junior high school history teacher (perhaps even a hug and a “way to go” in the remarks section of a report card). But in the journalism world, there’s a little thing called an established fact (i.e., something that anyone can find out in thirty seconds) that allows an editor to cut down a rambling review for more pressing matters – like, say, more fiction coverage.
Beyond this and Marilyn Stasio’s mystery column, there’s the aforementioned Jane Fonda review by Maureen Dowd and three other women covering nonfiction coverage (among eleven reviews). Women get disregarded once again. Not a surprise.
Brownie Point: DENIED!
THE QUIRKY PAIR-UP TEST:
Eugenia Zukerman’s take on a Stradivari memoir is the kind of unexpected arts book coverage that’s rare these days in the NYTBR Beyond this, most of the coverage has been delegated to Gray Lady staffers.
Wake me up when the revolution starts.
Brownie Point: DENIED!
CONTENT CONCERNS:
Hey, John Hodgman, get a clue about comics. For the record:
If Tanenhaus is smart, he will sack John Hodgman on the spot. If it can be believed, Hodgman comes across more ignorant than Chip McGrath did last year. If Tanenhaus is going to offer comics coverage, then he needs someone actually acquainted on the subject. At least Chip McGrath was smart enough to hire Nick Hornby.
Yes, kids, you too can become a successful self-publisher. All you have to do is shoot your lover’s wife, get national press for your story, and then you’ll stand a remote chance of yokels looking for some titilation who might just remember your name buying your memoir! Since when did the NYTBR become an overflow depository for silly Writer’s Digest articles that encourage amateurs to waste their precious savings on delusions?
This week’s Times staffer golden watch review? James Atlas.
CONCLUSIONS:
This is a first. Tanenhaus earned a negative score this week. Presumably, this means that he’ll return some of the brownies back to us. But we’d prefer if he actually clued in and amped up the coverage.
Brownie Points Denied: 3
Brownie Points Earned: 0
Brownie Bitchslap Factor: -.6 points
TOTAL BROWNIE POINTS REQUIRED FOR BROWNIE DELIVERY: 2
TOTAL BROWNIE POINTS EARNED: -.6 points
“It’s exactly the same,” he says with perfect confidence. “Why would we change anything?” — Rolling Stone
Mellow soulless pop has a new name to add to its limitless ledger. If my predictions are correct, within eighteen months, Josh Rouse will smear every Pottery Barn bedroom with his treacly ballads (too many of which reference a television blaring in the background) and have every tone-deaf yuppie tapping their toes to Rouse’s distinctive vacuity. Bad enough that there’s barely any edge to this guy. Try seeing this guy live.
On the basis of critical praise, a handful of low-key tracks, a reported “influence by the Cure and the Smiths,” and accidentally getting Rouse mixed up with somebody else, I scored nonrefundable tickets for the MSS and me. This was all part of a strange plan that involved seeing five live shows in two weeks.
But as I listened to Rouse’s catalog to prep myself for the concert, I realized that I had made a colossal mistake.
Consider Rouse’s latest album, Nashville. The lyrics and title of “Winter in the Hamptons” might mean something if you have expendable income. But its ba-ba-bas and its throwaway arpeggios make it an endurance test for anyone who enjoys being tousled around a tad. “Middle School Frown” is poetic only if you consider repetitive assaults on the counterculture and banal memories of 1983 the mark of a genius.
Rouse has no stage presence to speak of. He performs his songs exactly as they sound on his albums, which is a piss-poor reason to see anybody live. During one moment, he tried to get the audience to bray along with him, but only succeeded in drawing up a whispery and uninvolved response. And these were fans of his music, no less. In fact, Rouse is so rigid and formulaic that he’s even outlined the stage plot on his site. Presumably to aid some real estate broker in the Marina talking about her concertgoing experience the next morning, so she’ll have something to refer to just before she heads off to the cafe and orders an overpriced cafe au lait.
Rouse’s music was so soporific that I was grateful to be awakened by the sound of a motorcycle outside. Thank goodness the Fiery Furnaces are coming into town next week. After experiencing this dull singer live, I almost want to get into a bloody brawl just to remind myself that life is more than whining about some girl you didn’t have the guts to ask out.
Aliens invade London, there’s a military presence around the United Kingdom, but there’s no UNIT commander (where’s the Brigadier?). Downing Street is easily infiltrated by aliens despite stern security measure after 9/11? This isn’t Doctor Who. This is bad science fiction. If I wanted another crude monster flick, I’d watch a Jack Arnold movie.
When you’re thirty, the wiggle room for live shows narrows — even if you’ve devoted enough to hit the gym and keep a svelte figure. If you’re like me, sometimes when attending a show, you end up discovering that you’re the oldest guy on the floor. Case in point: When Tom and I went to go catch Less Than Jake a few years ago, the age disparity was so great that we felt that we needed to join the AARP. I won’t mention our humiliating efforts in the mosh pit, the subsequent huffing and puffing and unexpected aches, and the “We’re too old!”/”We’re outta shape!” sentiments which followed. Mabuse’s Special Squeeze (hereinafter “MSS”) reports that she once joined a mosh pit and the pit of young ‘uns actually moved three feet away from her!
Never has the silent pressure to get a Botox injection at the ripe young age of thirty been so rigidly enforced then at a live show. The stares of youth are perversely fascinating. They seem to think that we old ‘uns are somehow encroaching upon their turf. When in fact, it’s likelier that we old ‘uns have been following the career trajectory of a band since these young whipper-snappers were in diapers.
Despite all this, I haven’t completely given up live music. At least not yet. Because beyond the bands in question, concerts offer fantastic venues for people watching. You get your 35/17s (a bald man of 35 trying desperately to pad out his manhood by going out with someone who is not yet of drinking age, probably because he can’t find a woman within his age bracket to go see the show with and standing in the will-call line alone to collect two tickets is too humiliating). You have the couples who are often perplexed: the late twentysomething who has brought along a heavy coat and a bag, while her date is both too clueless or cocky to point her to the coat check or make her feel comfortable. And it amazes me to see what a 19 year old kid whips up from the images he conjures from the 1980s. And believe me, they’re the wrong images altogether. Last night, while catching Dogs Die In Hot Cars, the MSS and I were amazed to see that neon socks and big hair had made such a comeback. These kids were probably spermatoza when this nonsense came around the first time.
Then there are the iconoclasts: people who watch these shows alone and prefer nothing in the way of human involvement. Say hello or buy them a drink and they’ll give you a scowl. In my experience, the more mellow the band, the more extreme the iconoclast’s reaction.
But the folks I really dig are the fiftysomethings who rock out with the music regardless of the chronological chasm. I once saw a couple in their sixties dancing to Super Diamond on the second floor of the Great American Music Hall and it seemed to me a fantastic way to spend one’s autumn years.