Irrational Public Radio. Fun stuff. The patois is often dead-on. (via MeFi)

“What’s your permanent age?” asks someone who I do not care to name, as located by Maxine.

Well, let me try to answer this question. This morning, when I woke up, I had a permanent age of six years old as I giggled over a few juvenile things. This escalated to a permanent age of 42, because I had to do actual work, and then dipped down to about 22 or so when I headed into work and finished a nonfiction book that was written at an undergraduate’s level, but that I nevertheless enjoyed. I suppose when I recognized the book as idealistic nonsense, my permanent age shifted up to 32, only to dip down to a permanent age of 30, and rise to the age of 41 during a morning moment in which I had to be adult. During the early afternoon, my permanent age was in the shitter again, and I became 21 for about twenty minutes. Then I had to conduct an interview, and my permanent age shifted to 36. Not bad, given that this is older than my real age. Now my permanent age is somewhere around 74. Because I’m feeling quite exhausted and I complained to someone about “kids, these days” and may have even said, “Back in my day!” When I get dinner, my permanent age will return to somewhere around 35. But I’m hoping to downshift again by watching a few episodes of Battlestar Galactica tonight, because I’m behind, which will cause my permanent age to drop to 16.

Since I failed to measure the precise times and durations of these permanent ages, I’m afraid I cannot offer a sufficient answer. But that’s okay. Personally, I don’t care to be permanent anything. Because being permanent means being inert and capitulating curiosity. But I suppose permanent anything works well if you’re a cartoonist offering mundane observations about office life under the guise of “humor” while failing to find laughs in its true horrors. When the cartoonist in question is quite happy to be a fatcat by his own admission, then I’m wondering if the question is not so much an interesting philosophical debate to be shared across the blogosphere, but a veiled call to conform.

Several people have forwarded me this post, which has been picked up by the Chronicle, suspecting that I might have something intelligent to say on the whole mess. You’re probably not going to like what you’re going to hear from me, but since nobody is stepping in, I’m afraid I’m going to have to speak up soon.

I haven’t seen anyone point this out yet, but consider this: Cormac McCarthy will go on television for an Oprah interview, but Jonathan Franzen won’t?

I’ve wondered why hobbits always seem to be employed in the service sector. You never really hear of hobbit attorneys, hobbit investment bankers, hobbit doctors, hobbit teachers, or hobbit intellectuals. Really, a hobbit’s only apparent purpose is to run around like an asshole and accompany humans and elves on their quests. Which makes them sidekicks. Thus, hobbits are there to provide nothing more than comic relief. But life isn’t just about providing comic relief. Even in the role of servant, one must take some responsibility for one’s actions.

So what was the point of hobbits? Why for example didn’t they get it on with elves and have a half-elf, half-hobbit love child from time to time? Hell, why didn’t they have any sexual desires? I presume that hobbits were small yet integral in some way to Middle Earth’s economy, there to befriend non-hobbits like Aragorn and Gandalf and to remain more or less subservient the entire time, never expressing a singular self-interest. Thus, I have developed the theory that hobbits were the Burger King employees and janitors of Middle Earth, even though they seemed to possess a good deal of free time. Perhaps they didn’t need a service sector because nobody was ordering frappuccinos and everyone had settled upon drinking standard mead and blowing smoke rings.

But let us consider vocation: When wandering outside of the Shire, hobbits are not unlike antebellum slaves. Unchained, to be sure, but still the token inferiors. Even when the hobbits hit Bree in Fellowship of the Ring, they were largely ancillary figures, there to observe rather than participate. It was almost as if all the other characters put up with them because they were cute and subservient, as opposed to the intellectual and cultural equal to the men and elves. Why, for example, were there separate rooms for hobbits and men at the Inn of the Prancing Pony? Even accounting for the fact that hobbits are smaller, why not equip the rooms to serve both hobbits and men? Wouldn’t it be more cost effective, particularly at a highly frequented inn with limited vacancies, simply to have a few small roll-away beds for hobbits for the larger rooms? That such an expense would be actively carried out by the Inn of the Prancing Pony suggests a more ominous Jim Crow-like treatment between hobbits and everyone else. While hobbits do not have dark skin, they have hairy feet, as if to imply that they are a Morlock-like underground savage that has been skillfully domesticated to serve the master race of warriors and wizards.

If you ask me, Tolkien had Nietzsche very much on the brain.

This is probably why I don’t care much for Tolkien.

(Thanks to Tao Lin for inspiring these thoughts.)

I’m now only twenty days of email behind: the best it’s been in some time. Bear with me. I’m replying as fast as I can.

The entries for this year’s Best American Fantasy have been announced. To whet everybody’s appetites for this interesting and variegated collection, I’ve provided links to all of the stories that are online:

“A Hard Truth About Waste Management” by Sumanth Prabhaker
from Identity Theory

“The Stolen Father” by Eric Roe
from Redivider

“The Saffron Gatherer” by Elizabeth Hand
from Saffron & Brimstone (M Press)

“The Whipping” by Julia Elliott
from The Georgia Review

“A Better Angel” by Chris Adrian
from The New Yorker

“Draco Campestris” by Sarah Monette
from Strange Horizons

“Geese” by Daniel Coudriet
from The Mississippi Review

“The Chinese Boy” by Ann Stapleton
from Alaska Quarterly Review

“The Flying Woman” by Meghan McCarron
from Strange Horizons

“First Kisses from Beyond the Grave” by Nik Houser
from Gargoyle

“Song of the Selkie” by Gina Ochsner
from Tin House

“A Troop [sic] of Baboons” by Tyler Smith
from Pindeldyboz

“Pieces of Scheherazade” by Nicole Kornher-Stace
from Zahir

“Origin Story” by Kelly Link (excerpt)
from A Public Space

“An Experiment in Governance” by E.M. Schorb
from The Mississippi Review

“The Next Corpse Collector” by Ramola D
from Green Mountains Review

“The Village of Ardakmoktan” by Nicole Derr
from Pindeldyboz

“The Man Who Married a Tree” by Tony D’Souza
from McSweeney’s

“A Fable with Slips of White Paper Spilling from the Pockets” by Kevin Brockmeier
from Oxford American

“Pregnant” by Catherine Zeidler (excerpt)
from Hobart

“The Warehouse of Saints” by Robin Hemley
from Ninth Letter

“The Ledge” by Austin Bunn (excerpt)
from One Story

“Lazy Taekos” by Geoffrey A. Landis
from Analog

“For the Love of Paul Bunyan” by Fritz Swanson
from Pindeldyboz

“An Accounting” by Brian Evenson
from Paraspheres (Omnidawn)

“Abraham Lincoln Has Been Shot” by Daniel Alarcón
from Zoetrope: All-Story

“Bit Forgive” by Maile Chapman
from A Public Space

“The End Of Narrative (1-29; Or 29-1)” by Peter LaSalle
from The Southern Review

“Kiss” by Melora Wolff
from The Southern Review

Credits Castrate: The Voice of Walter Tetley (via Messr. Brownlee)

Mainichi Daily News: “Once the basic basin service has finished, the genitals are swathed in a chunk of mud supposed to cleanse the skin. Once they are completely covered, the woman (or women) providing the service, then show their handiwork, so to speak, until the client reaches climax, or what Spa! calls the ‘ascent to Heaven.'”

Guardian: “It is said that we are all three different people: the person we think we are (the one we have invented), the person other people think we are (the impression we make) and the person we think other people think we are (the one we fret about). You could say it would be a lifetime’s quest to reconcile this battling trinity into a seamless whole. Maybe, but for the time being I am convinced that, in Kurt Vonnegut’s words (there I go, quoting again): you are what you pretend to be.”

Lydia Millet has relaunched her website. If you haven’t read Oh Pure and Radiant Heart or Everyone’s Pretty, there are now excerpts of these books for your enjoyment — as well as an assortment of other writings. And coming in September 2007 from Soft Skull Press: How the Dead Dream. You can also listen to a conversation with her, when I was still pretty green at this interviewing thing, at The Bat Segundo Show #12.

New York Times: ” It is a difficult idea for research and development departments to accept, but one of his studies found that 82 percent of new capabilities for scientific instruments like electron microscopes were developed by users. Citizen product design is still unsung, but it has already become a force in software, especially gaming software. ‘Counter-Strike,’ a player-created ‘mod’ (for modification to the original game) of ‘Half-Life,’ became as popular as the original game. Apache, the popular open-source Web server software, or the Firefox Internet browser, with its thousands of add-ons and plug-ins, also depend on users to develop innovations. Large companies like I.B.M. are increasingly turning to open-source techniques in their own software development”

From Scarlett Thomas’s excellent novel, Popco:

“I read a lot. I helped my grandfather with his various projects. I learnt how to compile crosswords….”

He shakes his head. “So basically you really were the most boring teenager in the world.”

He’s joking but I suddenly feel angry.

“So at age fourteen your spare time would have been filled with what? Saving the world? Talking to aliens? Being a spy?”

He doesn’t seem to know if I am joking or not. “I don’t know. When I was fourteen I think I just watched loads of cool stuff on TV.”

“Oh right. TV.” Now I really am cross. I can’t help it.

“What? What’s wrong with TV?”

“TV fools you that you’ve had a life you haven’t had. Don’t you know that? At least I had a life, even if it was, as you say, boring.”

“God, settle down, Alice.”

“No. I hate it. All that retro stuff that’s around at the moment. Remember when we all watched that thing on TV in the seventies and it was so ironic? I don’t even know what any of it’s called because we didn’t have a TV. It all just seems to be this stupid nostalgia for something that never existed in the first place. Just shapes on a screen. You were the one talking about everything just being pictures the other day. You must know what I mean.”

“I do. But I don’t agree.” He sips his tea calmly.

“What? You think all that stuff has some sort of point?”

“Yes, I do. I think that there is no difference between a narrative on TV and a narrative in a book. They are both told in pictures, really, it’s just that the little pictures on the page — the letters — spell out words, and the pictures on the screen are visual references. But you can’t tell me that sitting down and reading something is intrinsically better than watching the same story acted on a screen. That’s just snobbery.”

“No it isn’t. When did you last see a fifteen-hour-long TV drama that had no adverts and wasn’t written so a child could understand it?”

“What? I don’t…”

“On a TV drama you could cast yourself? Choose your own locations? Edit your own script? That’s what happens when you read a book. You have to actually connect with it. You don’t just sit there passively…”

“You are such a snob, Butler!”

“I”m not. Anyway, for the record, I never said that books were always better than anything on a screen. All I know is that on the whole I prefer books, but I have to say that I’d rather watch a classic film than read a trashy novel. And I love some videogames, of course. But that’s just my choice. I don’t care what anyone else does…”

Amazon: “I have sampled 9’s over the world (I am a professional 9 user) and this 9 is a decent bargain for the price. In my opinion the Emtek Solid Brass 9 is the most superior of 9’s, at the breathtaking price of $5.90. However, the Ace Hardware 9, valued at a quarter of a million dollars comes in close second. Although the price is slightly less than the Emtek model it’s features are almost the same. The only difference is that this 9 comes with inferior screws when compared to the Emtek model. If the quality of the screws is not necessarily important to you, then this unit may be for you – otherwise spend the extra money and purchase the $5.90 Emtek model.”

The Ten Most Magnificent Trees in the World.

Galleycat: “‘I don’t want to sign.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I want to discuss it with my wife.’ ‘Dude,’ said Harris, ‘sign it now, you won’t get a better deal.'”

• Lev Grossman has made an astonishing discovery! Check this shit out, yo! People are actually using the Web to create comics! And they’ve been doing since the late 1990s! I mean, who knew? Next thing you know, people will be using the Web to keep track of literary news. Of course, I maintain high hope for this medium. You folks are thinking small-time with text and images. But what if someone actually started posting audio and video onto this Internet thing? (via Heidi McDonald)
• Speaking of comics, here’s a list of this year’s Reuben nominees.
• Marlon Brando’s estate is suing over a chair. They had planned to sue over a sofa and an armoire, but they figured that they’d start with basic seating units and work their way up.
• NBC Universal and FOX are planning to start a rival to YouTube. The new portal, called FuckYouTube, will force users to fill out a ten-page questionnaire revealing their income, sexual preference, and purchasing habits to these benevolent corporate overlords, who promise that they will do nothing whatsoever with this personal information. Then, and only then, will users be able to watch episodes of 24 and The Office without fear of litigious attorneys. Of course, there will be a thirty-second commercial for every minute of video. And it’s probably much easier to TiVo these shows without these requirements. But this is the Internet, dammit, and you are all guilty until proven guilty.
• Sam Lipsyte didn’t finish Against the Day, but that didn’t stop him from picking it over Alentejo Blue!
• Scott Esposito gets to the bottom of Cees Nooteboom! (And, yes, Mr. Esposito is also worthy of an exclamation mark! As is this parenthetical aside!)
• Great jumping George! Airplane reading!
• You know, if you’re sort of halfway into the BDSM thing and you’re too scared to go all the way, perhaps these chain link scarves are for you.
• Sarah Hopkins has a cracker of a story. And, by cracker, we’re not talking some saltine that will crumble into your hands or those little fish crackers you pour into your chowder. We’re talking a veritable Aussie expression.
• Peter David betrayed Charlie Anders! This is terrible! Call the police!

Editor and Publisher: “The mystery creator of the Orwellian YouTube ad against Hillary Rodham Clinton is a Democratic operative who worked for a digital consulting firm with ties to rival Sen. Barack Obama. Philip de Vellis, a strategist with Blue State Digital, acknowledged in an interview with The Associated Press that he was the creator of the video, which portrayed Clinton as a Big Brother figure and urged support for Obama’s presidential campaign.”

I was unable to make it, betrayed by the 43 Masonic line, which I really need to have less faith in. But there are reports of last night’s shenanigans from ZYZZYVA editor Howard Junker and from “boredlizzie,” who notes that her favorite participant was “the old dude from Zyzzava” [sic].

He walked westward on Washington Street, carrying a burgundy bag cloaking pizza boxes, as if it were a faux pas to reveal cardboard in the Financial District. In his other hand, two white plastic bags, containing fixings, the top ends neatly twisted in the same relentless knots found in some Chinese restaurants. He was ignored by everyone else. You might even say that, aside from my five-second glance, I ignored him too. Why exculpate myself? What business did I have with the man? It wasn’t as if he was bringing me food. And even if he was, it wasn’t as if I’d get to know him, or ask him about the sports or the weather, let alone his name. The only thing I’d probably do is tip him generously. Perhaps more so than the investment bankers he was delivering lunch to, if I were to rely upon the remarkable tip-to-income inverse ratio described by acquaintances who worked in the food service industry.

He remained unnamed, as anonymous as a soldier in a tomb. Not even a name tag. Instead, the red pizza uniform and the slightly mystified and resigned look revealing why he, a man of thirty-five or so, was still delivering pizzas at his age, and how the advancing years had made him more invisible, and how he had quietly accepted his lot.

I took in many details in five seconds: his unsmiling face, the way he hid his eyes beneath sunglasses (it was a sunny day, but not that sunny), the white flecks settling into his dark hair, a torso neither muscular nor paunchy, but perfectly nondescript. Did he have a wife and kids? What were his hobbies? Did he have a second job? Did he have health care?

I thought of the pizza delivery man when I stood in line for lunch. And I fell quietly into line with the rest of the suits. I was an utter hypocrite. And there were more people there, paid to service us, with soft lines beneath their eyes and fabricated smiles to last the afternoon. I couldn’t eat easily. Because I kept thinking to myself: at what cost this food? Not the monetary cost, but the price I had paid in basic human decency. “Thank you” and brief pleasant talk didn’t cut it. This was the current economy. This was the human food chain.

If you’re in the San Francisco area, Howard Junker observes that tomorrow night, a panel on “The Continuing Importance of Literary Journals,” is going down at 7:30 PM. The panel takes place at The Poetry Center, San Francisco State University, Humanities Building, Room 512, 1600 Holloway Avenue, and features Del Ray Cross, Eli Horowitz, Junker, Liz Lisle, Michelle Richmond, Jason Snyder, Chad Sweeney, and Eric Zassenhaus, with moderation by Fourteen Hills’ Jenny Pritchett. I wish I had had more notice for this, but, given that lineup, I’m going to try to make it and offer a forthcoming report.

The latest issue of Bookforum has hit the stands and the Artsforum gang has made most of it available online. Of particular note: Christopher Sorrentino on the new Flanagan book, this interview with A.M. Homes, and Ben Marcus on Lydia Davis. What is not particularly good is that out of 35 reviews, only fourteen are written by women. That’s a mere 40% of reviews, with the bigger reviews going to men. And if we hold Bookforum to the Tanenhaus Brownie Watch standards, it’s severely lacking on this point. Not quite as bad as the NYTBR, but surely the Bookforum people can do better.

ZeFrank’s last installment of The Show. Thanks, Ze, for a year of fun.

A dream is a horrible thing. It intoxicates your being, keeping you going and keeping you more or less single-minded in your quest. One day, you accept the dream. The next, you deny it in some ways, but you quite can’t let it go. Particularly when a dream’s ethereal slivers tempt you in the same way that disreuptable employers often keep their employees on staff, giving them a yearly raise that is just large enough to keep them on the payroll for another year, but just small enough to keep them financially dependent. The dream is so intoxicating and so lovely and just on the horizon that you must keep going, groping at the rope and slipping off and trying your grip again, seemingly ad infinitum. Even when your friends, even the ones who are also chasing similar dreams*, tell you that you’re a fool and that you should really go dig ditches like the rest of humanity. And you do your best not to tell them to go fuck themselves, because you really do like them and you try to remain civilized. Even when you recognize the underlying pragmatism of their advice.

The problem with dreams is that they must co-exist with this kind of financial reality, which isn’t what you would call dream-friendly but is apparently “necessary” towards existence in Western civilization. The problem with dreams is that they reflect the culmination of certain innate talents that you try to keep quiet about. Hell, it would probably be a lot easier if you didn’t feel the burning desire. But you just can’t help yourself. It’s in your nature. The problem with dreams is that you’ve been burned so many times before when you’ve pursued similar dreams that led to this one. You’ve persisted when people have told you to go to hell. You’ve survived countless horrors, but you keep pretty quiet about it. Because the one tangible Venn diagram between dreams and reality is that, no matter what’s gone down before, the playing field is equal. Nobody likes a whiner.

And nobody is honest enough to confess any of this, because nobody wants to reveal their dreams. Because after a certain age, it becomes “childish” or “juvenile” or otherwise unacceptable. What business do you have pursuing a pipe dream? You think the world owes you a living? (Actually, no.)

At some point, others give up. You watch them get married and have kids, while you still remain obsessed with the dream. While you spend much time alone trying to perfect strategies. Trying to get better. When working for the dream sometimes takes up every spare moment. When those who have the dream can no longer fathom the sheer discipline and tenacity it takes for one who doesn’t to keep on going.

But it could be worse. You too could give up. Or, even worse, you couldn’t have any dreams at all.

* — And, hey, you understand that and encourage them, because you like and admire the hell out of them and wish them happiness and want nothing more than to help them get there. You certainly wouldn’t deny them their dreams. Why is it that they go out of their way sometimes to deny yours?