Edward Champion's Return of the Reluctant

Edwards Delivers Stump Speech At Auction; Blows Campaign Funds on Ming Vase

Quick Juice

Dennis Quaid thanks Crowe for humiliating him. (via Amy)

The scoop behind Churchill's Nobel Lit Prize win (via Moorish).

And Lizzie has convinced me to wear a thong. Maybe just after pre-op, I'll take the camisole too.

Ad Hom to Ad Hom

Dale Peck isn't just a bitch, but he's an hubric mofo who compares his Moody blues to both Edmund Wilson and Virginia Woolf. (And, of course, the standard Coleridge line.)

Judy Blume is on the defensive. Her book, Deenie, deals in part with masturbation. But Hernando County elementary schools are pulling the book from their shelves.

Chica has a nice roundup of author photos. Me? I'm still squirming over Max Barry's photo on Jennifer Government (see right). The book, which was so bad that I gave up on it (and I rarely do this), is terrible enough with its amateurish prose and failure to live up its central idea. But Barry himself looks instinctively like a new fraternity pledge who barely made it into the house. And I'd say the photo has helped me to hate the book more. Which isn't good. Because I'd prefer to just erase the book out of my mind and reclaim the time I invested.

NYT vs. Blogs

Wired: "So Withers decided to start the Wilgoren Watch, dedicated to deconstructing The New York Times' coverage of Howard Dean's campaign. Within weeks, the site had a prominent visitor: Wilgoren herself. The reporter has mixed feelings about the site. "

Slate: "For his labors, Radosh earned an ugly set of threats from Landesman. And though apologies were eventually extended to Radosh by Landesman and the Times Magazine for Landesman's behavior, the writer still reserves the right to punish the blogger in court for what he wrote."

OpEdNews.com: "David Brooks, who joined the New York Times op-ed page with a reputation as one of the few neocons with intellectual integrity, has seen his reputation dwindle rapidly under the scrutiny of the blogosphere."

7% of My Thoughts on January 30, 2004

1. I had a terrifying dream in which I lost all of my teeth. It should be stated for the record that this was not a nightmare. Nightmares have the consolation of being terrifying in a way that allows one to distinguish between consciousness and unconsciousness. Dreams, by contrast, involve a consummate mindfuck. They masquerade under the illusion that all is well, when in fact they give credence to paranoia and anxiety. Case in point: In this dream, my mouth was a congealed morass of blood, and I was unable to consume anything other than Jamba Juice smoothies. Why my mind fixated on this franchise choice, I cannot say. I've deferred my smoothie needs to a not-bad independent Haight Street joint. It is also worth noting that, in the dream, no one around me commented upon my lack of teeth. And this perhaps terrified me the most. Because I had not realized up till now how important my teeth were. I awoke to find my teeth perfectly intact, though I wondered if this dream was an insinuation that I needed to visit a dentist. Women.com, apparently a media outlet of some note, reports that, "Dreams of losing teeth are often dreams of embarrassment or potentially embarrassing situations. The parallel waking experience could be summed up in the phrase 'losing face' publicly." This means nothing to me. I am a man. When I think of a man losing his teeth, I remember Walter Brennan in Red River, who gambled away his teeth and thought that it was nothing more than a slightly embarrassing inconvenience. Ultimately, shame guided Brennan. And shame guided me within the dreamscape. But my anxieties may have had something to do with Point 2.

2. I submitted my application for Wrestling an Alligator to the Fringe Fest today. Alligators, of course, have teeth. I will know on February 11 whether or not my play gets in. The chances, as I understand, are quite random. I tried to come up with a better title, but for whatever reason, Wrestling an Alligator took. I tested this title amongst peers. They seemed to like it.

3. At a restaurant, I ordered an alcoholic beverage known as "007." The beverage was composed of Bacardi rum, orange juice and 7-Up. I hadn't tried this concoction before. So I thought I'd give it a shot. It cost six bucks, and yet the drink didn't include an umbrella. The waitress (or server, if you're into that PC sort of thing) approached me and asked if "it was strong enough." The drink, it should be noted, was served in a tall, thin glass, doomed to a predictably orange hue. I implored the waitress to inform me what an orange beverage, let alone an amalgam of orange juice and 7-Up, had to do with James Bond. I told her that Bond liked martinis "shaken not stirred" and that perhaps the 007 association might have been a misnomer. She told me she didn't know. I asked for the manager, hoping for an explanation. The manager arrived, a short man with a receding hairline and a scowl. He informed me that I had no business asking such questions. I told the manager I wasn't looking for any trouble, but that I was just curious. What was the 007 drink all about? It should also be noted that the drink had no effect upon me. The rum was diluted, the taste was muted. As a drink, I think we can all agree that it failed. So given the waitress's query, it seemed to me that the drink was a dud. Really, I told the manager, I was disappointed by the exotic attempt. Why not something vaguely related to Ian Fleming's creation? "Eat your Pad Thai and get out," he said. "Is this really a way to draw repeat customers?" I asked. I ordered the drink, only because half the menu was devoted to beverages of this nature. "I don't care," he said. And I wondered if the chef had spit in my food. I ate the pad thai anyway, and it's safe to say that I won't be revisiting this particular establishment.

4. I met up with a friend and caught Nick Broomfield's new documentary, Aileen: The Life and Death of a Serial Killer. I was considerably impressed. Broomfield offered his standard Robin Leach approach, with a few good gags and his usual slow but sharp everyday observations. But this seemed to me the most revealing film of his ouevre. On one hand, he was willing to dwell on Aileen Wuornos in unapologetic closeup, deferring the scathing power of this film to the serial killer whose intentions were not entirely clear. But he was willing to reveal his hypocrisy. For all of his criticisms of capital punishment and the media coverage, this was a man who misled Wuornos, by proclaiming that he wasn't taping her conversations when he really was, an attempt to confess that she had committed her murders in self-defense. And yet I could somehow get behind Broomfield and despise Jeb Bush and his wholly unqualified psychiatric tests. The film functioned almost as a response to Capturing the Friedmans, and I was captivated. Friend wasn't as crazy about the film as I was, but this somehow touched a nerve with me. Are documentaries now about revealing process? If so, how long will this trend last?

5. I sent too many emails today. For those who received them, I apologize. I wanted to atone for last week's abandonment. The emails ranged from pithy observations to throwaway responses. But all were fun to write. Which begs the question of whether email, as a format, is something that encourages both the best and the worst out of us.

To Hell with the Democrats, Here's a Real Race to Get Behind

Maslin: Pop Lit Ghetto 'Ho

Janet Maslin is a good critic, but any doubts that she's been ghettoized by the Times as the "pop lit gal" should be removed. In fact, considered with this unfortunate headline, part of me suspects an anti-Maslin conspiracy.

Students now spend an average of $828 per year on academic books. A new study reports that the average textbook costs over $100, and that the cost has risen from $650 in 1996-1997. In related news, sales of Top Ramen have risen along the same exponential curve.

And you thought the David Denby coverage was bad? When I think about who to ask about sex, Steven Bochco is probably the last guy in line.

The lower your testosterone, the greater your chance of developing Alzheimer's. Scientific proof that Ronald Reagan and Charlton Heston were never men's men.

Donald Trump has a new book out in April, How to Be Rich. Random House will be paying Trump close "a lot more than a million dollars" with sizable royalties. Guess the folks at Random House didn't learn from the book, did they?

The Sunday Times claims that Pete Dexter is the most injury-prone writer in the world and then, because the writer of the article doesn't believe his own thesis, he offers a long expose of Dexter's physical condition. What next? A 2,000 word essay on Saul Bellow's hair?

Pay no attention to the title. Vintage Didion is not a Slouching/White repackage, but represents Didion's work in the Reagan era.

Norman Mailer turns 81 on Saturday and the Scotsman tries to examine why he isn't considered "America's greatest living writer." Without, of course, asking anyone here why.

Is the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette appropriating Crooked Timber's Books I Did Not Read This Year idea?

Sarah compares the TMFTML imbroglio with Moonlighting.

And cool enough that Yardley champions A.J. Liebling, a guy I've been meaning to read, but Teachout's there too.

Unilateral Typography, Motherfucker

The U.S. State Department has banned the courier font from all diplomatic correspondence. "That'll show 'em," said a State Department official, who hoped that Times New Roman would be next. "Who the hell do they think we are? Screenwriters? Typists? We're diplomats first and foremost. And we'll fuck your shit up without using Courier." (via Six Different)

Okay, So I'm About Four Months Behind on This, But...

Naomi Wolf: "But the effect [of porn] is not making men into raving beasts. On the contrary: The onslaught of porn is responsible for deadening male libido in relation to real women, and leading men to see fewer and fewer women as 'porn-worthy.' Far from having to fend off porn-crazed young men, young women are worrying that as mere flesh and blood, they can scarcely get, let alone hold, their attention."

Tracking Sensations Is A Tough Racket

"If you reject absolutely any single sensation without stopping to distinguish between opinion about things awaiting confirmation and that which is already confirmed to be present, whether in sensation or in feelings or in any application of intellect to the presentations, you will confuse the rest of your sensations by your groundless opinion and so you will reject every standard of truth. If in your ideas based upon opinion you hastily affirm as true all that awaits confirmation as well as that which does not, you will not avoid error, as you will be maintaining the entire basis for doubt in every judgment between correct and incorrect opinion." -- Epicurus

Kucinich for 2004

November really boils down to one choice: Anybody But Bush. But since we're in the primary stage, why not have a little bit of fun?

Kucinich doesn't stand a chance in hell, but he's got my vote in the primary. Despite what scaredy-cats decry as a wacko platform, Kucinich hasn't managed his campaign with incompetence. Kucinich has never wavered from his stance. Kucinich has never had to clarify a comment or sleep with the Gore 2000 boys to save his bacon. Because Kucinich has a bigger pair of balls than Dean. He's against the Patriot Act (unlike Dean). He's audacious enough to end Star Wars and NAFTA. Kucinich has stayed in the race and remained true to his convictions.

I had problems with Dean's position on the death penalty and his loose stance on civil liberties, as well as his intricate health care plan (compared to, say, a clear-cut Canadian style one). But I had contemplated voting for Dean because he had what I perceived to be courage. Now it turns out that Dean has been flying by the seat of his pants in nearly every capacity. And that's no way to run a campaign or a country.

So while I'll vote Anybody But Bush in November, I'm voting with my conscience in the primary. Do any of you lefties have the balls to do the same?

Dean's Dead in the Water

New York Times: "Tricia Enright, the campaign's communications director, said Dr. Dean was forming 'a new creative team' to overhaul its television advertisements. She said the campaign was not firing its media firm, in which Mr. Trippi is a partner. Many Dean supporters have been critical of the ad campaign, particularly in Iowa. Some questioned the arrangements by which Mr. Trippi forfeited a salary as a campaign manager but collected commissions — said to be as high as 15 percent in some cases — based on advertising buys.

Forget the Iowa yell. The Dean campaign's financial incompetence stinks of cronyism and irresponsibility. And Trippi's profiteering comes on the heels of the depleted war chest and Dean telling his 500 staffers to skip their paychecks for two weeks.

I'd say at this point that Dean's goose was cooked. If Dean can't manage the finances of his own campaign, then how can he manage the budget? Stacked against Bush's deficit, Dean certainly comes across as fiscally conservative.

Clarifying the Conspiracy

There's something which needs to be stated for the record. I am TMFTML. Neal Pollack is too. (And here you all are wondering why Pollack's been quiet. Well, I assure you, the crazy bastard's been a workhorse.) And sometimes the Hag and Moby (curiously absent too -- with purpose, I assure you) get their say in. I've tried to throw you folks off, what with riffs against the first person plural. However, in the case of TMFTML, the entity that speaks is not unlike the one depicted in Theodore Sturgeon's More Than Human, which is why "we" is sometimes invoked.

So you can stop pestering the purported singular author. We're all laughing our asses off over the fact that you care and that you think that we're one individual. When, in fact, we're several people who cooked this idea up back in 1999, when we were drunk and wondering if all the computers were going to collapse because of Y2K.

The fact that you've believe us for so long has us chortling with laughter. The fact that you believe we have a day job and that we're actually in New York has us reaching for the bottle. Because the gambit's funnier with liquor.

The other great revelation, that has smething to do with all this, is that BOOG is actually Bill Keller. The Times has been paying cash installments to much of the blog cabal in an effort to increase its subscription base.

Terry Teachout and OGIC, however, have nothing to do with this.

Dean Consults Alt-Weekly Advice Column to Recharge Campaign

Can Houghton Mifflin Handle the Truth?

Some distressing news from Publisher's Lunch. The ironically named Committee for Truth in Psychiatry has sued Houghton Mifflin and writer Daniel Smith for $20 million in punitive damages. The suit comes about because Smith's investigative piece on electroshock treatment appeared in The Best Science and Nature Writing, 2002.

Even if this suit is settled or dismissed, there's still the larger issue of whether hard-hitting exposes will appear in Houghton Mifflin's compilations. Will Houghton Mifflin backpedal on future selected essays? Even if the author were to prove all of the facts were on his side, my fear here is that tomorrow's compilations will be fluff that maintains the status quo.

Whoops! Sorry About Spilling the Coor's On the White Suit, Dude

Tom Wolfe's new novel, about "contemporary college life as seen through the eyes of students," is due out this fall. Wolfe's been kicking around frat houses to do his research. (via TEV)

Tainted by Influence?

Iowablog: "I think everything I learned at Iowa is wrong."

These are good, honest words to hear from a young whipper-snapper who wants to write. If there's a positive spin to this, it's the fact that Concho is willing to question the lessons she's learned. I've never been in a nuts-and-bolts creative writing class (screenwriting, nonfiction and journalism classes don't count) and I have only a second-hand idea of what goes down in Iowa, but I do know the merciless world of rejection notices weighed against the ocassional acceptance and/or check. If anything, the pivotal lesson that any writing class or seminar should include concerns the world not giving two fucks about the writer's circumstances, and a publishing industry that is worse than Cthulhu in its callousness. Any writer hoping to break in must have the thickest hide. Anything less than an iron carapace, a firm resolve and a dedication to the work will send out "AMATEUR" in bright neon lights.

Some folks may recall last July's Clarion-Wolfe debacle, where an extremely sensitive gentleman mistakenly informed Gene Wolfe that the class disagreed with his hard criticisms. Wolfe bolted. An imbroglio ensued. And there was some controversy over whether Wolfe's perceived ruthlessness was good or bad for the students. The authoritarian impulse that had gone unquestioned before was replaced by a general sense that workshopping should involve a back-patting atmosphere to foster encouragement.

Well, I cry foul. Constructive criticism is one thing. But personally, I could never trust anyone who would do nothing but praise every element of a lengthy piece I've written. Something I've observed of so-called "writer's groups" is that their formation involves stroking egos rather than improving writers and preparing them for the harsh battlefields of Manhattan and beyond. Some of the finest criticisms I've received were from people who were honest enough to eviscerate every nicety that was slightly off. To do anything less is a betrayal, a celebration of monkey-clapping amateurism that's as hypocritical as The New York Times running some bullshit story on sexual fetishes and failing to include the word "fuck."

The rise of books about writing (and, to a similar degree, screenwriting) has unleashed a Pandora's box where hope is more prominent than it should be. An "I can do it too!" spirit has emerged, but the hard truth is that writing is difficult work, that even if you manage to finish something, it can be torn to pieces in a New York minute. Even if you get your book published, you will face savage reviews and emerge from the fracas to convince frugal folks to lay down the twenty-five clams to buy the sucker on a book tour.

So why the contentment? Why the entitlement? Why the anti-snark movements?

The answer lies somewhere within the atavistic feel-good jungles that have permeated almost every facet of the liberal arts. The air stinks of softness. Nurture is certainly necessary, but there comes a point when the writer must understand that it's a tough racket. If a writing instructor doesn't have the effrontery to call a piece of shit by its true name, then he has no business instructing.

(Iowa lead via Maud)

Noir City #6

The Locket (1944): Normally, I frown upon the flashback structure. Unless you have a solid justification for it (like Memento), it comes across as gimmicky. There's no reason to move backwards, particularly when the flashback does nothing to resolve the problems set up in a film's early moments. But The Locket is a different kettle altogether. Not only does it have a flashback-within-a-flashback, but it has a flashback-within-a-flashback-wthin-a-flashback. Indeed, there were so many flashbacks in this movie that I feared writer Sheridan Gibney and director John Brahm would lead me to the moment in which sperm fertilized egg and Laraine Day's character was born. Fortunately, the flashbacks stopped when the Day character was nine.

But the flashbacks in The Locket work. Because they tell how Laraine Day's psychosis came to be. They also echo the perspectives of the characters surrounding Day. The film's methodology runs something like this: A flashback is initiated when a previously screwed over s.o. of Day tells the story to an about-to-be-screwed over s.o. of Day. And we begin to see common patterns of how Day is in denial about her condition. We also learn how the men are foolish enough to play into her sympathies. Even as they tell their stories to the next guy, there is still a part of them that believes that Day is benign.

And if that weren't enough, we get a silly middle-aged, upper-class Englishwoman singing and dancing a really terrible jig, to the unjustified pleasure of her audience. ("The Germans couldn't stop her from dancing during the blitz," we're informed.) We get crude psychoanalysis with overgeneralized theories. We get Robert Mitchum cast as a cocky painter (and since this is a young Mitchum, it's fascinating to watch the Mitchum stare in early development). We get the most ridiculous pretext for Day and psychiatrist Brian Aherne hooking up. (One bicycle, moving slower than a treadmill at its lowest setting, runs into the other and both fall down. Either people cycled slower in those days or the filmmakers were on crystal meth and failed to compensate.)

Plenty of the films programmed had better dialogue, better visuals and better performances, but this was one of my favorite films of the festival. I think it had something to do with the dancing Englishwoman.

Decoy (1946): The phrase "consummate trash" comes to mind. Nedrick Young's script is implausible, the sets are more wobbly than an episode of Doctor Who, the production design is flat and uninspired (to the point where even walls and tables are largely unadorned). This movie looks and feels like the cheapest B-movie possible.

But nobody seems to have informed director Jack Bernhard that he's propping up pulp. Benhard approaches this movie as if he's David Lean. He dollies the camera across sparse prison sets that look as if they were put together under a WPA project. He goes for the arty shot, despite the fact that it will reveal the set's limitations. He adorns the audio with an overbearing symphony, almost as if he expected the audience to rise from their seats and stand for the Queen. Bernhard's remarkable tenacity reminded me of Don Edmonds' work on the Ilsa films, whereby Edmonds raised the worst material possible to something oddly endearing.

The film has extremely baffling moments, such as the guy in the morgue who flips through the dictionary and howls with laughter over what the words mean. (And on top of that, he pronounces dichotomy "DI-SHAW-TA-ME.") Or the philanthropic doctor in the skids somehow convinced to abandon his practice on the flimsiest of reasons.

And then there's Jean Gillie, who gives Faye Dunaway a run for her money on sheer camp alone. Gillie's idea of commitment is running over her partners and grabbing hold of a suitcase, shouting, "Mine! All mine!" It's safe to say that Gillie wouldn't last long in a job interview.

My only real quibble with the film was that I wasn't tipsy when I saw it. If ever a movie was made to befuddle humanity, it's Decoy. And I say this with the best of intentions.

Okay, Howard Dean is Almost Finished

To call Dean's second place finish in New Hampshire "close" is to approach a cliff face, jump off, and attempt to land on the ground without so much as a bruise. But apparently it's worse than that. Howard Dean is now down to $5 million. Barring a Missouri win next Tuesday, it looks like we may stuck with Kerry. Unless Dean musters up Robert Kennedy-like support in California and many of the big states, and reenergizes his campaign. Kennedy, however, was more of an idealist than Dean is. And it ain't exactly 1968.

However, while I woefully miscalculated the percentage points, I was dead-on in my place predictions.

[UPDATE: Dan Spencer has compiled all blog NH predictions with success and failure rates.]

Models Attacked by Desargues' Involutions While on Catwalk

NYTBR Smackdown

The Observer leaks the shortlist for Chip McGrath's replacement.

SARAH CRICHTON: Former publisher of Little, Brown, fired, with charges of commercialism and fights with Warner publisher Maureen Egan. Accused by Joe McGinniss of not promoting books. [Working glimpse of Little, Brown.] Before that, editor at Newsweek. Recently worked with Liebermans and collaborated on A Mighty Heart, Marianne Pearl's book on her husband Daniel.

The Upshot: She was a champion of popularizing literary fiction at Little, Brown. And her journalism background and brief stint as an insider is a plus. Strong personality will be either problematic or embracing.

ANN HULBERT: Slate contributor. Wrote Interior Castle: The Art and Life of Jean Stafford and child development book. Acknowledged as "baby expert" by Boston radio.

The Upshot: Varied journalism background, including books, but emphasis of late has been outside the fray. Non-fiction edge?

BENJAMIN SCHWARZ: Literary editor of The Atlantic Monthly. On the National Book Critics Circle Board until 2006. Delivered clear manifesto in last Atlantic on why certain books are reviewed.

The Upshot: Schwarz embraces obscure work and is clear about his intentions. Although I'm not convinced that the Caitlin Flanagan Dr. Laura review represents the pop-to-literary balance that Keller is hoping for.

JUDITH SHULEVITZ: Writer of the Close Reader column in the NYTBR, which stopped last year. Ex-New York editor of Slate. Made so-so attempt to understand blogs. Might be counted upon to profile juicy disputes. Attacked Dave Eggers.

The Upshot: For those looking for some good fights, Shulevitz might be the one to do it. However, given her power couple status and connections, it's likely that the bluster may be more talk than action.

RETURN OF THE RELUCTANT PICK: Benjamin Schwarz.

[UPDATE: It's Schwarz, not Schwartz. Blame really bad Mel Brooks movies for the problematic spelling.]

The Link, The Whole Link and Nothing But the Link

Rittenhouse: "If you link to 'Wonkette' through your blogroll you cannot and will not enjoy, for what that might be worth, a link from The Rittenhouse Review."

He claims he's not serious. But given the focus on ad hominen and his failure to offer a single reasonable argument, I suspect he's saving face. Allow me to clarify the linkage process.

Wonkette (and The Antic Muse) is linked on the left because the site meets the goods. I link 'em because I like 'em. There is no quid pro quo. That's not the point.

The beef I have with James Martin Capozzola is that he seems to view the basic process of linking as somehow exclusionary, when, in fact, it's more inclusive than anything else. While Sturgeon's Law can certainly apply to blogs, there are so many of them out there that, even if 10% of them were excellent, the list would be long and unmanageable. To include everyone would require a time commitment that well beyond the realms of healthy human commitment.

There is no Machiavellian scheming or Oliver Stone conspiracy theory. There is no secret society, whereby one person links to another, and another person does not. A link on the left is based solely on merit or friendship or both. A non-linked blog is probably one I'm not aware of.

Inside A Young Genius

While walking along Valencia St. a few nights ago, I came across a crumpled piece of paper on the sidewalk. I didn't have any reading material on me, and, seeing that the paper was heavy bond stock, I somehow knew that this wasn't your standard stray bit of trash. I unfolded the paper and began reading a story entitled "The Unforbidden is Compulsory, Forgotten and Altogether Tied Up in Importance Or, I Am Christ in the Literary Community." Several paragraphs into the story, I detected a style that was familiar, recognizable in its aggravating repetitions and endless paragraphs. I couldn't immediately place it. But, yesterday, when Salon posted the first installment of a political "satire" authored by Dave Eggers, I realized what I had in my hands.

I thought I'd post the pages I found here so that future scholars can appraise one of our finest authors. It should be noted that the partial manuscript was laser printed, and it included several handwritten remarks, which I have bolded and bracketed.

"Fuckers! Bastards!" said Dimitri [No, too Strangelove.] Sergei.

"What do you mean by that?" asked [Character Named After Adam Sandler Movie].

[Beef up dialogue -- that is, if you can come up with anything. Jesus, can't believe Talbot's asking me to write political satire. Mine from Didion.]

They could do anything, everything and everything, everything and nothing. In a race like this, that, and everything in between, this race, this ongoing battle which you must understand, which you must feel between your toes and your fingers and your nostrils, you see, because it pulsates like many other races, an important race, a pivotal race, a race that destroys careers, there was no oversight. [Do I really understand politics? Pollack's better at this. Well, who cares? Go with it, workhorse.] There was no feeling of outrage, no general sense that people were willing to screw each other, which was strange because most political races are corrupt in an easily understood way. And thank [insert Judeo-Chistian reference here for kids] for that. Sergei [good, keep name, funny] and [Should I go with Happy Gilmore or Little Nicky?], manager and head of special products for the Stuart Craspenmonstrodacousticolostomy campaign [Consider shortening funny name. Name should be long but not too long. Vendela tells me that Americans don't elect people with long names, but she really doesn't understand humor. Add to shopping list: buy shampoo for VV.], wouldn't want any oversight or general sense of the limits of taste and smell. It was important that Craspenmonstrodacousticolostomy smell nice, that every voter who shook his hand knew that he smelled nice when they shook his hand. This was a filthy contest already, and most of the other candidates did not smell nice, even when they were shaking hands, and most of the filth was theirs but it could sometimes be picked up from other people and other candidates and other filthmongers [Chabon has stopped taking showers this week. Research for his new book. But will he see himself in this piece? Must not offend him or anyone else important. Consider revising.] and today would be no different, for today, this day, different from yesterday, but also a holiday -- the Fourth of July, Independence Day, the time when they tossed out the firecrackers and threw burgers on a barbeque designed for barbecuing burgers, big burgers, the day the nation had been founded forgotten, bereft of its origins [Getting too political there, padre. Must keep it goofy and about nothing too important.] -- was a day too crucial for cleansing, showering, basting, and perhaps ignoring deodorant. Today, at the Independence Day Walk Long and Tall and Arts Fair [Does this fly? Again, keep names goofy but vaguely discernible.], the Craspenmonstrodacousticolostomy campaign had to achieve nothing less than Total Absolute Ultimate Visual Dominance [Heidi hates this, says I should cut down. Maybe I can get one of those 826 V volunteers to salivate over this and come up with something.]. If, through the relentless creation and placement of Craspenmonstrodacousticolostomy balloons [Now I know the name's bad. Consider shortening], posters, buttons, flyers, pom-poms, kites, banners, [Keep calling ANSWER and Greenpeace and find out what they use. If not, resort to high school rally memories.] and giant, tremendous Styrofoam hands [Keep this. Not sure why, but keep.], they could achieve ___________________ [Rework TAUVD concept.]

[Motherfucker. That scruffy intern didn't get me my latte in two minutes. Note to self: Breathe, lots of soy and yoga, exercise in Marin, non-negative thinking, no snark. These masses cannot help themselves. They'll join the ULA and bitch, but I'll be the Pulitzer finalist. Reminder: add more names to my list.]

[Maybe start again from scratch.]

At this point, the writing becomes illegible. There is one additional comment at the bottom of the page, but it resembles more of a jagged line that trails up the right margin and forms into a crude picture of a penis at the top of a page.

I have no idea what any of this means, but perhaps some of you scholars who know Eggers' work better than I do can offer a proper assessment.

Naked Dentists Dog Markson & Marquez's Potential Movies?

Nudity in Science Fiction Books (via Quiddity)

Only in John Updike's universe could a person be prim about dental procedure:

“Let’s have lunch,” he begged. “Or is your mouth too full of Novocain?”

“He didn’t use Novocain today,” she primly told him. “It was just the fitting of a crown, with temporary cement.”

Mark reviews The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. And he also points out that David Markson has a new book coming out.

Perry Anderson tackles Living to Tell the Tale, comparing Garcia Marquez's life against Mario Vargas Llosas.

David Edelstein and A.O. Scott square off over the Biskind book, comparing it against J. Hoberman's The Dream Life.

Noir City #5

Noir attrition has kicked in. And it's not just me. I had to assure a fellow film buff that Sydney Greenstreet did indeed appear in Casablanca. And neither of us could remember Leon Ames' name a mere 24 hours after viewing his fantastic performance in The Velvet Touch. We only knew that he was also in Postman. Even Eddie Mueller was susceptible on Monday night, going crazy about The Velvet Touch right before Crime of Passion. The hard lesson is that the more films you watch, the more you realize that nobody's perfect.

Of course, this means nothing for those who are attending Noir City in piecemeal. But for the truly devoted film freaks, for the people who are either going every night or most nights, it's fascinating to watch people who were once so lucid degenerate into atavistic carnivores whose only duty is to wander in for more. I blame Mueller for this. The guy programmed four extra nights this year. And he knew that we film freaks would keep coming. Even with our day jobs and other obligations.

But no matter. With two nights left, I've already wistful about my nightly dose of noir soon coming at an end.

Crime of Passion (1957): If Crime of Passion demonstrates anything, it's that a fifty year old Barbara Stanwyck could probably have Gwyneth Paltrow's kidney for a midnight snack and still remain hungry. Stanwyck plays an advice columnist who falls for and marries a cop played by (who else?) Sterling Hayden. Hayden, perhaps the actor to play by-the-book characters, is extremely sensitive to Stanwyck's needs -- that is, when he's not demanding ham and eggs (though not the Desert Fury variety), working long hours, growing stubble, and roughing other cops up shortly after spitting out a freshly lit cigarette. Shortly before marrying Hayden, Stanwyck quits her job and finds herself not only bored, but a tad febrile about her husband getting ahead. To the point where she's even willing to do the horizontal tango with Raymond Burr, among other things.

The implausibility of this setup is helped in large part by the solid acting. Stanwyck delivers lines like a firecracker, with just the right amount of innuendo. Hayden is every bit her match. And their scenes together display solid chemistry (what Hayden does with his hands and Stanwyck with her eyes is nothing less than amazing), particularly when juxtaposed against drab parties of husbands hanging with husbands drinking beer and wives hanging with wives getting excited about social developments. There's a dark undercurrent in this film that attracted me, but left me ultimately unfulfilled. I'm all for pre-Friedan examination of the housewife's predicament, but why should the problem that has no name have its filmmakers intimidated? The ending, which cried out for a Lina Wurtmuller-like explosion, was too neat and anticlimactic. But it's passable fare, though more Ladies' Home Journal than noir.

The Velvet Touch (1948): Imagine The Sweet Smell of Success crossed with a good murder mystery and you have The Velvet Touch, an overlooked little gem bristling with wit and heartache. Whether it's contemplating the secret meanings of chess or directly invoking Oscar Wilde, the dialogue is so crisp that I was astonished to learn that this was Walter Reilly's only film script (the IMDB listed his only other writing credit as an episode of Climax!). Rosalind Russell propels this noir with class, playing an aristocratic actress locked up with a sleazy producer played marvelously by Leon Ames (think a low-rent William Holden type oozing with sleaze). Russell inadvertently kills Ames in the opening moment and, as is the custom of noir, we flashback to learn how it all happened. She's wooed by an Englishman (Leo Genn) who orders her meals for her. And she's trying to break out of her typecasting in painfully unfunny farces by appearing in Hedda Gabler. But then there's the murder and the efforts to cover up.

The film is guided more by its dialogue and performances, than its predictable story arcs. Velvet features a spectacular theatre (that Mueller reports was constructed entirely on an RKO soundstage) and, if the lovely friction between Russell and Ames wasn't enough, it throws in Sydney Greenstreet -- this time, as a good guy, a detective that's a cross between Columbo and Nero Wolfe.

More films seen and to be seen, all to cover later.

Why I Am Avoiding DBC Pierre

Not one motherfucker in the States says "fucken." What was the point in spelling it this way? If we are to look at this from a phonetical standpoint, it comes across as "PHUCK-EN" (not to be confused with "PHUCK-IN," aka "PHUCK-EEN," often used in tandem with the first letter of the alphabet in expressing surprise and very good in a sentence like "I was fuckin' Joaquin Phoenix").

If DBC Pierre had substituted "fuck me," "fuck you" or "motherfucker" instead of "fucken," then there'd be no problem. There would instead be verisimilitude. But the conundrum stands: Pierre/Finlay/Whatever the Fuck Pseudonym That Booker Winner is Using Today seems to think that we Yanks say "fucken 'ell" a lot, or some truncated version thereof, which is a very Brit thing to say in terms of phrasing and pronunciation.

And besides, when it comes to intransitive verbs, Americans are inclined to shorten "ing" to "in." We just hate those fucking Gs. Plus, the idea of following a great word like "fuck" with something as dour as "en" just doesn't mesh with the American character. And, as such, the "en" thing is about as American as pronouncing the last letter of the alphabet "zed." Perhaps because deep down inside, we Yanks want to "fuck in," implying a desire for indoor copulation. Whereas "fuck en" implies entropy, sex begrudgingly begun to appease the s.o. and get through the night, the obligatory task.

Well, fuck that. And fuck fuckin' Vernon God Little.

Pope John Paul II Refuses to Play Chess with Dick Cheney

Anne Tyler: Unwavering Instigator of Irritation

Michiko on Joe Ezterhas: "As for the rest of this ridiculously padded, absurdly self-indulgent book, the reader can only cry: T.M.I.! Too Much Information! And: Get an editor A.S.A.P.!" What the F.U.C.K. is up with the A.C.R.O.N.Y.M.S.?

A new book will explain the seven most important unsolved math problems. One of them involves working out the probability ratio for the Democrats in November.

How the hell did the Washington Times snag a review copy of the $3,000 Ali book? Did the reviewer have to fill out a loan application and submit a credit report?

The new issue of the resurrected Argosy is out. It's the first issue since 1943, with work by Jeffrey Ford, Michael Moorcock, Ann Cummins and Benjamin Rosenbaum. Each issue will be packaged in two volumes: one the main magazine, the other a novella. The magazine is printed bimonthly and has an affordable subsciption rate. The Moorcock story is the return of metatemporal detective Sir Seaton Begg.

The Age weighs in on the legacy of long novels, but cites Tolkien and Patrick O'Brian instead of David Foster Wallace and Rising Up and Rising Down.

Bookslut has posted the standard response the Times is issuing.

Christopher Paolini: the next J.W. Rowling?

A.S. Bryatt weighs in on the Grossman translation.

The Globe and Mail reports that Tyler "hasn't a boring or irritating word in her vocabulary." Of course. You can find the boredom and the irritation in the Caucasian malaise and the treacle.

And Radosh and Slate are looking into the reliability of that Times sex slave story.

And the Nominees Are...

The nominees have been announced.

1. Spellbound was ignored in the Best Documentary category.
2. Granted, he was fun. But Johnny Depp for Pirates of the Caribbean?
3. The Triplets of Belleville doesn't stand a chance against Finding Nemo.
4. City of God was a surprise. It's up for cinematography, directing, film editing and writing. It's also a Miramax film. So it was probably pushed like gangbusters.
5. A surprise Pollack win a few years ago and now a Mystic River nomination. The Academy really loves Marcia Gay Harden, don't they?
6. Keisha Castle-Hughes for Best Actress in Whale Rider. She may be the youngest lead nominee ever. The kids are moving from the Best Supporting nominees (i.e., Anna Paguin for The Piano) to the lead roles.
7. Typically, the Best Writing category is the sympathy Oscar. So no surprise to see American Splendor, Dirty Pretty Things and The Barbarian Invasions ghettoized there (although the latter also scored a foreign film nomination).
8. Alec Baldwin in The Cooler -- another surprise.
9. I feel sorry for any film up against Return of the King in the technical categories. It's clear they don't stand a chance.
10. A Mighty Wind up for Best Song!

NYTBR & Keller Update

I'm stunned by the sudden influx of email I've had concerning my call to action re: Keller and the New York Times Book Review (thanks in no small part to the Mighty Book Blog Cabal kind enough to link it). Apparently, a lot of people care about literary fiction. (If I don't get back to you all immediately, please bear with me. I'll do my best.) Since I see the makings of a multilateral coalition, I've started outlining a plan. More details later.

New Hampshire Predictions

Well, hell, if Oliver's going to do it, then so am I. Here's my New Hampshire prediction. And I'll even throw up percentage points.

1. Kerry 30%
2. Dean 29%
3. Clark 16%
4. Edwards 13%
5. Lieberman 8%
6. Kucinich 2%
7. Sharpton 1%

More Serials! More! Newspapers, Are You Listening?

Alexander McCall Smith's new one, 44 Scotland Street, will be serialized in the Scotsman. (via Publisher's Lunch)

Monday Morning Boiler Plate Blog Entry

We [drank too much]/[had too many personal fiascos]/[raped a small poodle] over the weekend. It was an experience that [left us intellectually lacking]/[has us pondering __________]/[pairing our argyles]. [Not that you would know anything about that]/[I'm sure you understand our pain]. Expect our return [next week]/[tomorrow]/[at some unspecified time]/[never], when we've [fully recovered]/[possessed of less self-loathing]/[prepared to eviscerate another Laura Miller column] and [visit some of the other fine folks on the [left]/[right]]/[get out of the house yourself]/[email us naked photos of yourself]. [Or not.]

Not that we're [giving blood]/[holing up in a motel room with a .44 and a smile]/[raping another small poodle] ourselves.

Comfort Books

Terry and OGIC have fessed their comfort reading. I thought I'd add to the hue and cry, hoping that other swell folks would do the same. "Comfort reading" has been defined by our dynamic duo as anything that cools down an overheated mind. I'd stretch it a little further and define it as "anything that restores the mind back to its necessary default factory settings." The following list is by no means a summation of my favorite writers, just the stuff that keeps me personally focused.

1. The Oz books -- to restore imaginative settings.
2. Rex Stout -- to restore careful balance between wiseass and logic.
3. James M. Cain -- to cut the crap and get to the point.
4. Just about anything by Asimov, fiction or nonfiction (his history and science books worked wonders for me as a kid) -- to describe things as clearly as possible.
5. Donald Westlake/Richard Stark -- to get prose clean and subtextual.
6. Charles Dickens -- to replenish color and description.
7. Terry Southern -- to restore anti-establishment impulses and ballsiness.
8. John P. Marquand -- to remind mind that satire comes in shades and can be accessible.
9. David Lodge -- to encourage joie de vivre.
10. Ian McEwan -- to respawn impulse to drown babies and revise brutally.

Tom Cruise: All-American Bacon

Quickies

Primer: Winner of the Sundance Grand Jury Prize and the Alfred P. Sloan Prize. The film was made for $7,000, doesn't appear to have a distribution deal yet, but somehow manages to involve time travel and ethics in its plot. The intricate story has also caused a lot of people to scratch their heads, which has resulted in several unclaimed ski caps left at theatres.

As if the Whitbread isn't enough, Mark Haddon has walked away with another award -- this time, from the South Bank Show. The British literary community is up in arms about this, trying to convince committees that "enough is enough." An anonymous Important Literary Person has made calls, noting that, while The Curious Dog is a great book, Haddon has simply won too much praise and that there won't be enough praise for the rest of the books.

Alexandra Ripley, author of Scarlett, has died. Several publishers, upon hearing the news, have been trying to determine which great Ripley book they can pilfer a sequel out of. Unfortunately, Ripley was no Margaret Mitchell. And no publisher wants to be reminded of how much they backed Ripley's attempt to cash in, let alone the other stuff she wrote.

Prima facie that the New Yorker is overinfluenced by vapid McSweeney's-like pop cultural riffs: "Boswell's Life of Jackson". (And Menudo is referenced in the first sentence. Oh no.)

James Fallows annotates the State of the Union address.

The Boston Globe interviews Tibor Fischer and Fischer comes across, no surprise, as a smug son of a bitch. Not only does he compare himself to Shakespeare, but he lauds cheapshots: "I'm with Amis, and so although in 'Voyage' I do have laughs at the expense of foreigners -- so did Shakespeare -- I also allow characters for whom English is not their first language to express dismay when someone British doesn't know an arcane piece of English vocabulary: 'It's your language,' they say."

And to hell with the Golden Globes. How about a real award? Best Lead In A Rising Up and Rising Down Review: "For the past decade, it seemed Sacramento-based novelist William T. Vollmann was neck and neck in a war of prolificacy with Richard Powers, David Foster Wallace, and anyone else who would take him on. With 'Rising Up and Rising Down,' he has put the issue to rest." And I truly feel sorry for John Freeman, who, like all reviewers, read all 3,500 pages from a CD-ROM.

Lizzie Grubman (not to be confused with this Lizzie) is returning to the social scene. This may be the first time in New York history that first-hand accounts of road rage are discussed over caviar.

At long last, a New York Times I want to see. (via Old Hag, courtesy of Pullquote)

Pynchon's voice on The Simpsons. He sounds like an angrier Harvey Pekar. (via Chica)

Francis Ford Coppola quotes Wodehouse! (via At Large)

Well, Goddam

I'm embarassed to confess this, but the end of Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time brought tears to my eyes. Everything that Everything is Illuminated tried to be (to somewhat satisfying effect), Dog sure as hell is. The novel appears inspired by the skewered perspectives of Paul Auster, Eric Kraft's postmodern scrapbook approach, and W.G. Sebald's penchant for contextual insets. Or not. Only Haddon really knows. But where Auster is content to bullshit with annoying asides, Haddon incorporates his cant into a universe that matters.

If the book was judged solely as a bravura performance of perspective, this would be enough. The narrator's solipsism, the attempts by tertiary characters to reach out to Christopher, and the fact that the story is written in such an uncompromising way are all laudable. But the novel's linear approaach matches its protagonist's scientific mind. The story wends its ways through unexpected twists and a determination to solve a mystery, the great irony being that the mystery is much larger than even Christopher realizes. Christopher's attempts to apply order, often when surrounded by elements of the world he doesn't entirely understand, show off his blind spots. The book can be read as a dialectic between the real and the intellectual worlds. But Dog is a brave enough novel to voice the triumphs and weaknesses in prioritizing one world over the other. I came away from the book thinking about how little we accommodate those who are special or off-kilter, and how this willing ignorance often causes these minds to develop in unhealthy, emotional ways.

And that's why anyone interested in literature should read this book immediately. That is, if they haven't already.

Edwards Develops Rictus Mouth to Gain Slight Edge in Polls

More 1992 v. 2004 Primary Comparisons

Delaware: February 3, 2004 Primary

1992
Tsongas 30.2%
Uncommitted: 29.6%
Clinton: 20.8%
Brown: 19.5%

Missouri: February 3, 2004 Primary

1992
Clinton: 45.1%
Tsongas: 10.2%
Brown: 5.7%
Uncommitted: 39%

South Carolina: February 3, 2004 Primary

1992
Clinton: 62.9%
Tsongas: 18.3%
Harkin: 6.6%
Brown: 6.0%

Arizona: February 3, 2004 Primary

1992
Tsongas: 34.4%
Clinton: 29.2%
Brown: 27.5%
Harkin: 7.6%

New Mexico: February 3, 2004 Caucus

1992
Clinton: 52.9%
Brown: 16.9%
Tsongas: 6.2%
Harkin: 1.8%

North Dakota: February 3, 2004 Caucus

1992
Clinton: 46.0%
Tsongas: 10.3%
Brown: 7.5%
Harkin: 6.8%

Oklahoma: February 3, 2004 Primary

1992
Clinton: 70.5%
Brown: 16.7%
Harkin: 3.4%

So, if Dean loses New Hampshire on Tuesday to Kerry (giving Kerry a double win and putting Dean behind in the game), the big question here is how, or if, Dean will carry these seven states.

And here are some more Iowa-New Hampshire results:

1992 Iowa: Harkin (64.3%), Uncommitted (11.0%), Tsongas (10.7%)
1992 New Hampshire: Tsongas (33%), Clinton (24.8%), Kerrey (11.1%)
1992 Front-Runner: Clinton

1988 Iowa: Simon (34.3%), Jackson (21.9%), Dukakis (20.8%), Babbitt (15.5%)
1988 New Hampshire: Dukakis (36.4%), Gephardt (20.3%), Simon (17.4%), Jackson (8.0%)
1988 Front-Runner: Dukakis

1984 Iowa: Mondale (48.9%), Hart (16.5%), McGovern (10.3%)
1984 New Hampshire: Hart (37.3%), Mondale (27.9%), Glenn (12.0%)
1984 Front-Runner: Mondale

1976 Iowa: Uncommitted (37.2%), Carter (27.6%), Bayh (13.2%)
1976 New Hampshire: Carter (28.4%), Udall (22.7%), Bayh (15.2%)
1976 Front-Runner: Carter

1972 Iowa: Muskie (35.5%), McGovern (22.6%), Humphrey (1.6%)
1972 New Hampshire: Muskie (46.4%), McGovern (37.1%), Yorty (6.1%)
1972 Front-Runner: McGovern

So outside of Gore in 2000, who won both New Hampshire and Iowa, and incumbents, not a single Democratic presidential front-runner has won both New Hampshire and Iowa in the last thirty years. The only primary candidate to win both was Ed Muksie.

The interesting thing is that with Dean trying to emerge from the Iowa rant incident, we're seeing something of a Muskie-McGovern reversal. In 1972, Muskie's campiagn collapsed when he reacted to newspaper articles attacking him. He cried, lost his lead and was perceived as weak. But according to the latest polls, Dean doesn't look as if he'll win New Hampshire. And with the press nipping on his tails, Dean's now trying to atone for the Iowa rant, which may very well go down in political history. Ironically, the Internet, the very medium that propelled him, may end up killing him.

The campaign isn't over yet. The Dean campaign will have to do some serious work in the seven states. But barring a major Kerry revelation, it's looking a bit grim.

Dean Isn't Finished...Yet

CNN reports the latest CNN/USA Today/Gallup poll shows Kerry ahead with 35%, with Dean following at 23%. If Dean loses Tuesday, it won't be the first time an eventual front-runner lost both Iowa and New Hampshire. Here are the results for the 1992 New Hampshire primary:

Tsongas: 55,663 (33%)
Clinton: 41,540 (24.8%)
Kerrey: 18,584 (11.1%)
Harkin: 17,063 (10.2%)
Brown: 13,659 (8.0%)

The precentages look familiar, don't they?

But if Dean starts losing beyond this, then he's in real trouble.

J-Franz Gets a Phone-In

A new tell-all book on the Kennedys is coming out. But this time, it's from the inside. The book is authored by Christopher Kennedy Lawford, and will include an essay by Ted Kennedy entitled "Mary Jo and Me: A Politiican's Guide to Avoiding Entanglement."

Shelsey Sybrandts, a 9 year old Coloradan, has become the youngest author of valentine verse. Harvey Winstein has optioned the eight-line poem for a future Miramax film, noting, "The little fucker's a motherfucking genius. But if she tries to cross me, she better watch out. The fat man always wins."

Ahmed Bouzfour won't be taking home Morocco's Literary Creation Prize. Bouzfour rejected the award, protesting Morocco's low level of literacy. He also protested Morocco's continuing promotion of the casbah dance.

In The Guardian, Richard Holmes examines Percy Shelley's premature drowning.

Filmjerk uncovers an early draft of the Corrections film adaptation. David Hare wrote the script but, despite his solid credentials, to summarize their findings, the screenplay sucks. Big time.

Noir City #4

Thursday and Friday's screenings made ten movies in five days. This was drastic media input by all reasonable standards, particularly given the four hours of sleep I was getting, the writing I was trying to get in, and the day job. By the end of Friday, I actually believed John Garfield and Liz Scott were inviting me to dinner to discuss a few double-cross angles over poisoned cabarnet -- in today's world, their schemings would probably be articulated in a marketing plan. Fortunately, a few friends stepped in at the right moment, delineating the differences between film and reality. They threatened never to speak to me again if I kept spending so much time at the Castro Theatre, whether solo or with other folks. Every obsession has its price. I learned this from film noir.

Movie blurred into movie. It was getting more difficult to judge each film on its own merits or lack thereof. Titles, directors, and actors were thrown into a mental cistern and memory required careful auditing. But now with sleep and time away from the screen, it is, at last, possible to dwell upon what I saw.

The Accused (1949): I'm not quite sure how much Jonathan Kaplan's 1988 movie, an overrated piece of tripe that seemed to revel in its depiction of rape, had to do with this forerunner. The Kaplan version doesn't have a source. What I do know is that both movies involve a woman who gets raped, an attorney who attempts to defend them, and some Hester Prynne-like stigma felt internally by the victims. Despite its intentions, beneath the surface, the Kaplan film went with Jodie Foster as the blue-collar pottymouth type who had it coming, "sexing up" the rape through an unnecessary flashback masquerading under the imprimatur of docudrama. But the 1949 version turned out to be smarter and more fascinating, even if it culminated in a disappointing finale that betrayed its intentions.

Loretta Young plays a psychology professor (in a 1949 film, no less!) who gets a ride from a student hoping to get into her pants. The student, fond of suggestively chomping down on pencils in the classroom, takes her on an extended ride, strips down to swimming trunks, and then tries to assault Young over a cliff face. Young beats him to death in self-defense and spends most of the movie dodging the scientific-minded detectives (who also toss around rough gender role generalizations) looking into the case, while rearranging her appearance when necessary.

The film's first hour is its most fascinating. We see Young trying to convince an exchange student that college is a waste of money if a lady goes there solely to snag a husband. There's the suggestion in this moment, which isn't particularly didactic, that the film will be about the crumbling of a woman's image. There's a running undercurrent in the film's dialogue and visuals on how people are judged by their looks. There's a shot of Young looking into a compact as a man who may be able to identify her can be seen in the reflection. It's a canny bon mot which implies that Young may also a victim of how society judges men and women in the smallest of ways. This is also reflected by the smoking gun pinning the case to Young: a blown-up display of a slide sample in a dark room.

Unfortunately, the film abandons this angle and turns Young into yet another hopeless spinster who needs a man. She swoons over Robert "We'll win this war if the cows come home" Cummings, and apologizes for "a spinster's kiss."

It should be noted that The Accused was written by a woman, Ketti Frings. I couldn't help but wonder whether Frings had to settle for the sickening transition into "woe is me" histrionics (or, for that matter, Young's lame first-person voiceover, reinforcing the fearful woman racket) to get the early points across. I was very disappointed by the end. But for a 1949 film, it still managed to sneak in a few interesting assaults on gender relations.

The Reckless Moment (1949): The film, one of only two movies that the great Max Ophuls made in Hollywood, is based on the same source material as 2001's The Deep End. I'd seen that film, which was propelled more by Tilda Swinton's extraordinary performance than its passable script. But I didn't realize how much directors Scott McGehee and David Siegel had appropriated Ophuls' imagery. The 1949 version has the great Joan Bennett in the role of the mother doing whatever it takes to keep a murder on the q.t. Bennett has an altogether different desperation than Swinton. Where Swinton is the independent type, Bennett covers up the crime with a good deal of help from servants. While both ladies are competent protectors and not to be messed with, Bennett comes across better as the indomitable commander. But that's largely because The Reckless Moment's script is better.

Other than this, the narrative distinctions between the two films stop. James Mason attempts an Irish dialect, but, alas, his is the voice of James Mason. Before you can say Humbert Humbert or Bigger than Life, he's simpering on all fours in the way he does so well.

If I had to pick one movie or the other, I'd base my choice on one simple criterion. The Reckless Moment is 82 minutes long. The Deep End is 101 minutes. The Reckless Moment wins by way of its breeziness.

Desert Fury (1947): Desert Fury was one of two Technicolor noirs Mueller programmed. And, oh, what wonderful subtext in the Robert Rossen script.

The film stars Liz Scott, who, not long ago, I confessed my relentless devotion to (and, apparently, I'm not alone). Desert Fury is worth it just to see the lovely Ms. Scott filmed in beautiful Technicolor. I found myself blushing throughout the film. My able viewership was helped by the art department. If I had to offer a conservative estimate on the number of costume changes for Ms. Scott, it would stand somewhere around 204.

I confess these details not to run a film freak's Vespa into a brick wall, but because, in light of the subtext, it's necessary to point out that Liz Scott is nothing less than stunning, beautiful, sharp, a young lady who declares early on that she has no problem "playing with matches," a woman who any man would go to jail over. And not the way you're thinking.

Now the subtext: John Hodiak plays a gangster who has arrived at a Nevada desert town with his, uh, special male companion Wendell Corey. Corey has apparently been everywhere with Hodiak for quite some time. As Hodiak himself confesses, Corey bought him "ham and eggs" when they first met. And we all know what that means.

Hodiak is in a bit of denial about his, uh, relationship with Corey. He hopes to go off with Scott. But he tried the same thing earlier with Scott's mother (played with snap and grace by Mary Astor). And Corey came along to the picnic then.

Now, as established above, any man would run off with Scott in a minute. And this is where Scott's casting is crucial. She encourages Hodiak to run off with her. And he still can't shake Corey. To the point where Hodiak's conflicted through the film and snaps with a cruel act towards a local (and much more after) in a diner.

And then there's Burt Lancaster, the deputy whose tousled hair looks gayer than Hodiak and Corey combnied. He has his eyes on Scott too. But Scott isn't quite convinced he's the rugged man who will take her away.

It is to the immense credit of Rossen and director Lewis Allen that they got away with so much mangled manhood at the time that this was made. Where The Accused abandoned its subtext early on, Rossen is a gifted enough writer to stay with it until the bitter end. I came down a bit hard on Rossen with The Strange Love of Martha Ivers, but where the dialogue of that film appeared dictated by a writer's efforts to prove he was one with the atmosphere dammit and that he's lived, Rossen is able to pull off a stylized Nevada vernacular here that, along with the subtext, makes Desert Fury a juicy, overlooked gem.

Leave Her to Heaven (1945): Like the 1948 version of The Postman Always Rings Twice, I was underwhelmed by this purpoted classic. Perhaps I was distracted by Gene Tierney and Cornel Wilde's preternaturally perfect eyebrows. Or maybe I was hoping for more motivation into Tierney's character. Or maybe I was just damned annoyed by director John M. Stahl's stilted framings, the blocking of which resembled a really bad community theatre production. Or maybe I was vexed by the dimebag courtroom finale with the over-the-top prosecutor and the endless yeses. Or maybe I simply wanted to slap Wilde around because he had all the thespic range of a Mylar board.

With the exception of nice perspective shots during one murder sequence, I just couldn't believe in this movie. But this was, after all, Number 10.

R.I.P. Helmut

Walter Kirn is David Denby's Bitch

And while we're on the subject of the rich, I couldn't help but notice Walter Kirn's review of American Sucker. Kirn writes, "Instead, like countless other Americans who had their own reasons for adding their hot breath to the mammoth bubble in equities whose bursting still echoes in the nation's ears even as the market is puffing up again, Denby fell short," and, just after painting the Denby-Schine marriage as "a model of bright metropolitan domesticity," Kirn goes on to give Denby streetcred with the limolib crowd: "Denby, when young and living in California, had been something of a radical, dancing to the Grateful Dead and defiantly pitting culture against commerce, but he'd mellowed into a propertied intellectual who sneakily admired the system for its ability to supply the good life even to those who held it in partial contempt."

Beyond the first quoted sentence (truncated here), which has more clauses than fleas on a mutt, is this really a book review? It seems more like biographical apologia than anything else. How can anyone "mellow" into a property owner, much less intellectualize about laying down escrow? Do you plop onto the beanbag one day, listening to Yo La Tengo, only to wake up with a deed of trust in your hands? Writing out a check ain't exactly tantamount to riffing on Baudelaire. It is a thoughtless process used to keep creditors at bay for another month.

And who the fuck dances to the Dead? That's a bit like trying to mosh to the Velvet Underground.

Eat the Rich

He's noticed that the heft of money makes the bodies of the wealthy more dense, more boldly angled and thus threatening, even when suited, dressed, coated -- and wrapped in the soundlessness of their immense, padded, and luxuriously ventilated office spaces. The rich are underpinned by ignorance, he's noticed. They know nothing of the authentic scent of dust and dowdiness. They never knew a time when people bought winter tomatoes in little cardboard cartons, four of them lined up beneath a cellophane roof, twenty-nine cents, and how thrifty housewives -- like Larry's mother, for instance -- used only half a tomato for the family salad each night, so that the box lasted eight days, just over a week. The rich -- except for the self-made rich -- believe they're biting at the apple of life just because they know enough to appreciate pre-Columbian art and handpieced quilts. They're out of touch, they're out to lunch, they breath the dead air of their family privilege.

-- Carol Shields, Larry's Party

LiveJournal RSS Feed

I don't know what in sam hill this will do for you, but Susan has been nice enough to create a LiveJournal RSS feed for this place. Me? I feed on the blood of live bats.

Weblog Antics

Ana Marie Cox + Gawker = Wonkette. Nice move. I take back everything bad I ever said about Nick Denton. However, "Wonkette" sounds like a love child between Chewbacca and a drum majorette.

If You See This Man in the Streets, Hassle Him Mercilessly

The Times: What Is To Be Done

Folks, folks, folks, folks, folks, folks.

It's terrible news, yes. But it hasn't happened. It ain't a fait accompli. Here is what we must do. In order to prevent this horrible thing from happening, we must take action. We cannot just sit back and allow Bill Keller and his puppet NTYBR editor to have their way. We must let the Times know that such a move will destroy the Sunday Times reading experience. We must flood Keller with letters, with phone calls, tell this bonehead that he is eviscerating an institution and that he will face hard consequences if he tampers with something that ain't that broke to begin with.

For one thing, I'm sure you all have subscriptions that the Times counts upon for revenue. I can tell Keller for a fact that if literary fiction reviews are removed from the Book Review, then I will cancel my subscription, and not even the allure of the crossword or Randy Cohen's smug columns will bring me back. And I will encourage all of my book-reading friends to do the same.

So let's hit this Philistine fucker where it hurts. Let's pick a day and deluge the Times not with emails, but letters, phone calls, faxes, hard things to lodge into their mailboxes, a tangible protest to spell out just why this is a bad idea. Let's take a stand right now and stop the Times from killing a vital hub for tomorrow's writers. Nip the fuckers off at the bud and stop giving them any kind of revenue. If it goes down, cancel your subscriptions. Refuse to buy the paper. If fiction is to go, then I'm bolting over to the Post or the L.A. Times for my Sunday newspaper experience.

The Internet was used to give Howard Dean a sizable war chest. It's been used to draw attention to things that otherwise would have remain ignored. It is a medium that's been used to polarize. So I'm suggesting that the book blogs, and the journalists, and anyone who cares put their passion where their mouths are.

We can't allow this to go down without a fight. And even if Keller kills the NYTBR, at least we can say we didn't try to stop the gorgon.

So who's with me?

Clark Confuses New Hampshire Primary Debate With Jujitsu Match

Remarks from the President

The crazed Dean speech was one thing, but I'm starting to have grave concerns about the President. Here's a partial transcript:

Remarks by the President to the Press Pool
Plenty O' Ribs Cafe
Area 51, Roswell, New Mexico

11:25 A.M. MST

THE PRESIDENT: I need some ribs, goddammit.

Q: Mr. President, how are you?

THE PRESIDENT: Shut the fuck up, you gadfly. I'm hungry and I'm going to order some ribs, Laura be damned. I ran six miles today and eviscerated the Bill of Rights a little more. I earned my ribs, don't you think?

Q: What would you like?

THE PRESIDENT: What do you think I'd like? Ribs. What does a man do in a cafe but order ribs? Do you have any real questions?

Q: Sir, on homeland security, critics say you simply haven't spent enough to keep this country secure.

THE PRESIDENT: My job is to dry hump this nation. I'm riding bareback, my friend. Who cares about jobs? Who cares about the economy? Who gives a flying fuck about the deficit? We need a space program resembling a really bad Brian De Palma film. But right now I'm here to take somebody's order. That would be you, Rubber Band Man -- what would you like? Stop pestering me with questions and start eating, son. You're looking a bit thin. Have you been drinking? I drank once, but then daddy bailed me out. Put some of that meager money on the table like a man. This is all about consumer confidence. I don't care how little they pay you over at the State-Ledger. This is how the economy grows. Max out your credit cards, jeopardize the state budgets. It drives the economy forward. And, no, don't quote Paul Krugman, you twerp. I've had enough of that whiny little bitch. So what would you like to eat?

Q: Right behind you, whatever you order.

THE PRESIDENT: I'm ordering ribs, goddammit. Do you know about unilateral decisions? Well, this is how it works, David, I'm going to order a rib for you and you're going to eat it. And I'm not going to leave until you nibble that sucker down to the bone.

Q: But, Mr. President --

THE PRESIDENT: No buts, David. This isn't a press conference. This is about understanding how ribs work. It's a bad metaphor, but I'm not leaving until you understand it, son. Do you hear?

Who Needs Those Two-Page DeLillo Reviews When You've Got John Grisham?

Horrible news about the NYTBR's change in direction:

Well, if you write non-fiction, review non-fiction, or prefer to read non-fiction, break out the champagne. "The most compelling ideas tend to be in the non-fiction world," Keller says. "Because we are a newspaper, we should be more skewed toward non-fiction."

What's more, if you're perplexed or simply bored with what passes for smart fiction these days, the Times feels your pain. More attention will be paid to the potboilers, we're told. After all, says Keller, somebody's got to tell you what book to choose at the airport.

Personally, I'd rather suffer through Laura Miller's columns every once in a while than see the Gray Lady cave like this.

(via Old Hag)

Noir City #3

Last night, Eddie Mueller paired two movies based on W. Somerset Maugham material. Maugham, who was the highest paid author in the world during the 1930s, had a good deal of his material produced for the screen -- primarily because he was the kind prolific and popular writer to have four new plays running on the London West End at the same time. My own two-volume set of Somerset Maugham's short stories alone runs several thousand pages. Often the long stories set in the tropics blur into each other, with Maugham recycling plots and characters without apology.

But that's not to suggest that we should discount Maugham's gift as a storyteller. He was a plot-heavy writer, who read every story of Guy de Maupassant in French at an early age. He worked the literary angle with Of Human Bondage but kept it real with his Ashenden tales. The Ashenden stories are considered by many to be the prototype for the modern spy story. Drawn from Maugham's own experience in espionage, they were to prove so successful that Hitchcock used two of the stories as the basis for his film The Secret Agent. Fleming and Le Carre could not have existed without Maugham, much as Doyle could not have existed without Poe.

But Maugham was also concerned with intimacy, keen on domineeering figures in a family (he considered his happiest days to be his early ones with his mother). And it was two selections along these lines that Mueller presented last night.

Christmas Holiday (1944): Despite the presence of the great Herman J. Mankiewicz, this adaptation is bogged down by a flashback-within-flashback structure. It takes forever to get to the crux of the story. The camera ogles endlessly over Deanna Durbin -- here, in her first adult role, cast against type as a browbeaten nightclub singer. After breaking down at Xmas mass, Durbin tells her story to army officer Dean Harens (the Matt Damon of his time, thankfully without the star status) and it is here that we are eventually introduced to her husband, Gene Kelly, who has just murdered an associate. Unfortunately, it takes so long to get to the film's real goodies, best epitomized in a split-diopter shot of Kelly and Durbin hunkered over a piano while Kelly's controlling mother (played by Gale Sondergaard) rocks in the background. It's a pity, because there's some nice lighting by Woody Bredell, and some magnificent shots of a concert hall. And the Durbin-described "pathological" relationship between Kelly and his mother, with the Durbin dynamic, is something special to behold.

But the problem with this movie is that it's too much of a blatant vehicle for Durbin. At the time this movie was made, Durbin was desperate to break out of her wholesome teen singer image. It was she who read Maugham's novel and she who convinced Universal to make the film. And while she does a commendable yeoman's job, the camera cannot stop shoving itself up Durbin's nostrils, a one-two punch with soft-light, as if to hammer home the point that we are seeing a wholly different Durbin.

The results are an underwhelming film directed by an underrated director (Robert Sidomak, the man behind The Killers and Criss Cross), with a few sparks. But it could have been much better.

The Letter (1940): Over the past few years, a friend and I have had an on-again, off-again dialogue over William Wyler. He claims that Wyler is overrated -- the worst director of the studio system. I claim he's hit-or-miss, but that you can't discount The Ox-Bow Incident, Roman Holiday, Jezebel, or Ben-Hur. Whatever Wyler's problems, I maintain, he's still great with actors and knows how to deliver when he has a script in his hand. No, my friend says, Wyler couldn't come up with a decent visual to save his overinflated pecs. Watch your back, he says. I'll stab it in the morning. Sometimes.

The subject is so heated among film geeks that even a documentary was made in 1986 called Directed by William Wyler in an attempt to put Wyler alongside directors such as John Ford and Howard Hawks.

Up until now, I've had to agree with my friend's stance on visuals. Wyler always struck me as a guy who was riding on Gregg Toland's coattails, leaving Toland to frame that magnificent supermarket shot in The Best Years of Our Lives or make Bette Davis look nothing less than sensational in The Little Foxes.

But The Letter not only predates The Maltese Falcon as a potential missing link between German Expressionism and film noir by one year, but it may very well be a visual example I can use in the Wyler debate. This film is pure eye candy. It is a film I must see again. From the opening tracking shot, in which a murder is committed in a tropical wilderness, the photography offers endless semiotics to sift through, at one point even aping the movement of Bette Davis as she's describing how she shoots a man to death. There's one sequence that takes place wholly in a living room, in which three characters are sitting. Wyler and Toland frame them high to low. The man who has committed a highly unethical act is visually tainted in a gray suit. The pure character who had no idea of this act is in white. And the person who caused all this is dressed in black, seated on a striped soda that suggests a jail cell.

The blocking in this picture is exquisite. Characters arch their backs over to match the Venetian blind shadows on the wall. I'm almost certain that Bertolucci had The Letter in mind when he went off to make The Conformist.

Unfortunately, The Letter is hard to track down. Ironic, given that it might be the solitary film to restore Wyler's status.

For Those of You Wondering

I owe emails to a lot of people. You will get them tomorrow. Even if I die without food or water in a locked room, I am determined to answer them all. Or come close.

Ribbed for Spot's Pleasure

In Washington, the Folger Shakespeare Library has the coffee table book prototype on display. The book, recently restored and some 400 years old, contains an illustrated history of the world and is reported to have been "flipped over by bored visitors in 16th century living rooms."

Don Paterson walked away with the £10,000 T.S. Eliot Prize, but he says it's tough living being a poet. It takes Paterson a year to come up with a whole poem. While declaring poetry an "amateur pursuit," Paterson's still shocked that poetry is as much work as any other form of writing.

Today's obscenity racket: Passion Panties, a Tupperware-style sex toy company, has had one of its representatives arrested in Texas. The representative had even joined the local Chambers of Commerce. But that didn't stop authorities from citing a state law prohibiting the sale of obscene devices, which are legally defined as items "designed or marketed as useful primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs." What's interesting is that, like the "entertainment purposes" rap in Alabama, commerce is not addressed. So I'm sensing a common theme here. You can sell, sell, sell just about anything under the sun. But heaven forbid that you design, market, or entertain. The Texas law is so nebulous that one can make the case that maxi-pads or ribbed rubbers are "obscene items" by way of stimulating gentials. But since the law stipulates "human genital organs," presumably a vibrator deisgned and marketed for cocker spaniels is peachy keen, right?

Nothing Personal, Nautilus, It's Just Business

From Peter Biskind's Down and Dirty Pictures:

Undoubtedly urged on by Eve, [Harvey Weinstein] hired a personal trainer. At the outset, so the story goes, he told the trainer, "You better be here every day. Here's a $1,000, I'm giving you in advance, don't pay any attention to what I say, make me work out." The trainer duly appeared at the appointed hour. Harvey, on the phone, made him wait, and wait. Finally the trainer gained entry to the inner sanctum, and said, "Let's start." Harvey replied, "I don't have time now, here's a fifty, get the fuck outta my office, come back tomorrow." The trainer returned the next day, same thing. He came back day after day, week after week. Until he gave up.

Noir City #2

Last night was Round 2 of Joan Crawford vs. Barbara Stanwyck. I wasn't there for Round 1, largely because I had seen both films (Mildred Pierce and Double Indemnity) dozens of times. But what was curious about this bout was that the two leading ladies weren't nearly as prominent as their top on-screen billing suggested. So it was difficult for any reasonable person to judge which lady was more noir.

Flamingo Road (1949): Flamingo Road was a last-minute swap for Possessed. Eddie Mueller informed the audience that the print had been pulled at the last minute. Sadly, the negative is in bad shape. Flamingo Road wasn't really a noir picture, more of a passable political drama. The film was weakened by Ted McCord's photography, which drew needless attention to itself with deliberately arty angles, but it may very well have been director Michael Curtiz's odd, quasi-Expressionist positioning of actors.

Joan Crawford plays a carny dancer who comes to a small town and falls in love with aw-shucks deputy Zachary Scott, who wears a preposterous hat and is more wholesome than the collective insides of an apple pie truck. Scott is an actor who looks like something you might get if you threw Joel McCrea and Tony Curtis into a blender, punched in both eyes while playing lacrosse with the cheekbones, and forced the ectoplasmic concoction to drink about a half gallon of bourbon in one sitting -- in other words, the perfect rolled over hicktown look.

Enter Sydney Greenstreet as the sheriff who controls the town's political workings. Greenstreet, as you might expect, remains sedentary throughout most of the film. When he does move, it's with all the effort of an overloaded locomotive trundling up the hill. He is a painful and imposing sight, and yet Greenstreet makes for a fascinating heavy. He wants Scott in the State Senate. So he frames Crawford and gets Scott coupled up with a superficial rich gal. Crawford gets out, and meets up with politico David Brian. Brian, whose face, believe it or not, is more hickory-cut than John Kerry's, is suave as fuck -- so suave that he kisses Crawford and then asks her what her last name is.

The film's best moments are the scenes between Crawford and Greenstreet, an antipodal smackdown that is nothing less than brilliant. Crawford's hard face and harsh words versus Greenstreet's corpulence and highfalutin mumblings. But the unfortunate thing about Flamingo Road is that too much time is devoted to the corrupt yet chipper Brian and the sad-sack Scott. The real interest lies not with the unfettered angles, the smoky political backrooms or the dimebag caricatures, but with Crawford and Greenstreet.

The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (1946): About half the audience bolted after Flamingo Road. Whether it was out of disappointment over Possessed being nixed or a need for a nightcap, I cannot say. It may very well have been the 16mm print. But whatever the case, they missed a good one. You'll probably be able to find Strange Love easily, given that it's in the public domain.

A number of talented people are involved on this. A young Robert Aldrich assistant directed. Kirk Douglas appears in his first film role. And if that weren't enough, you've got Barbara Stanwyck, the goregous Lizabeth Scott, the underrated Van Heflin, and a script by Robert Rossen. Rossen wrote this shortly after helming All the King's Men. The story is well-plotted, balancing its characters with a chess master's assurance, weighing childhood against adulthood. The story concerns the truth of the streets, a theme Rossen would later pursue again with The Hustler. There are fascinating undercurrents involving trust, the true nature of people, and the sum of our actions and convictions. But the script also bears the mark of a young writer going out of his way to prove his streetcred. The dialogue, with its clipped poetics, is aggravating for its actors. Stanwyck, for one, has difficulty with it. Kirk Douglas disguises the awkward pauses by delivering slow cadences, but he offers a hell of a debut. But it is Van Heflin who makes the dialogue stick, spinning fluidity and poise with each line. Even when Rossen demands banter along the lines of "You spend a lot of time reading Gideons in hotels."

The film is solid, offering a great melodramatic ending. But there is a larger concern.

I am now madly in love with Liz Scott. Whatever her thespic limitations, whatever the silly motivations of her character, I don't care. Liz Scott now haunts my dreams and distracts me from my writing. All Liz Scott need do is turn her head and I will happily swoon. If God does not exist, it would be necessary to invent Liz Scott. Liz Scott is still alive. I will happily give blood for her. I will take a bullet for her. It is time for a cold shower. Film noir is dangerous.

Quickies

Thanks to computers, professor Floyd Horowitz has uncovered 24 stories likely to have been authored by Henry James. Using common phrases, themes and pen names (the same methodology used to track down Joe Klein as the author of Primary Colors), Horowitz was able to track down tales published anonymously or under pen names during James' lifetime.

Oprah picks One Hundred Years of Solitude for the New Year's first book choice.

Amy's Robot offers The History of Thomas Pynchon on TV. Personally, my favorite Pynchon reference is in the movie Miracle Mile, where Denise Crosby is reading the Cliff's Notes for Gravity's Rainbow. (via Chica)

And Disney has lost a goldmine. The Ninth Circuit U.S. Court of Appeals has denied Disney's appeal to grab the rights to Winnie the Pooh, said to be worth between $3 billion and $6 billion in annual revenue.

Two additional notes: hire Jessa and tell Maud she rawks.

Bush Invokes 1970s Glen A. Larson Television Aesthetic to Declare Prosperity Just Around the Corner

Did the Van Man Wear Ray Bans?

Ronald Jordan, known as the White Van Man, stole tens of thousands of Lonely Planet guides and hawked them on the street with help of a few shadowy vendors. But he's now been caught. London police have described the case as "a flashback to Victorian London," though when pressed on whether Jordan wore gaiters and a silk cravat, they were unable to offer clear answers. The internal affairs unit has unearthed several "large Thackeray and Dickens collections" behind police lockers. "The lads aren't taking drugs," said London Police spokesman Peter Thorin. "They were overworked and were getting bored with the tedious work. So they read a lot on their spare time and started seeing associations that didn't exist."

A Books-A-Million in Alabama has removed Playboy and Playgirl from its shelves. The decision came because Alabama has one of the toughest anti-obscenity laws on the books. Apparently, display of human genitalia, buttocks or female breasts "for entertainment purposes" is verboeten. I'm surprised that the bookstore didn't counter this. It's clear to me they were selling the magazines "for commercial purposes."

If you're wondering what happened to Freaky Friday author Mary Rodgers, she's still around. (Yes, I read all those books when I was a lad too, including A Billion for Boris and Summer Switch.) She's 73, and her 1959 musical Once Upon A Mattress is being staged for a comeback.

Big surprise of the day: McSweeney's puts up something funny.

The Rise of the Creative Class author Richard Florida suggests that current economic trends may be discouraging vital creativity.

And The New York Times reports that Bonslav Pekic is staging a comeback from the grave. Purportedly one of the finest writers in the Serbian language, Northwestern University Press has announced that a translation How to Quiet a Vampire will be released in the spring.

It's All in the Corn

On Kerry winning the Iowa Caucus, I have only this to say.

1992 RESULTS:

Harkin 76.4%
Tsongas 4.1%
Clinton 2.8%
Kerrey 2.4%
Brown 1.6%

1988 RESULTS:

Gephardt 31.3%
Simon 26.7%
Dukakis 22.2%
Jackson 8.8%
Babbitt 6.1%
Hart 0.3%
Gore 0.1%

Iowa means nothing. The eventual Democratic front-runners placed third in both caucuses. And so did Dean this year. Really, this could go anywhere.

An Apology

There are numerous spelling mistakes on these pages -- all of them inexcusable, all of them correctable. Just not now. Because time to care for an outside project does not exist in a workplace environment. For those who have been sullied, and the frequency is apparently substantial, not quite as bad as that Knowles guy, but still enough for some of you to plot my demise, the management apologizes. Just be grateful this wasn't put into print, the way McSweeney's books are with slipshod proofing. This is what happens when you type at a rapid rate, generally trying to get something off before being disrupted by something else, and all this without a single revision. Several small children will die because of these mistakes. I am prepared to stand trial in a bulletproof chamber for my sins against humanity.

Quick

Stephen Hawking is under round-the-clock suveillance. Apparently, his family fears that someone is planning to sabotage the stuff that keeps Hawking alive.

John Barth writes about university readings. (via Maud)

Just after Fahrenheit 451 was selected for an "Everyone Reads" library program, Ray Bradbury says that "the people have lost control" and that "bigger and stupider" entertainment has deadened intellectual curiosity.

The National Book Critics Circle Awards have been announced. The big surprises: Richard Powers' The Time of Our Singing and William T. Vollman's Rising Up and Rising Down. Both are very long books (and in Vollman's case, we're talking seven volumes). How many critics honestly read all of the nominees?

And Jack Kerouac's <