The Writers with Drinks event went very well. My hazy memory involves the mike stand, the words, wild gesticulations on my part, and an onyx expanse of faces and laughs. The far clearer memory: I will never think of erotica quite the same way thanks to the gloriously scatological Justin Chin. You can get the full scoop on what went down from Ms. Anders, the hostess with the mostest.
When any other employee doesn’t do his job, he’s shitcanned on the spot. But if you work at Newsweek, if you don’t finish a book under review, you can write an explanation why. You don’t have to read the article. All you need to know is that the dog ate Malcolm Jones’ homework and that it’s clear that Jones forged a sick note from his parents, but somehow Jones isn’t serving detention for it. (via Orthofer)
Salman Rushdie believes that “extremism will die a natural death.” Of course, given that it often takes artificial tactics such as war, terrorism, and assorted military interventions to stub out extremism, I find it difficult to believe that extremism will die of natural causes.
Chris Abani refers to MLK as “Martin,” because he wants people to understand that King was a man. I was unaware that there were some scholars out there who understand King as a woman, but I would be curious to discern their findings. I feel uncomfortable referring to someone I haven’t met by their first name. Come on, Abani. It’s not as if you had dinner with the guy.
Booker Prize winner Kiran Desai has been called “a damned Paki.” Perhaps the solution to the UK racism problem, which I understand also creeped up during a recent installment of Big Brother, is to simply call the entire population “damned Pakis.” Why not initiate a Ministry of Human Understanding? An institution that will hire government-hired men to go door to door and call each and every citizen a “damned Paki,” whether they like it or not. Then people will begin to see the absurdity of identifying someone by ethnicity or skin color (and damning it), and perhaps there will be less of this uncivilized nonsense.
Last I heard, books didn’t have a ratings system. Last I heard, despite the movie ratings system, kids got their hands on R-rated movies anyway. Last I heard, Wendy Day hadn’t laughed once since the late ’80’s. (via The Millions)
Ian Rankin is interviewed by the Inverness Courier. Apparently, Inspector Rebus has a run-in with George W. Bush in the penultimate Rebus novel, The Naming of the Dead.
At MetaxuCafe, Damon Garr wants to know how much you read. If I had to peg down a number, I spend perhaps at least three to four hours a day reading something, much of that during my commute time. I generally try to get in a lengthy reading session on the weekend. There’s often nothing more satisfying than five or six uninterrupted hours immersed in a book. I read constantly on planes, which is why I enjoy traveling. (I was able to finish two and a half books on my last flight.) I still manage to have some semblance of a life, despite all this. And of course, like any addict, I constantly crave more, which, now that I think about it, probably makes me more obsessive about books than I realized.
Also at MetaxuCafe, Bud Parr takes a look at James Meek’s The People’s Act of Love. I haven’t read this yet, but I’ve received somewhere around seven copies of this book in the mail. Really, seven copies? Do you take me for a caffeinated hydra?
Another reason to like Hardy: he wrote love poems to his wife at 72. It’s too bad he didn’t have any Viagra. He really could have shown Emma a good time, particularly if he thrusted in time with the meter. (via Kenyon Review)
Robert Redford has demanded an apology for Iraq. Yeah, Redford, that’ll show ’em. I hereby demand an apology from Redford for all the meetings he’s shown up hours late for and all the people he’s expected to deify him over the years.
In Jules Verne’s 1882 novel Le Rayon Vert, Verne described the green flash of sunset as “a green which no artist could ever obtain on his palette, a green of which neither the varied tints of vegetation nor the shades of the most limpid sea could ever produce the like! If there is a green in Paradise, it cannot be but of this shade, which most surely is the true green of Hope.” Well, it appears that a photographer has captured the green flash on camera. It remains something of a mystery as to how Verne initially detected the flash, but some Verne scholars suspect that Verne began to see it during his famous (and often underreported) encounter with a gangrenous streaker.
Redheads won’t be having all the fun in a hundred years. In fact, there won’t be any left on this planet by 2100. I’m troubled by this. I had thought that, as a redhead (or perhaps “reddish” head, given that what remains of my hair is now more of an auburn timbre; when I was a lad, I sailed the berm with a red moptop and some unleashed sperm), I would one day produce legions of redheaded children who would then, in turn, spread their seed across the earth. I had counted upon my recessive genes to be resilient, working against insurmountable odds. But this won’t be the case at all. So have at it, lovers and casual fornicators! Get those redheads in the sack before they’re gone! (via Bookninja)
On the AMS fallout front, five publishers have been selected for the AMS creditors committee: Random House, Penguin, Hachette, Grove/Atlantic and Wisdom Publications. The Delaware Bankruptcy Court declined to form a second committee consisting of the remaining PGW clients. Whether the creditors committee will take into account the precarious burdens of indie publishers remains to be seen, but with the second committee denied, this doesn’t look good. Galleycat has more.
Over at the LBC, this quarter’s Read This! choice has been announced. Once again, The Bat Segundo Show will be teaming up with Pinky’s Paperhaus to bring you interviews with all the nominators and nominees. (And I’ll be back in business very soon on the Segundo front, as soon as I get things squared away on other fronts. There are some hot interviews coming up that you won’t want to miss.)
Is knit lit a new genre? I hope not. It’s difficult to take any word that’s close to “nitwit” seriously.
Normally, I’m all for awards that recognize both the novelist and the screenwriters behind a literary adaptation. But I must strenuously object to awarding P.D. James the Scripter. Children of Men went from potboiler to engaging cinema entirely because of Cuaron and his writers. And to award James any kind of merit for the way that these screenwriters turned a sow’s ear into a bleak purse is to reward mediocrity. What next? Giving a hack like John Grisham an award for the work done by Clyde Hayes and Francis Ford Coppola? If ever there was an honor awarded for a no talent assclown sitting on her ass, the Scripter may very well be it.
UPI reports on the Decibel Penguin Prize controversy. The prize, established to award diversity, faced serious legal action because it discriminated against Caucasians. It probably wasn’t a wise idea to introduce an award in a country where affirmative action was about as common as food without mayonnaise. Perhaps this was a case of misunderstanding with our friends across the pond. But don’t worry, folks! The oppressed white male will get yet another shot at dominating yet another literary award. Remember, folks, there’s always room for Whitey!
Paul Krassner is right. Where’s the mainstream media attention to Robert Anton Wilson’s death?
And I’m the walking dead today, folks: good for perhaps little more than a poorly translated (and poorly remembered) Swedish joke about a milkmaid in a brothel that I heard from a bleary-eyed pal in a beer hall. No putsches here, but certainly many putzes now parked on my medulla oblongata. But I’ll try and check in later.