Early this morning, a piece appeared on these pages that took to task Neely Tucker’s article in the Washington Post. I used a historical example from 1766, but neglected to point out one minor but pivotal detail — indeed, one that I had forgotten, until two readers pointed it out to me — that pretty much destroyed my thesis. Therefore, I have removed the piece from these pages and apologize for my error. I thank the readers for pointing out this indiscretion and I will endeavor to pay closer attention to prevent such mishaps in the future.
[UPDATE: Due to popular demand, I will find some time later today to rewrite and revive the post.]
[UPDATE 2: The article has been revived.]
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. (
Man, you are straight-up as classy as 1776. Everybody in the room nods slightly at you and immediately forgets everything. A visiting Baron from Westphalia tells his aide-de-camp to deliver a prize gamecock to you on one of Paul Revere’s silver serving trays just because.
For the benefit of those of us for whom the post in question still shows up in our RSS reader, and who read it before reading this one … what is the minor but pivotal detail?
Hopefully it comes back in an edited form. I liked it. Especially in blasting Tucker for that idiotic line about “Don’t Mess With Cops” being “one of the common-sense rules of life,” something that makes about as much sense as saying to a woman that if you wear a mini-skirt, you can’t complain if you get raped. Gates was perfectly within his rights to ask the cop for identification, and to protest his treatment. The police violated Gates’s rights, plain and simple. Just because Tucker prefers to eat shit rather than risk harassment, doesn’t mean Gates or anybody else should.