To Bitch or Not To Bitch?

Over the years, I, Bob Hoover, grumpy and small-time newspaper columnist, have dedicated this space to covering PTA meetings, bowling championships and bake sales. I’ve spent twenty-five years climbing out of the morass, becoming bitter and watching my hair recede and having to depend upon Viagra and an expensive instructional video to maintain any hope of an eclectic sex life. You’ll never catch me writing a newspaper column just after vacuuming (Hoovering, if you will) the house. Why, I save such chores for my dutiful wife. Because she knows and I know that, while I lost my enthusiasm for books long ago, I still have these columns to bang out. All adhering to the boring and inoffensive Post-Gazette template, all sucked of life and passion and the things I initially got into journalism for. All about as enthralling as the Pittsburgh Policeman’s Ball, which, as it so happens, I attended last Tuesday.

This is what journalism is and should remain. A place where editors who look suspiciously like Don Rickles cry poo-poo on the young upstart litbloggers, who are unpaid and make the occasional spelling mistake and who threaten to usurp reputations.

We conform to these rules because we need to justify our employment, and we respect our septuagenarian subscribers by giving them humorless news so watered down that the very fact-checking we purport to uphold is rote and meaningless. Frankly, we’re jealous that something like The Smoking Gun can beat us to the punch. We’re newspapermen, dammit! We’re intended to control today’s media! It’s just not fair!

If I make a mistake, I am flogged, beaten, tied up and denied sex for at least three weeks. I am forced to walk down Market Square with a scarlet letter stitched into my Sears suit. Several youngsters often attach signs reading “KICK ME” without my consent and proceed to kick your correspondent, Bob Hoover, onto the ground, smearing my face with the chocolate still left on their candy wrappers. You should see my dry cleaning and chiropractor bills.

Unlike these litbloggers, I, Bob Hoover, have no problems being humiliated like this. It’s part of being a Pittsburgh newspaperman. But I’m disappointed to see that this modest tar-and-feathering seems to be going the way of slavery, Charlie Chan and the dodo. The world isn’t what it was. Litbloggers should be publicly humiliated too. And it seems that as my space in print recedes, I too may find myself writing about the publishing industry from the comfort of my two-bedroom suburban home. Thank god we just applied the last mortgage payment.

Ah, the litblogosphere, which somehow manages to tap into literary culture in a way that seems to have escaped most newspapers. Somehow, these bastards read more than I do! These litboggers and their podcasts and their 75 books challenges and their interviews with authors who wouldn’t get the time of day elsewhere! How do they do it?

Of course, the only real thing a newspaperman can do is dismiss them with a pack of lies. Let I, Bob Hoover, claim, in light of the Jayson Blairs and the Judith Millers, that all litbloggers are scoundrels and prevaricators of the first order! Let I, Bob Hoover, baffled by the notion of content that isn’t targeted for an advertising-friendly demographic, declare these litbloggers to be writing for mommy and daddy! How dare they jest! How dare they skewer! How dare they even consider that their readers are smart enough to read between the lines! It’s not fair that litbloggers have hyperlinks for reference, or comments in place for readers to clarify mistakes or the subjects of their posts to respond to any allegations.

It’s also not fair that more people seem to be reading blogs than a Bob Hoover column. Don’t you like me? I learned a lesson long ago to play it safe, to never question the actions of prominent citizens or personages in the publishing industry. But these blogs have the liberty to unfurl the truth that I, Bob Hoover, cannot! These litblogs have the potential to be even more honest and truthful and probing than a Pittsburgh newspaper.

Clearly, there is little more one can do than dismiss them instead of embracing the paradigm shift. But then journalists like Terry Teachout and James Wolcott have always been more ahead of the curve than Bob Hoover.

(UPDATE: More responses from Scott Esposito, Dan Wickett, Bud Parr, M.A. Orthofer and Kevin Holtsberry.)

Sneak Preview of “24′

Seattle Post-Intelligence: “The first 15 minutes of the four-hour season opener…are stuffed with a number of unexpected brutalities that suggest this may be Jack’s worst day ever.”

Here is a sneak preview of 24‘s first 15 minutes.

7:00 AM: Jack Bauer makes coffee. Terrorists have designed Jack Bauer’s coffee pot to break, causing Jack Bauer’s left hand to be scalded with third-degree burns. Jack screams and then squints into the morning sun.

7:02 AM: Jack Bauer scowls, in that uncanny Kiefer-like way. But he is unfazed. He’s seen it all.

7:03 AM: Somehow, Jack Bauer’s omelet has been replaced with C4 plastic explosive. With 30 seconds to spare, Bauer runs out the door. His house explodes in a giant conflagration that can be seen by CTU’s satellites. His lover is dead. The poor sap renting out the guest room is dead. The adopted puppy he brought from an animal shelter yesterday is dead. This time, it’s personal. But isn’t it always.

7:04 AM: Jack Bauer tries to call CTU to track the terrorists down. But he forgot to pay his cell phone bill this month. Jack Bauer growls and grabs the cell phone of a conveniently adjacent 12 year old kid, accidentally dislocating the kid’s shoulder in the process. He calls CTU and reports that there’s been “an incident.” The kid’s father is angered and proceeds to shoot Jack Bauer in the face with his bolt-action hunting rifle. It is revealed that Jack Bauer will require plastic surgery because Kiefer’s paycheck is now too high.

7:06 AM: Jack Bauer steps on chewing gum and cannot get it out of his shoe. Jack Bauer hacks off the sole with the Bowie knife he has hidden up his anus. It is all by instinct.

7:08 AM: The paramedics arrive to take the injured Jack Bauer to the hospital. While speeding on the Los Angeles freeways at 95mph, the ambulance is hijacked. The paramedics are killed, leaving Jack Bauer to take on fifteen terrorists single-handedly in hand-to-hand combat.

7:09 AM: The gurney wheels out the back of the ambulance at 95 mph with Jack Bauer and one of the terrorists fighting. Jack Bauer is stabbed fifty-three times, but the terrorist is somehow thrown off by Jack Bauer at the last minute and run over by a yellow Toyota Tercel.

7:11 AM: Jack Bauer’s right eyeball falls onto the 110.

7:12 AM: The terrorists plant a nuclear bomb in the ambulance and fly away in the helicopter.

7:14 AM: The nuclear bomb explodes, killing thousands of Angelenos. Amazingly, despite being at the explosion’s epicenter, Jack Bauer walks away with limbs still intact and, through the miracle of hack screenwriting, without radiation sickness.

7:15 AM: President Palmer arrives on the scene and gets Jack Bauer hooked up with a special White House surgeon. Jack Bauer says, “I’ll kill the bastards if it’s the last thing I do.”

The Bat Segundo Show #18

Author: Chris Elliott

Condition of Mr. Segundo: Immersed in the past with a baseball bat cut from a tree.

Subjects Discussed: Lack of sleep from both parties, the lure of money, the Chris Elliott persona vs. the real Chris Elliott, Jack the Ripper, parodies, Alan Moore’s From Hell, research, trying to read while acting, on being declared an idiot, Get a Life, on whether the Chris Elliott persona gets tiresome, Carrot Top, cross-dressing, atmospheres with disparate historical artifacts, Cabin Boy and Tim Burton, support groups, Jack Finney’s Time and Again, Yoko Ono, Theodore Roosevelt, typewriters, how Bob Elliott became involved with Daddy’s Boy, mangled language, the editing process at Miramax Books, Paul McCartney, the Paul Guinan-Boilerplate controversy, nepotism, illustrations, infantile humor, the other side of Chris Elliott, Robin Williams, comic archetypes vs. acting, and the biggest piece of advice given to Elliott by David Letterman.