Russia has become a deadly place for journalists of all stripes. In 2006, journalist Anna Politkovskaya was mysteriously killed after criticizing the war in Chechnya. Thankfully, Mark Ames remains alive. But his fortunes have taken a turn for the worse because of these conditions. After writing about Russian government officials conducting an unplanned audit of his iconoclastic expatriate newspaper, Mark Ames has been forced to shut down The eXile.
Mark Ames Shuts Down eXile
– June 12, 2008Posted in: Ames, Mark, Journalism, Russia
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
Reminds me (for no reason at all) of this:
See the Czar.
Czar, Czar, Czar.
See his eyes.
Eyes like a fish.
Fish, fish, fish.
He rules a big country.
Big, big, big.
He took all the country’s oil.
He won all the elections
and if anyone else tried to get elected
anyone else ended up in jail.
Or dead.
See the Czar’s pale hands.
Pale, pale, pale.
It is hard to explain
how the Czar’s hands can look so white
but are so red and sticky.
How did he become a Czar?
Well, he was member of a boys’ club
that used to be called “Kill, Gulag, Bomb.”
Now the club is called “Freaks Sucking Blood”.
When the old Czar
- who was a bit of a drunk -
got too drunk to rule
the boys’ club took over
and put the new Czar on the throne.
The Czar wants to make new friends.
He visits the big boys in Europe
and Asia
and the Middle East
and sells them weapons
and rockets
and tools to make atomic bombs.
If someone refuses to be friendly to the Czar
the boy’s club will poison someone
or shoot her.
So how long will the Czar sit on his throne?
Until the next revolution…
… or until the boys’ club gets rid of him.
Perhaps it is practical
that he already looks like a corpse.