Pete points out that the litblogs have retained inveterate acronyms for literary folks. I couldn’t agree more with his concerns, particularly when these acronyms often refer to multiple people. In an effort to address this growing concern, here’s a short but by no means comprehensive list:

AL: An author who wins too many awards.

DFW: Any author who has read too much Nabokov. Alternatively loved or hated by the litblog community, depending upon how personally they take footnotes.

E—–: He who shall not be named.

Hitch: Any Fleet Street blowhard who drinks and smokes too much.

Hot Lips: Sam Lipsyte, the somewhat sctaological though entertaining author of Home Land. Earned nickname after repeated brown-nosing by the Believer and Gawker people. Often kisses and tells.

J-Franz: An obscure French author who sometimes finds his way onto book covers. A master of disguise, appearing as either ultimate dork or A-1 hunk. Therapy financed by David Remnick.

JSF: Not specifically pertaining to Jonathan Safran Foer, but any overeager author who sends hundreds of emails to a journalist.

Mary-Rob: A writer who can’t stop writing in epistolary form.

Mitch: Not David Mitchell, but any deity worshipped by literary fanboys.

Roth, David Lee: Any older writer held in critical esteem who can’t stop writing about penises.

Woodman: A filmmaker in decline who enjoys women one sixth his age.

Let it not be said that the Tanenhaus Brownie Watch falls in line with the sleazy incest de rigueur within the New York publishing world. This week, we find ourselves caught in a minor ethical quandary. The upshot is this: While said conflict of interest is picayune, it nevertheless prevents us from fulflling our duties and assessing this week’s NYTBR with fairness, integrity and due diligence. We’re ashamed to come across as such sanctimonious Boy Scouts. But we’re men of our word. And therein lies the rub.

It’s a pity, because this leaves the wonderful Jonathan Ames (who, as previously stated, we shall promote with every visceral fiber) flailing in the dust. And Tanenhaus himself would have likely passed at least two of the three tests.

Again, we wish to assure our readers that we would like nothing more than to send Mr. Tanenhaus a brownie or tear the NYTBR a new one, depending upon Tanenhaus’ efforts and the severity of our Sunday morning hangovers. But while not as foppishly off base as Barth’s Ebenezer Cooke, we are, believe it or not, devoted to certain things.

The fact that it is a preternaturally sunny day in this City of Fog or that the drum circle in Golden Gate Park is alive and thrumming does not grant us succor.

Until next week…

DOES SAM GET HIS BROWNIE?: Inconclusive

when you have nothing to say
and you’re a star on the skids and can’t use punctuation
let alone rhyme
and you’ve read too much don marquis
why not start a blog

i’m rosie and nobody loves me
they don’t understand that most stars are illiterate
they say that there are some things you’re not supposed
to talk about
so insert a fuck and malaise and rebuild your fan base

that girl who bagged my groceries was hot

i forgive them. i only mean to entertain
and here you are sitting through endless screens of my drivel
hurray
for
me

For those looking for related reading to the Tanenhaus Brownie Watch, Ron has revived Maslin Watch.

Well, it looks like Tori Amos screwed over the good folks at the Booksmith, one of my favorite independent bookstores in San Francisco and a local neighborhood haven for hardcovers.

This isn’t really much of a surprise, as the superstahs always seem to have “sudden and unforeseeable changes” in their schedule that prevent them from attending signings, at least as originally lined up. The difference here, however, is that Amos gave only four days’ notice without even bothering to set up a new date, let alone offering to sign additional copies of her book.

While the Booksmith is honoring returns and refunds for those who preordered signed copies of Amos’ book, I really hope Amos’ discourtesy isn’t too much of a financial burden on the Booksmith. Perhaps Ms. Amos is so out of touch with others that she can’t understand that the Booksmith is a small store that sometimes depends upon gargantuan egos like Amos’ to stay afloat.