Dan Green has weighed in with a thoughtful post about the Underground Literary Alliance, that ragtag bunch of frustrated writers-cum-Yippie wannabes that I have, until now, remained silent and nonpartisan upon. I have not exactly sanctioned this “organization,” but, because I am sympathetic to alternative and underground voices, I have at least tried to acknowledge them to some degree. However, after watching the ULA antics for several years, I must now conclude that, unless they change their tune, these folks are no longer worthy of my attention or yours.

The recent Birkets-Peck whinefest, which essentially had King Wenclas complaining that the new wave of literary hatchet men had appropriated the ULA review style, left me with a queasy feeling of sour grapes, almost as if I was reading a puling adolescent’s diary. I felt momentarily obliged to offer Mr. Wenclas a cookie, if not a hug and a comp ticket for the clue train. Because the professional writer and the responsible thinker knows that, given the rampant generation of ideas in the universe, inevitably another person will draw from the same associations and respond to the universe around them in a similar fashion. It happened to me once when a writer for a major news outlet used Ferdinand de Lesseps as a comparison for the dot com bust, about a few months after I had written a similar piece. The insecure writer will kvetch about it. The secure writer will realize that there are plenty of other pitch ideas floating within her head to lay down for a query or a piece.

Whatever the case, as Dan quite rightly points out, “‘saying something’ almost always turns out to be itself a matter of saying something that’s been said many times before, or something everybody already knows, or something of great interest to the writer but of no conceivable interest to any readers, or something with which those readers already agree, or something that seems of burning urgency today but tomorrow will seem as prosaic as the newspaper article it was taken from, or something as tedious and doctrinaire as almost all ‘revolutionary’ statements ultimately are.” The ULA’s myopic intolerance to the revolution of, say, finding the edge within midlife crisis as John Banville does in Eclipse or attacking John Barth without offering a single example why the summation of his works are completely invalid (particularly, since, as I noted back in April, he was one of the few writers to expose 9/11 transitionary life in fiction) is comparable with that of a frustrated undergraduate. Certainly, all readers go through a stage where they see easy dichotomies and evil in every grey corner. But it’s hard to take an “organization” seriously when they are prepared to damn a writer without offering a constructive argument.

If anything, the ULA comes across worse than the Dale Pecks of the world. For one thing, they aren’t nearly as witty. And, if it can be believed, the ULA is even more Manichean in declaring certain authors as evil. Take Michael Jackman’s slam of Middlesex, where he writes, “One might ask Mr. Eugenides why he is able to get away with making such idiotic comments as, ‘Why is a hermaphrodite not the narrator of every novel? It’s the most flexible and omniscient voice. Every novelist has to have a hermaphroditic imagination to get into the minds of men and women.’ Note the emphasis on imagination, as opposed to experience. Note the emphasis on getting inside the mind, as opposed to out into the world. In such comments we see his limitations, coming from a rarefied culture addicted to gender studies and obsessed with the self and sensitivity. Like a college streaker, he is willing to look ridiculous if he thinks it shows off how he has no hang-ups.” The complete inflexibility here to imagination makes one ponder whether King Wenclas could ever enjoy something as joyously harmless as the Oz books, which is nothing but the purest invention. And what’s with the college streaker comparison? To offer a metaphor in return, that’s like a jock circa 1987 being transplanted to contemporary Queer Eye-loving America, trying to apply his harsh homophobic language where it no longer cuts the mustard.

It is the skilled individual who will try and find something redeeming within an author they despise. (Speaking personally, as far as I’m concerned, Dave Eggers may be the most overrated author of the past decade. But the first third of Heartbreaking and Eggers’ story in the mostly disappointing McSweeney’s Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales are enough for me not to completely dismiss him.) Likewise, it is the skilled organization that will recognize that promoting literature is about gathering the best ideas of the whole group, using an invitational approach rather than a harsh procedure that destroys alliances. Granted, the ULA is one of the few literary-related groups around that takes a confrontational stance, and, given the safe and staid atmosphere, they deserve some credence on that score. But confrontation as an approach should be as well-timed and justified as silence or diplomacy. And when you’re confrontational all the time, well, frankly, you’re just not that interesting.

I’ve been in the middle of packing (books — too many books), so I have no idea if the photocopies of Norman Mailer’s Xeroxed butt, which have caused at least three heart attacks and one epileptic seizure, have finally been released to the Internet. But Lizzie reports that there’s a new column in this month’s Poets & Writers in which Laila, Maud and myself were referenced. I haven’t read the column, but I appreciate that Poets & Writers has started to not only pick up on the stories and developments of my peers (Laila was the first to note the scandal), but also gone to the trouble to source them. With literary blogs beginning to develop beyond news filtering and ancillary zingers into full-blown profiles and reviews, I think this might be the beginning of a mutually majestic relationship. But more on this later.

I now return you back to your regularly scheduled hiatus, which means intermittent literary news in the next four days and a vague glow of activity until July 4th. After that, the hope is to up the ante and get this site pepping with some more meaty offerings (along with a design upgrade) within the time allotted.

Also, Rake has unveiled the perfect antidote to the Book Babes.

The roommate who doesn’t get along with his fellow living mate will either address his grievances to his living mate or amicably part, working out the nature of his departure through courtesy and discussion, and ideally without resorting to pistols at dawn. Assuming that the two roommates are rational people, there will often be a discussion, if not a common ground where these two roommates agree to live out the remainder of their lease with the same easy adult skills that one puts to task when balancing one’s checkbook. In other words, the two roommates take the appropriate responsibilities and make the most of an unpleasant situation. That generally means giving the other roommate enough time to divvy up common area possessions or plan accordingly for the other’s rental-related demise.

Of course, such a smooth hitchless transition assumes that both roommates are rational, reasonable and courteous. But as I learned when returning to the apartment late this afternoon, my now ex-roommate, despite replying “Great” (and possibly “Swell’) when I asked him how things were going (bimonthly, I might add), even the kindest visages hide screwball dispositions, whereby logic operates on truly skewered methodologies and even the tiniest of trinkets becomes territorial (of which more anon).

Or to offer another possible explanation: My roommate is a registered Republican in San Francisco.

Now that I’ve signed a new lease for a kickass apartment, some of the reasons for my hiatus can now be publicly addressed and the fascinating story of what I found left in my apartment this afternoon can, at long last, be unraveled.

The deal was this: At the end of this month, a one-year lease expired. My roommate, as one of the two tenants on the lease, planned to leave, not citing any specific reason other than that he was maybe moving in with his girlfriend in the not-too-distant future. In light of the play and the other secret projects going down, this was inconvenient but fine. I had plenty of notice from the guy. And, of course, in my efforts to be a good guy, I congratulated him and communicated to him the exact date and details of my migration — this, with the suggestion that we could, if desired, split costs and keep the communicative beacon flaring so as to benefit the twain.

Apparently, giving him the moving skinny was my first mistake.

There had been some talk that he was planning on moving the weekend of the 26th/27th. And I had not seen or heard from my roommate for a week until this morning, where I was in the process of cooking breakfast for my sweet and fantastic girlfriend. With approximately five seconds’ notice, my roommate informed me that he was moving out. this instance, rather than the 26th/27th weekend we had talked about. Sorry. Oh, and the plates were all his and he wanted to pack them now.

Never mind that I had just deposited some freshly cooked eggs, sausage and other stuff onto these very plates and was planning to take the goodies into my bedroom. I told him I’d get back to him in an hour. Fortunately, my girlfriend was beneficial in pointing out that stuff was just stuff, that it didn’t really matter, and that I could always get some more. So, rather than figure out just which of the common area kitchen shit was mine (I knew I had purchased at least a few of the plates, but whatever), I told my roommate to take what he deemed his, silently concluding that if he took my coffee machine, he would be drawing blood. My girlfriend and I left, letting my roommate do his thing.

Telling him to take whatever he wanted was my second mistake.

Late this afternoon, we returned home to find various dusty trails on the ground. We opened bare cupboards and witnessed an ironic message hidden in these airy deposits. There wasn’t a single plate, glass or bowl left for me to use (save one coffee mug and three shot glasses from a four shot set I had purchased a year ago — what happened to the fourth shot glass?), not even a friendly note saying, “Goodbye, you gullible bastard! Have fun trying to serve your girlfriend some eggs now!”

Okay, whatever. I’d start from scratch. And maybe my roommate was right about buying most of the kitchen ware. It didn’t matter. The new place kicked serious ass. It had an icebox, man. Tuxedos and martinis weren’t too far away.

But as my girlfriend and I walked up the hall, we noticed that the shower curtain had been removed. Never mind that this shower curtain’s days were numbered. It was a mildewed, ratty, and ugly old thing that was on its way out — in other words, the perfect shower curtain for a remaining week in this place. Frankly, we were shocked that my roommate had laid claim to this.

But that wasn’t all. My girlfriend and I recalled that there was half a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom when we left in the morning. When we returned, we noticed that the toilet paper had been reduced to a cardboard roller with a few spare strands of paper that, collectively, couldn’t fit a pygmy marmoset’s bottom.

And if this wasn’t enough, I noticed this morning that my roommate had seen fit to apply his last name via Sharpie to a three-to-two prong electrical adapter (a whopping 49 cent item at Orchard Supply Hardware). This too was gone, no doubt mounted to an Elks Lodge den next to the shower curtain and a few moose heads.

Was this a joke? A testament? Some kind of canard?

It’s worth noting again that my roommate never once raised his voice, nor did he address any problems, even when I asked him how things were going. Were these passive-aggressive acts the end result? Me? I’m just relieved that it’s all over.

But if there’s any lesson to this story, whatever you do, always have extra toilet paper and a spare shower curtain — ideally with a printed tag bearing your name. You’ll never know what kind of crazed living mate will get all proprietary on your ass.

Ben Jelloun has won the world’s richest fiction prize, the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award.

Nothing more to report today except utter depression about world events and those duplicitious deviants in Washington. Real hiatus again. As usual, check out the fine folks on the left.

It’s a sure bet that we were informed, but we’re so behind on email that we learned it only just recently from Maud. Tingle Alley, Carrie AA Frye’s fantastic new blog, goes live tomorrow. We remain sensitive, of course, to Ms. Frye’s hue and garb contretemps, but we’ll let forth a color and cry if she does not find a suitable sub for the tangerine muumuu. This may or may not explain our obsession. And did we mention that Halloween is our favorite holiday?

I don’t know how I missed it in the May Atlantic, but Martha Spaulding continues the ongoing fight to reinstate satirist John P. Marquand into the American pantheon. Regular Reluctant readers may know that I am nothing less than crazy about Marquand.

If you can find any of his books in used bookstores, I recommend starting with The Late George Apley or Sincerely, Willis Wayde, which are my two favorites out of the seven or so I’ve read (not counting the Mr. Moto books). Right now, I’m reading So Little Time, which transplants Marquand’s obsession with social stratas to America, circa World War II. Much as David Lodge would later incorporate mythological subtext within the popular novel, Marquand has inserted the narrative framework for War and Peace into this fairly meaty work, which is bristling with pre-Gaddis cocktail party banter, isolationist cluelessness, and, perhaps more than many novels I’ve read, a depiction of how ordinary people in typical upper-class and middle-class atmospheres might have talked about America’s ineluctable involvement with the War in 1940. Fascinating stuff, and timely, given the current helplessness I hear expressed over the Iraq contretemps.

Anna Funder’s Stasiland: Stories from Behind the Berlin Wall has won the Samuel Johnson Prize, the world’s richest non-fiction award.

The third Madonna children’s book has been declared “better” by the Canadian Press. Other reviewers have insisted that the reported increase in quality has been an orchestrated ploy to keep Madonna from writing further books after her five-book series.

A North Carolina theatre is offering an abridged version of the complete works of William Shakespeare (in less than 90 minutes, in fact). The comedy has apparently been making the rounds since 1987.

“Crime expert” John L. Stanley was arrested in Kansas City minutes after robbing a bank. What’s even more surprising was the amount of incriminating evidence on his possession.

Ron Rosenbaum has nabbed the new Philip Roth novel, the alternate history novel in which Charles Lindbergh beats FDR in 1940, and devoted some 4,000 words to it. The precis: the article reveals key plot elements, and Rosenbaum is as ecstatic as an aging Marin County New Ager slipping into his Birkenstocks. The more specific quibble: Ron, did we really need to know about the Lakers-Piston game?

David Kipen: “That’s the Joyce I recognize. Not the mandarin classicist who finds slang and pidgin “frightful,” but the omnivore who knew dirty jokes in 30 languages. My Joyce knows that the punchiest remedies are mixtures: of high and low, of songs and of tongues. Just you try it on.”

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Rejection letters from various literary magazines, as collected by Deb Schwartz. (via Moorish Girl)

A desperate baker in Portland, Maine has tried to woo low-carb obsessives back to bread with an Atkins alternative culled from The Da Vinci Code.

Recent NYT refugee Elvis Mitchell is writing a book about Richard Pryor. Meanwhile, Walter Mosley is writing the liner notes to a forthcoming 9-CD boxed set. And Pryor himself is writing a sequel to Pryor Convictions.

Botheration is blogging a page of Ulysses a day, courtesy of the 100th anniversary. (via MadInkBeard)

The Globe and Mail: “Martel shrugs when asked whether he’s become downright smug because of his recent success. But he follows this shoulder roll with diabolical laughter, sticking his tongue out before answering the question.

“‘You know what? You get used to anything,’ he said. ‘You can get used to being kicked repeatedly in the crotch and you can get used to getting random blowjobs from bookstore groupies. I know about these things because I’m Yann Martel and you’re not. Do you want me to show you the two tattoos on my ass? There’s one for YANN and one for MARTEL. Perfect symmetry! Of course, if that’s not appropriate for a Canadian newspaper, then I’ll be more than happy to offer a tasteless comparison to the Holocaust. Anything to sell more books!'”

Superhero Comics as Literature: “It was precisely this pathos that made the potential literary quality of superhero comics almost impossible. Before Starman, comics like the aforementioned Watchmen and Dark Knight Returns took the “reality principal” found in the early Marvel Comics, (Spiderman is really a nerdy shy high-schooler that can’t get a date) and gave it an edge that infused the comics with a real relevance. But quickly this “reality principal” itself became formulaic: Marriage (Superman!), divorce, death, alcoholism (Iron Man!), violence, are certainly things that people experience, but when they happen in a cape it is almost impossible to control. You end up with worse caricatures than before, as when the superheroes only had secret identities so they could pay their rent.”

A New Frame for Comic Books: “It saddens me that, by and large, Americans still don’t know the literary value of comic books. Much of the world and certain domestic pockets already know that the cultural stereotypes on comic books is long past over and a new generation of exceptional works awaits our discovery.”

Are Comic Books Literature? “I, for one, am not ashamed to say that comic books are a form of entertainment no different than any other form of popular entertainment. As such, there’s about as much crap and as much good stuff in it as in any other entertainment medium. Comics can be clever, well-written, involving popular entertainment, but they’re pop entertainment nonetheless. That’s as should be. Comics aren’t meant to be literature, appealing only to those with cobwebs in their brains. Comics are meant to be enjoyed by all.”

Eddies in the Mainstream: “Clearly, repeating the past is a poor strategy to rejuvenate an art form. Nevertheless, the alternative that is most often offered, that comics adopt the subject matter and techniques of High Art, runs into a problem that is equally obvious at this point. ”

The Difference Between Comics and Literature: “The BOE claims that comics produced by Mavrides and other artists are not literature, but camera-ready commercial art, which is taxable. “

Rasputin gets to the heart of the matter: “What it comes down to is this: Comics began as a populist artform. They belong to the uneducated lower classes. No self-appointed defender of literature is going to let some underdressed raggamuffin into his club house — good lord, what would the neighbors think? Artistic writing got its start during a time when only the wealthy and the clergy could actually read. It’s a high-class artform that has never purged itself of its utter contempt for the common man, even when advances in public education began to allow the masses to crawl their way out of illiteracy. Comics, on the other hand, have always belonged to groups at whom the upper-crust have traditionally pinched their noses — immigrants and adolescents.”

[UPDATE: Brian offers his candidates for the Ulysses and Canterbury Tales of comic books, among many other thoughts.]

King Wenclas writes in to report that Snobs Revisited Part 1 and Part II has been posted at the ULA site. This time, the ULA’s main targets are Bookforum, Sven Birkets, and even Dale Peck. Note to the ULA: your huge typeface draws unfortunate comparisons to a hideous large print book.

As can be gathered from the slipshod updates, and my firm resistance to the idea of giving up blogging during this quasi-hiatus period, current life has reached levels beyond hectic. But I did want to weigh in on a couple of pieces of news floating through the rivulets before morphing momentarily into driftwood.

• The Rake, if it isn’t clear enough, is a fantastic human being. I’ve been meaning to get back to him privately on this, but I’m hopelessly behind on email (assorted apologies to all on that score). For now, I’ll just state my kudos here publicly. That’s about all I’m capable of right now.
• As the Literary Saloon points out, Hamish Hamilton has eviscerated the latest McSweeney’s. Having not yet had the pleasure of checking out this momentous comics issue, I agree in part with the Saloon’s assessment. There have been too many insalubrious suggestions from the “comics as literature” crowd without justification or solid arguments. It’s one thing to state it, but it comes across as a callow undergraduate announcing for the umpteenth time that God is dead. It’s another thing to have someone like James Wood or Christopher Hitchens weighing in on the matter and offering a proper historical or critical perspective. Ergo, it’s nice to see someone rock the boat (with admittedly too much gusto), if only to get the pro-comics crowd reconsidering their arguments. I’ll only say that safe ‘n sane hero worship seems steeped in the same “anti-snark” rhetoric that amounts to inexorable backpatting rather than genuine criticism. Why, for example, has the subject of Dave Sim’s decline remained curiously unmentioned? I’m as much of a Chris Ware fan as the next guy, but if the comic book is a form of literature, where is its Ulysses or Canterbury Tales? Get cracking, people. Offer real arguments outside of the Scott McCloud facsimiles.
• The Complete Review has also reviewed James Cain’s overlooked Sinful Woman.
• I caught The Red Elvises at Slim’s on Saturday. They have to be one of the hardest working bands around. (The band, apparently, is crazy enough to play in twelve completely different venues for twelve straight nights.) While I was more impressed with their scatological riffs on 1950s be-bop rather than their tired Yakov Smirnoff misunderstandings (they have, after all, been based out of Santa Monica for several years), outside of the ho-hum neverending solos, you’d be hard pressed to find a more endearingly kitschy show. Their new songs, “Love Rocket” and “Juliet” appealed to the fourteen year-old within and have siingle-handedly made Lunatics & Poets a must-buy. Imagine if the staid Stray Cats were tainted by a much-needed dose of burlesque and you have the Red Elvises in a nutshell.

[UPDATE: Since a certain someone apparently seems to think that everything I write on my blog is about her (when I merely alluded to the “comics as literature” crowd, bandied about for several years pre-certain someones and before McCloud), and since this certain someone would like to use enigmatic argot like “certain someone” rather than get involved with an adult and civil discussion on a very interesting issue, I only wish to add that the wholesale subscription to an argument without examples, initiated only by how a particular article enrages, is balderdash. It deadens the discussion and gives ammunition to detractors. It’s no better than a Green Party supporter hassling you at the Haight Street Fair without citing a single reason why. (“Because we’re the Green Party, man!”) What better way to nip these issues in the bud, so to speak, than an all-encompassing response that stands as sui generis? Something which takes McCloud and Ware’s points and hits the ground running. This is the kind of interesting issue that literary blogs can look into. (For example, I’d love to see Mr. Green’s thoughts on the matter.) Fortunately, Maud has looked at this issue from reverse, citing a Rani Dharker article that compares pomo novels with comic book technique. ]

[UPDATE 2: Also, Mr. Sarvas has interviewed Swink Editor Leelia Strogov.]

Patricia Harrington of Nashville, TN: “He was an honest man — very honest — and a real man.”

John Morton of Cumming, GA: “That’s what impressed me, that he was a real person.”

F. Lyman Simpkins, Mayor of Pemberton Borough, NJ: “As farm [sic] as I’m concerned, he was a real man to look up to as I went through the political end of it.”

Katie Heideman of Littleton, CO: “He was a real person.”

Gary Mervis of Rochester, NY: “[H]e was just a real person, a very nice person.”

Donny Lingle of Manheim, PA: “He was just a real person.”

Too many balls in the air. The content here sucks isn’t as grand as I’d like it to be. I’m pulling the plug for a few weeks.

One more thing: Post offices and federal courts closing Friday because of Reagan? The funeral turned into a partisan event? Even Nixon didn’t get this kind of treatment. And I will never eat a JellyBelly ever again. Never.

The Mercury offers a first look at Dave Eggers’ play, Sacrament (adapted from You Will Know Our Velocity), concluding that “the playwright and director have not yet found a way to tether the show’s considerable emotional impact, its wry humor and acute sense of loss, to the concept of giving and receiving sacraments.” But Robert Hurwitt gives it a rave.

Among several award winners, Christopher Bram has won the Gay Men’s Fiction Award a Lamda for Lives of the Circus Animals, a comedy set in the New York theatre world. Nina Revoyr’s Southland took home the Lesbian Fiction Award.