- Ah, the folly of youth! College journalist William Sindewald had the funny idea that attending a Chris Dodd rally would reveal a limitless avalanche of hot young women hanging onto the political blowhard’s every words. And why not? Chris Dodd even has a MySpace page! He’s gotta be hip! What Sindewald found instead was a boring speech and fewer girls there than a Rush concert. Here’s a hint to aspiring young lotharios on the political trail: The hippies were the ones who got laid during the 1960s, not the Leo Strauss acolytes. (via Feministe)
- Is this NYT Health article a legitimate piece of a journalism or a movie tie-in?
- Howard Junker reports that Alfred Kazin didn’t suffer fools gladly at Amherst. There’s much more about Kazin’s belligerence towards students in Richard Cook’s forthcoming biography.
- Conversational storytelling for all to strive for: “[H]e can make opening a window seem like the most exciting and naughty thing that has ever happened.” This comes with the news that 47% of Americans have Googled themselves.
- I’m saddened to report that I have no present need for an OhMiBod vibrator, however useful the device may be. If however, you need to rock out while you stretch out, SexyWhispers is giving them away if you tell them why. (via Smart Bitches)
- Can you trust any statute over thirty? While we’re on the subject, that Sherman Antitrust Act is a doddering old bastard and, quite frankly, I’m amazed that he’s still alive, even if his existence involves mostly sucking down Jello while important companies are prevented from near total market monopolization. But don’t worry. With the current government, I’m sure they’ll euthanize Old Man Sherman quite soon!
- Joshua Furst on Mailer: “He knew who he was and he neither allowed the threat of repercussions to silence him nor shirked them when they came. This, I believe, took courage. All of which is exactly why he was such an indispensable voice in American letters and the culture at large. If Mailer often willingly played the buffoon, he did so with the knowledge that this was a sure way for him to slip free of the tyranny of his own fame.”
- Once again, Jonathan Franzen mangles an interesting argumentative position. (via Maud)
- Is shit art? And, yes, this is a literal question. (via C-Monster)
- Sam Sacks on Marilynne Robinson. (via Scott)
- Longass Q&A with Andrew Wylie. (via Sarah)
- A Bookninja interview with Tom McCarthy. And related Tintin vs. Remainder comparison. (former link via Conadlamo)
- RIP Diane Middlebrook.
- Heather Mills is too focused on “charity work” to write a sex book. Insert Benny Hill-like insinuation here.
- Scott Timberg’s article on whether 2007 has been a bad book year has been widely linked and I may respond at length to Timberg’s claims in a future post.
- This NYT article points to the decline in investigative reporting. I should note that several stories I pitched this year as investigative pieces ended up getting turned into op-ed pieces. And I know this has been the case with other journalists. (via OUP Blog)
Author / Edward Champion
Nick Denton Proclaims Himself Emperor of Gawker
In an act of hubris recalling Napoleon’s activities during the Hundred Days, Nick Denton has proclaimed himself emperor of Gawker. Apparently, Denton wasn’t impressed by any of the job applicants and deemed himself the only fit man for the position. Among Denton’s first acts as Managing Editor was the First Agrarian Blogging Reform.
But let us give Denton the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps the job pool was unpromising, if only because being paid to be publicly humiliated on a blog was really no different from working for more pay to be yelled at by a Type A attorney in an office. Or maybe it’s because most writers would rather not swim with sharks, when Gawker is already doing a fine job of jumping them.
Twelve
Whirring wind, the whistling of asthmatic ghosts, the clinks of cans and other detritus thrown out windows by careless neighbors and left to pick up in an unpredictable gust. Spooky and grandiloquent gestures in lieu of snow. The slush well melted. Two inch puddles evaporating before tomorrow morning. Footfalls beyond walls. Eight days before the unfulfilled promise of a wintry wonderland. Mere weeks before year’s end. Party poppers and streamers and the clinks of champagne flutes, but not today. The phones are dead at this zero hour, batteries left to expire and the monitors dissolving into screensavers. Everyone is shaking. Jittery souls packed in thick soles, stampeding through powdery barricades. The other half packed inside clinging to lovers and protective blankets. Times Square half-deserted, the heavy credit card swiping primed for the robust nor’easter of Penn Station procrastinators. Subways chug and conductors repeat MTA warnings. They are the lonely drivers of this city, saturating these barely populated cars with lonely chatter. The rest ride silent in cabs because it beats shivering in shelters.
The smarter and richer ones have fled to warmer places, to friends and families, to wintering — although they’ll never use that gerund. There are still places that pulse with life. Warm tableaus where everybody seems mystified that the holiday hasn’t come to pass. Which explains the reliance upon safe tunes that everybody knows like the Beatles blasted over speakers, defacing the silence and filling in for the thirty-seventh version of “Jingle Bell Rock.”
Daylight’s at a premium and everyone knows it. In particular, the nine-to-fivers are sad because they’re inside when the sun stabs through the clouds. It’s hard to smile, but jokes come easier. And sometimes there’s the prospect of a shared flask. Conversations are quieter, subjects less scintillating. It’s as if we’re all part of a mandatory Secret Santa operation. Brain cells dwindle, fires kindle. But cats and dogs jump on laps and are walked around blocks, whether sun or sleet. Kids bristle with energy and anticipation. The haul might be pretty good or anticlimactic. The alone hole up with big bottles and are left alone.
RIP Dan Fogelberg
Jonathan Ames Pilot on Showtime
Longtime readers know that many years ago, I opened an envelope in my mail that contained a hastily handwritten letter and a small, poorly Xeroxed photograph of Ed McMahon. Unlike other mysterious envelopes that came in the mail along these lines, I was not promised millions of dollars. Indeed, money was never one of the promised options — at least not immediately. But there was the promise of a mysterious potato salad recipe and guitar lessons. Both of these promised to be of a very special nature that would win me friends, further my career, and earn me more invites to BDSM parties than a teenager’s libido could possibly handle. The latter was a particularly ideal prospect, because, as the letter put it, the party invites would mean getting the opportunity to place many local political figures in sexually humiliating positions.
For all this to happen, all I’d have to do is meet a thin, cadaverous man at a crossroads and continue to mention any news involving Jonathan Ames on these pages. Well, I showed up at the crossroads in question. And the man never showed up. But being a man of my word, here is the latest piece of Jonathan Ames news.
A few years ago, Jonathan Ames did not meet a man at a crossroads and, to this very day, does not know how to make potato salad. But he did shoot a TV pilot called What’s Not to Love? And Showtime will at long last be airing this on Tuesday, December 18th at 11:30 PM, as well as on Showtime Showcase on December 19 at 1:25 AM and Showtime Too on December 20 at 4:30 AM and December 26 at 3:15 AM.
In other words, Showtime has decided that the ideal audience for Jonathan Ames’s pilot are speed freaks and insomniacs. So if you don’t have a sleeping problem or you’re not sitting on a Sudafed stockpile for ideal home brew, be sure to set your TiVo options if you have them!