Edward Champion's Return of the Reluctant

Deaths, Revivals and Roastings

Historian and one-time Librarian of Congress Daniel J. Boorstin has passed on. Boorstin was best known for his American trilogy and his fascinating books on human innovation. (I highly recommend The Discoverers and The Seekers.) One read a Boorstin book for the best of reasons: to ride a journey across human progress with an enthusiastic mind eager to make connections. Boorstin was an American James Burke, adept at showing the strange way in which the world was charted and everyday things were created. He'll definitely be missed.

T.C. Boyle's enemies are dying off. Less people hate Boyle now more than ever before. I remain optimistic. There will come a day when there are more Boyle lovers than haters.

Now who honestly expected to see Kate Christensen profiled in the Post? It's difficult to say whether this is an effort to woo people who are disappointed by the increasing non-literary direction of the NYTBR. Personally, I welcome feverish Post headlines like VIDAL REVIVES BRAWL WITH MAILER or ZADIE SMITH ROASTS CHICKLIT AUTHORS OVER SPIT.

John Lescroart whines that he doesn't get any respect. Dude, shut up. You've sold 10 million books.

So Chip McGrath (and literary coverage) can be found now in the magazine?

Robert Silverburg has received the Damon Knight Memorial Grand Master Award. He plans to address the Nebula Awards with maniacal laughter.

Dick and Jane are being brought out of retirement. This time, the books are being mined for nostalgia rather than education. USA Today insists that, "Still, in their day, Dick and Jane were cutting-edge." I beg to differ. Unless Dick and Jane are supporting a love nest, complete with tops and bottoms, Jane getting the bukkake treatment, and Dick tied up, standing naked against a pilaster, unless Jane ends up in a halfway house and Dick has a heroin problem, unless Dick gets a mohawk, or Jane gets a nipple piercing, they will remain hopelessly unhip by-products of a more innocent time. Which is not to say that I have any specific contentions against Dick and Jane. I love their simple dorky intonations and their carefree concerns. Just don't go around calling them the new black. That's all I'm saying.

The Guardian on Garrison Keillor's latest: "Misogynistic, full of literary in-jokes and unwilling to tackle real emotion, I suspect fans of this novel will be restricted to Larry Wylers the world over, which isn't such an insignificant readership judging by the number of puffa jackets on the streets." Ouch.

A sign that creative book coverage isn't dead: Frank Wilson looks to be positioning himself as a qurkier Yardley. He asks the world why the 1921 novel, Memoir of a Midget, isn't better known. The great thing is that he's actually serious.

And Christopher Hitchens spares no words for Mel Gibson. Except Maureen Dowd was there with the association first.

This Getting Older Thing Ain't So Bad

Tonight, a really good friend of mine, a guy I have known since my college days, confessed to me that he was a father. Now this guy is a veritable goofball, a man who's concocted corny humor with me that only we can understand, a good man who married a good woman, a guy that I still give a lot of hell to (and vice versa), the unlikeliest father this side of the Mississippi. But when I heard the news, I felt a real sense of excitement. My face flushed. I wanted to dance a fucking jig. And in fact I did right there in the coffeehouse. It was almost as if I had become an unexpected uncle. When he called his wife, I insisted upon congratulating the heck out of her. Of course, I knew this was a plot to get more visits. A shameless attention ploy. Heaven knows I'll be visiting the two of them just to see how cute the kid is. Plus, I have this terrible habit of teaching kids to stick their tongues out at an early age. (So far, I've taught four or so babies to do this.) My own small way of imparting anti-establishment impulses.

I guess what makes this news so joyful is that this good friend of mine was the first major friend to become a father. Sure, I've had acquaintances who've had kids. And when the kid's dragged out, I'm there trying to pull a Mr. Bojangles, playing peek-a-boo and giving the baby all forms of attention. On several MUNI rides, I've managed to calm screaming kids down simply by cooing to them, making funny noises, pulling some half-assed Keaton or Three Stooges routine, getting their attention by acting like a nincompoop. It all fascinates the blustery baby to no end and often gets the kid laughing (and, more importantly, not crying). (To this very day, babies stare at me at adjacent restaurant tables, in parks, in strollers. They are endlessly curious. I seem to be this baby magnet. Several random mothers have suggested that I'd make a great father, which seems about as unlikely an idea as the Democrats controlling both houses in Congress. But knock on fucking wood.)

But the thing that makes the news so grand is that I know my friend's going to kick ass as a dad.

I used to dread the prospect of growing older, back when I was stupid enough to believe that one's age actually mattered. But now I'm finding that I love it. It's fascinating to grow older with friends. Sure, we watch helplessly when they make foolish decisions. We try to offer them clues. But when something great like a kid or a marriage or a grand personal achievement happens, when you see the pools of joy filling their faces, it's just one of those things that makes life so damned wonderful. Because with the joy comes change. And all the things you have in common take on new meaning. Because you realize in their decisions that there's a little part of you changing in the same way.

Dump the Book Babes

Being out of touch with literature is one thing. Letting Norman Mailer get away with that New Journalism remark was another. But when the Book Babes went soft on Joe Eszterhas, the Book Babes did something unpardonable. I had little choice but to add my vote to this petition to dump the Book Babes. For goodness sake, they can't even type the word "fuck" for an online column. I urge all self-respecting lit lovers to do the same. (via Mark)

[UPDATE: In a shocking twist of fate, Bill Keller has signed the petition. Does this offer some small clue that the man actually cares about literary fiction? You make the call.]

Arnold Threatens to Return to Mr. Freeze Role If Voters Don't Give Him What He Wants

StorySouth

Moorish Girl has the rundown on the StorySouth shortlist. Laila not only has links to all the stories, but she e-mailed all the authors and got every single one of them to talk about their stories. This is the kind of supercool effort that really demonstrates the potential of the blogging community. (I mean, seriously. Would a major newspaper do this sort of thing? No, they'd defer to J-Franz's latest.)

There's a Lesson Here Somewhere

Local 6 News: "An 83-year-old man was found lying dead in his yard next to his wife after he fell, became stranded and ordered his wife not to get help for three days despite heavy rainstorms, according to authorities." (via Metafilter)

Beatrice.com + Dalkey. Someone's Clearly Profiting Here.

Ron is an evil man. Either that or a Dalkey PR flak. If you're interested in good lit, you can purchase 100 books for $500. I won't bother to describe what's in their catalog. But there are enough goodies here (Elkin, Gass, Markson, Matthews, Millhauser, et al.) to make any lit geek take out a second deed of trust. If you take advantage of the deal before March 1, you get several Flann O'Brien books. The deal goes through April, however.

More Knut

Mark pointed me to this James Wood essay on Knut Hamsun. Despite an obvious effort to play down Hamsun's allegiance to the Nazis, Wood suggests that Hamsun's novels "belong to the classical comic tradition of Don Quixote and Confessions of Zeno. In this tradition, what is both funny and awful is the hero's obvious delusion that he is in control of his own unpredictability -- that he is, in short, free. The reader can see otherwise, that the hero is the victim of bottomless compulsions and drives. "

During Knut Hamsun's Nobel speech in 1920, what's fascinating is that he describes a personal confusion that's very close to the uncertainties experienced by his protagonists. He equates winning the prize to something close to science and apologizes for his "homespun" emotionalism.

Lars Frode Larsen notes that Hamsun constantly kvetched about being a writer. His wife, Marie, however, saw through this, noting in her memoirs that it was only way Knut could find his joy.

The nature of Hamsun's truth hinges upon these fascinating dualities. The narrator's struggle to find work as a writer while starving in Hunger. Hamsun's perceived inability to express himself as a writer at the Nobel ceremony. And the idea of "free" pointed out by James Wood. Hamsun's work has always appealed to me because it tries to filter several meanings out of one condition, and doesn't always leave you with a concrete answer.

Whatever It Takes, Apparently

Not so many years ago a teacher of the art of writing began the advertisement of his services with the announcement that millions of people can write fiction without knowing it. He would have been safer had he said that millions of people are certain that they can write fiction a great deal better than those engaged in the profession. Even so, it is my belief that the consistent craftsman of fiction is very rare. His talent, which is in no sense admirable, is intuitive. In spite of the dictum of Stevenson on playing the sedulous ape to the great masters, it has never been my observation that education helps this talent. On the contrary, undue familiarity with other writers is too apt to sap the courage and to destroy essential self-belief, through the realization of personal inadequacy. It encourages a care and a style that confuse the subject, and the net result is nothing.

Instead, a writer of fiction is usually the happier for his ignorance, and better for having played ducks and drakes with his cultural opportunities. All that he really requires is a dramatic sense and a peculiar eye for detail which he can distort convincingly. He must be an untrustworthy mendacious fellow who can tell a good story and make it stick. It is safer for him to be a self-censored egotist than to have a broad interest in life. He must take in more than he gives out. He must never be complacent, he must never be at peace; in other words, he is a difficult individual and the divorce rate among contemporary literati tells as much.

-- John P. Marquand, Wickford Point

Who Wants to Be a Literary Billionaire?

J.K. Rowling joins the billionaires club. Unfortunately, since writing the Harry Potter series has largely involved the act of one, there has been nobody for Rowling to downsize. So Rowling, in an effort to turn the maximum profit from her stories, has made it a habit of regularly firing and rehiring herself for 17 cents an hour, only to resell her labor for the greatest price.

The Daily News has more on the Jayson Blair tell-all: "Zuza [my girlfriend] took pictures of me prancing around the newsroom wearing a Persian head wrap that covered my face, Kermit the Frog on my shoulders and a giant fake fur coat. I did a full tour de newsroom in this ­peculiar uniform. It is hard to know what I was feeling, other than it was exhilarating to shock everyone. Perhaps I was crying out for attention." Crying out for attention? Nah, Jayce, sounds like you were trying to recall some obscure Polynesiasn ceremony that involved Kermit the Frog. But anyone trying to invent horrible euphemisms like "tour de newsroom" needed to be stopped.

Hemingway's favorite daiquiri bar, the Floridita, is being recreated in London. The original Floridita created a double-strength daiquiri bar for Papa. And it was not far from the original bar that Hemingway began work on For Whom the Bell Tolls. The London managers, however, have planned to throw out all soused writers from the new place. Unless, of course, they demonstrate that they can pay their tab.

The Guardian confirms that Richard and Judy are the Oprah of the UK. Literary champions are hoping to replace Richard with Punch, just to "spice things up."

Rynn Berry is obsessed with Hitler's diet, believing that Hilter wasn't the vegetarian everyone claims him to be.

Brian Greene: The Bill Bryson of physics?

The Ultimate Sophmore Slump

So what happened to the Blair Witch guys? Apparently, they're still trying to make a second film. So let's see: you make millions of dollars from a movie and you can't figure out in five years that cameos from Don Knotts, Gallagher, Jimmy Walker and Erik Estrada doesn't make a marketable movie. And yet Rachel Cohen, Artisan's former vice president, insists that they deserve a chance to make a film.

Any List with Knut Hamsun On It's Fine By Me

The English Pen has launched The Bigger Read, an effort to trump the dumbed down Big Read contest held by the BBC. The BBC plans to rebut with The Biggest Read. One thing's for certain. This contest is going to involve more than a few testicles. (via Literary Saloon)

Is This Your Subconscious Trying to Tell Me You Want Me in EST?

Not only has Maud mistaken me for a Faulkner expert in her dream world, but she also turned me into a schizophrenic blogger. There are many things I could say here. But I'll just register my complete astonishment that I beat many superior bloggers to the punch. However, I do want to assure anyone who dreams about me that (1) I'm honored to be part of your dramatis personae and (2) feel free to cast me as anything. I do heroes, heavies, and character work, and I don't mind working for scale. Particularly if you're a devious person.

On the Rebound

Perhaps consulting the will of Dr. Evil, Susanna Clarke has netted a millionaire's deal for Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, an 800-page novel dealing with the last two magicians in England. Fortunately, Clarke has staved off Harry Potter ripoff claims. Because Clarke conveniently started her book "10 years before." News of the Clarke deal has spread far and wide across the publishing industry, with agents encouraging novelists to "backdate their drafts" for anything remotely derivative.

Is David Mitchell's Ireland's answer to Pynchon? The Telegraph tries to find out (user: ed@edrants.com, pw: mabuse). Mitchell is one of Granta's 20 Best Young UK Novelists. And Sam Leith believes that Mitchell's latest, The Cloud Atlas, will be one of the highest praised books of the year.

Judith Jones will fuck your shit up. Not only has she given John Updike at least three black eyes, but she's also lacerated Anne Tyler several times while editing her novels. However, the Baltimore Sun concludes that Jones is an editor who balances gentleness with harsh intervention, when necessary.

Borders is tapping into inner-city neighborhoods. The Times claims that recent stores built in Detroit and Chicago are for "underserved" neighborhoods. The Detroit Free Press suggests that there's plenty of indepdent life still left. The Detroit store was built in a downtown section that once housed sizable retail. And at 8,000 square feet, it's apparently "the biggest store since Hudson's closed 20 years ago." Borders claims the Chicago store in Uptown is an effort to "revitalize" a commercial district, but it looks like gentrification to me.

Salon has a mystery round-up, which should please Sarah.

Meghan O'Rourke claims that Naomi Wolf is setting the fight against harassment back. More from the Observer.

Sean "Puffy" Combs and Raisin in the Sun? Say it ain't so.

Chick lit, lad lit, and now Can lit. But in this case, it looks like David Solway may be Canda's answer to Dale Peck.

A New Plan for the NYTBR

This morning, while I was lying in bed, at long last forming an intricate theory about James Doohan's purpose in "Spock's Brain," I came across this stunning news. The NYTBR editor search is being restarted.

Let us not vex ourselves too much. The Times has plenty of cash and resources to blow up their noses for these parlor tricks, but not nearly enough to pay their pressers.

But no matter. It's clear that Bill Keller is wasting all of our time. As my loyal readers know, I campaigned vigorously here on behalf of two editorial candidates who made the shortlist. Ads were prominently placed. Envelopes with stacks of Franklins were given to the appropriate people. I played the game first for Ben Schwarz. And then when Schwarz tried to appeal to centrists by dissing literary fiction, I switched my allegiance to Sarah Crichton. Not long after she took New Hampshire.

But today's move illustrates that Keller hasn't respected any of these efforts, nor does he respect democracy. And not a single soul knows whether he appreciated the strip dancer I sent to his office. What's more, the NYTBR been jumping the gun, moving towards more repeat profiles (such as the lad lit angle and the endless American Sucker coverage), covering popular fiction over literary fiction, and giving far too much space to thick nonfiction books that spend hundreds of pages stating the obvious.

In other words, Bill Keller has a mission in life: to bore the socks out of book enthusiasts. Yet even with this solitary goal, Bill Keller doesn't seem to have the management or people skills to go about doing it.

It's clear that political campaigning has had little success. We all know that money won't buy Bill Keller. He's a man inflexible in his love for Jonathan Franzen, but who barely gives David Markson the time of day. Firm principles, to be sure. But perhaps humor can change his mind. In fact, humor may have been the very thing missing in Bill Keller's life.

Have you ever noticed that Bill Keller has not once smiled or cracked a joke this whole time? Perhaps that's been the problem all along.

So here's the plan: The time has come to bombard Mr. Keller with gag gifts. Constipation crisis kits, fake vomit, false bumper stickers, Mr. T in your pocket. Name your weapon of choice. Each gift should be sent to the Times with the following message: "For the love of humanity, for the love of literary fiction, learn to laugh, laugh and love, you crazy waffler!"

These packages must be sent religiously to Mr. Keller's office until one of three things happens: (a) he confesses that he might cover literary fiction, (b) he makes up his goddam mind, or (c) he reveals that, all this time, he's been suffering from a nervous breakdown and offers to resign in protest.

Packages can be sent to:

Bill Keller
Executive Waffler
NEW YORK TIMES
229 West 43rd Street
New York, NY 10036

Remember: It is every American's duty to restore the former glory of the NYTBR. And if Keller can't do it, perhaps mass gag gift hypnosis may help us bring the NYTBR into alignment.

Maybe It's the Damn Rabbits Coming Through the Walls Right Now

QUICK UPDATE: For all who have sent well wishes, thank you. Will respond to all e-mails, most of which have nothing to do with state of health, when I'm of sounder and healthier mind. In the meantime, here's The Book Quiz (via George, I think). My results:

You're Watership Down!
by Richard Adams
Though many think of you as a bit young, even childish, you're actually incredibly deep and complex. You show people the need to rethink their assumptions, and confront them on everything from how they think to where they build their houses. You might be one of the greatest people of all time. You'd be recognized as such if you weren't always talking about talking rabbits.

Well if that's the case, then it's too bad my greatest accomplishment today was spelling the word "KITE" on a spoonful of alphabet soup.

A REAL Respite

What most people often overlook about hospitals are its staff members: fit, extremely attractive, sometimes even genuinely sympathetic. Certainly the job demands require that one remain in shape. There's hustling, medical babble, gurneys rolled in and out of bright flourescent hallways. Sometimes you're attended to. Sometimes you're forgotten. Often there are apologies. And there are the surprise interventions, such as my accidental interruption of a "conference meeting" with a "Heya" and repeated coughs. "Ssssshhhh!" said this assistant, who seemed to be unaware that I was planning on identifying pulmonary portions of pain and then instructed me to sit down and not to disturb anybody. Fortunately, I had a book.

There are the nurses who call you "sweetie." There are the aides who pretend they like your jokes. And there are those who genuinely need your subversive humor. Because there's some guy screaming his head off, possibly close to death, in Room 9.

But the major constant is that everyone is fit, Baywatch fit. Pretty much every doctor I saw looked as if they were fashion show models on the weekend. You come in suffering and you know these folks are going to beat your ass at rugby or, because their leverage is substantial, even humiliate you at a ping-pong table.

It's one of the stupid reasons I don't go to hospitals unless I'm seriously ill. But then I also remember the neglect that killed Jim Henson and how I spent an hour crying in my room that terrible day.

The balance makes perfect sense. As a patient, dare to cough and you're immediately given a mask that resembles a prop from the 1918 Boston influenza epidemic. Is the mask given there to prevent the spread of bacteria? Was the policy instilled at the behest of the boys on the legal team? No, and no. As the patient, it's your duty to be as sick as possible. To maintain the dichotomy of infirm, convulsing souls and rugged, virile go-getters. You are there to be treated, possibly wheeled away for an extended stay, possibly cut open. And it's all shameful. Because let's face it: at this point, the patient's so disappointed with not being at the top of his game that he doesn't mind losing at rugby.

Why the sudden prolificity? Well, after about a week and a half of protracted coughing, of pains that left me awake at night, and often clutching my blanket, I figured that there was a slight possibility that I was unwell.

But when I learned of how incredibly sick I was, and the asceticism I'd have to practice to become superhuman again, I realized that I'd have to start this recuperation process with a longass entry.

"Bronchitis and pneumonia in early stages," said the M.D. with a physique of a soap opera star.

"Do I get fries with that?"

"No."

"Damn. Guess I won't be trying to close in on that seven-minute mile tomorrow."

The prescription was this: antibiotics, an inhaler, and lots of rest.

I was fleeced at the pharmacy. I thought the drugs would be the fun part. But when the bill, after my health care provider's penurious co-pay, came to a sum I'd probably pay for a hearty handful of hardcovers or a midrange Hollywood Blvd. prostitute, I knew that this was serious business.

The rest would be the hardest part. Because it's actually a codeword for "no thinking." A problematic option. Because it also means no reading, no writing, no working. Just bed and really infantile movies going on in the background. My intellectual powers will, at best, be devoted towards finding the metaphors within the third season masterpiece "Spock's Brain."

But the vigilance committee inside me is prepared. They're ready to bust shit up once the antibiotics are washed down with water.

What this means of course is two days of silence as my posse's kicking microbe ass.

So I regret to inform folks that Radio City's closed for repairs. But please visit the fine folks on the left, many of whom I have had sexual intercourse with.

Please also visit the fabulous Jessa Crispin. Despite my beef, I was not out to mow her down with a Tommy. It ain't that Manichean, man.

For my enemies, please continue with the hate mail. Your crude fundamentalist theories and strange enmity greatly amuses me.

For my lovers, I will try to invent a few more sexual positions over the next couple of days. Including the one I told you about involving the cabbage, the plush toy and the wires. The flamenco lessons, however, will have to wait until I'm further recovered.

For those who could care less either way, give somebody a hug.

For Those Looking for a Feud

BookExpo 2003 Smackdown: Al Franken/Bill O'Reilly
BookExpo 2004 Smackdown: Terry Teachout/Jessa "This isn't your blog, Terry" Crispin?

Aren't there better things to argue about during an election year?

Link-Pilfering? Nah, It's Really About Courtesy

Well, now that it's out in the open, and Jessa seems to want to turn this into a contentious war (which it isn't and it shouldn't be), I'll go on public record and state that Jessa has pilfered links from my site many times. I know this to be true, because specific phrasing that I've used here has been recycled without credit for her site. In one case, she believed my satirical embellishment about Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye being under review because kids were exchanging "penis jokes" in the classroom to be true. Seemed obvious enough malarkey to me. But I e-mailed Jessa all the same with a correction.

Instead of a brief thank you or a self-deprecating acknowledgment in her post that she was wrong aw shucks, the link was changed without comment and my email went unanswered.

Jessa's blogging tendencies certainly don't bother me as much as other people. (And I don't know of any names or conspiracy going on here really.) But I'm absolutely mystified why she would think that my email (among many, apparently) was an attack, when it was a jokey courtesy, intended solely for her benefit, puncutated with a smiley face. I'm also perplexed why she would go after Teachout (one of the classiest cats in the biz) and, more interestingly, the blogging community.

A few words about the book-blogging community, and why they're so damned hep: Since I restarted this blog in December with an emphasis on books and literature, I've discovered fascinating new sites, I've had e-mail exchanges with nifty people who have alerted me to ideas and writers I had never heard about, and I've been extremely grateful for how these folks have helped me to develop my own thinking about literature. The general clime is a marvelous, sharp, and jokey bunch who, yes, reference and wink at each other, but also support each other. They also look out for each other from time to time. It's a bit like being part of one of the coolest block parties on the planet.

I certainly respect Jessa for being one of the first book blogs on the Net. I still check out her site on a daily basis. Can't help myself. And, again, I'm not certain if Teachout's citation thing is as big a deal to me as it is to others.

But in misinterpreting a supportive effort as "an attack," in not being courteous enough to respond to those who reward her with links, stories, corrections, or thoughtful book reviews, all gratis, I think Jessa's out of line. I've suggested to others who are extremely infuriated with her that it's just "a Jessa thang," that it ain't a big deal, and to not take it personally.

But if we recall last year's gross characterization of Jessa as a vodka-swilling, shorts-absconding social climber, we begin to see how neglecting simple courtesies often creates these misunderstandings.

And in this case, Jessa's very wrong. It's a colossal mistake to dismiss the book blog community. We're not the Bill Kellers or the Laura Millers. We're the ones who give more than six damns (or in Lizzie's case, multiple fucks) about literature.

It's almost as unpardonable as forgetting to say "Thank you."

Out-Blog Blogging?

Milan Kundera's in demand in Shanghai, enough to make him the best-selling foreign author in the city. Hybrid publishers are reported to be preparing Mao's Little Red Book of Laughter and Forgetting.

Kate Christensen, whom Ron was kind enough to alert me to, is interviewed by the Journal News. From what I've been able to tell, the new book involves a man diagnosed with McDonald's disease, but who is still obsessed with eating Happy Meals. If he doesn't stop eating fatty foods, he'll die a horrible, miserable and stunningly descriptive death at the age of 40. Nevertheless, the allure of the de Montaigne Happy Meal action figures is enough to keep the man eating. Christensen calls her new novel part of "Loser Lit," which is not to be confused "Laser Lit," a recent flurry of novels that have featured protagonists taking charge of their destinies shortly after undergoing corrective eye surgery.

Woody Allen and Joyce Carol Oates are among those named by the Tacoma Tribune as talents who are too prolific.

Viggo Mortensen recently showed up in town to read his poetry. Here's a sample:

I walk the line that Nimoy wrought
I am not Spock or Aragorn
The fangirls swoon upon my locks
The fanboys EBay off my socks
The fans behold my brawny bod
With glasses on, I hide and trod

Who shot J.R.R.? I did, of course
As I was strutting on a horse
You think he died in '71?
Well, the geezer croaked when I was done
A bullet there between his eyes
Killed at eleventy-zero, a big surprise

They kept the news from kith and gents
The fans had Tyler to cream their pants
But Peter knew, and so did I
And Tolkien's death did make us cry
An accident, like Brendan Lee!
And so I hid up in a tree

Political correctness has kept George Washington's name from being properly honored. And here I was thinking that it was just because today's United States pays little heed to its foundations.

No sign yet of the Wolf-Bloom article yet at the New York website. Keep watching the skies. The Boston Globe, however, has a precis for those who can't wait.

[UPDATE: Whoop, there it is.]

Yahoo wants to out-Google Google. Google has responded, indicating that they plan to "out-out-Yahoo Yahoo's out-Googling Googling outside after out-Yahooing out-Google outsourcing." Venn diagram enthusiasts are still trying to figure out just what the hell these two giants were talking about.

And Frederick Morgan, long-time editor for The Hudson Review, has passed on. He was 81.

Thoughts Between Coughs

It's been linked several places, but this excellent thread is a must-read for any aspiring writer. Any neophyte may want to spend their time reading James D. McDonald's advice rather than subscribing to Writer's Digest.

Sarah has some good followup to the McCrum article about publishing changes, raising the validity of proposal/synopsis only justification for a contract. But one thing she overlooks is that the new synopsis trend may very well reflect a profit-driven industry looking to cut corners wherever possible. Short-term profits with little concern of the book's gestalt or long-term profits based off of constant communication between author and editor? You make the call. The goal, lest we forget, is to get people to buy the books. And the longer the book, the less susceptible it is to editing. (See Neal Stephenson's Quicksilver, for one.) There's the additional financial advantage of a long book purchased and then remaining unread on most people's bookshelves.

Shit-Stained Icons

Like a good geek, I upgraded my browser from Firebird to Firefox. (I'm presuming Mozilla renamed it because their barebones browser has become more devious. Never mind a proper explanation.) Version 0.8 hasn't had nearly as many problems as Version 0.7. But there's one terrible problem. Note the icon which precedes this paragraph. I've resized it to how it looks on my taskbar. It resembles either a gall stone being pushed through an unsightly orifice, or a penny gumball tinged with an orange-tinged fecal coating. In either case, it makes me sick to my stomach. And I'm sure I'm not alone here.

I like to support the little guy. Really, I do. And I can understand why this shit-stained orange color was decided upon (slightly more shit-stained than the hue of the AOL Instant Messenger icon, but enough of a gradient to count). There's been a rise in vibrant blue, more dimensional icons. Ever since Windows XP came out. But has an unspoken civil war been declared on certain icon colors? I don't think I've seen yellow or maroon or even trusty black in the last two years. Either there's some post-9/11 "comfort icon" thing happening that nobody wants to acknowledge or icons have become so uninteresting that even able developers like Mozilla are resorting to shit-stained icons.

Well, At Least He Has His Priorities Straight

An entire page has been put up to celebrate Spot (the presidential dog) passing away at 15. But there still isn't a single page up in tribute to the 500 dead soldiers. I hate to get Godwin, but this is just too damn close to the "But he loved his dogs" Hitler apologia.

Mel Gibson, Audacious Filmmaker or Creepy Stalker?

Lone Star Antics

The Kos has the scoop on something very close to hitting the mainstream media. Texas Gov. Perry's wife left Perry. Why? Perry was found in bed with another man. And that's not all: the other man was Jeff Connor, Secretary of State. I can't wait to see what effect this will have on the same-sex marriage debate. Particularly since this involves Big People in Texas who are on record against sodomy.

The More Things Stay the Same

"After the doctors and scientific experts testified in Congress that cigarettes cause or compound not only cancer but a number of other diseases and are responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths annually, the senior senator from Kentucky stood up just shaking with anger and moaned, 'You're trying to wreck our economy.' And what did Henry Ford II say when the government began insisting on safety devices in cars? 'The American people don't want anything that's going to upset the economy.' And what's more, Ford was right. Fifty thousand a year dead on the highways, but don't rock the economy. Look, America is no more a democracy than Russia is a Communist state. The governments of the U.S. and Russia are practically the same. There's only a difference of degree. We both have the same basic form of government: economic totalitarianism. In other words, the settlement to all questions, the solution to all issues are determined not by what will make the people most healthy and happy in their bodies and their minds but by economics. Dollars or rubles. Economy über alles. Let nothing interfere with economic growth even though that growth is castrating truth, poisoning beauty, turning a continent into a shit-heap and driving an entire civilization insane. Don't spill the Coca-Cola, boys, and keep those monthly payments coming." -- Tom Robbins, Another Roadside Attraction

NYTBR -- A Dead Place for Fiction

Perhaps an inadvertent confession from Laura Miller? "The only thing more powerful than a worldwide conspiracy, it seems, is our desire to believe in one."

Incidentally, the NYTBR fiction coverage is still looking grim. Far too much non-fiction (and yet another review of the Biskind book). The most telling sign is that David Markson's Vanishing Point, which would seem to me one of the most ideal literary books for the Times to cover for a full-length review, has been ghettoized to the "And Bear in Mind" section.

Olivia Goldsmith Update

It's been a little more than a month since Olivia Goldsmith passed on, and comments and send-offs still roll in, responses to my visceral reaction from the news. This suggests to me that the Goldsmith death is an issue that's resonated with a lot of people, both in Goldsmith's premature loss and the potential dangers inherent within plastic surgery (to say nothing of discussion over why it's considered a necessity). Unfortunately, as someone passes on, the circumstances that led up to the death sometimes get ignored or left by the wayside. In an effort to look into what's been happening, here's what I've been able to determine:

This week, a second patient died at the Manhattan Eye, Ear & Throat Hospital, which was Goldsmith's clinic. Manhattan Eye had already been under investigation by state officials. This time around, it appears that Manhattan Eye was more careful with confidentiality (probably because the woman wasn't a bestselling author and, accordingly, journalists weren't nearly as hungry to dig up the dirt), but the cause of the second death, which occurred on Monday, has turned out to be the same: anesthesia-related. Manhattan Eye claims that it was following "all hospital protocol and procedures."

The Post broke the news this morning. The second victim, like Goldsmith, was only 54. All that is known about her was that she was the wife of a cardiologist.

Some additional details about Manhattan Eye: Lenox Hill Hospital owns Manhattan Eye. Manhattan Eye, however, does not have an intensive care unit. It experienced a 20% increase in cosmetic surgery in 2002 over the previous year.

The plastic surgery division is headed by Sherrell Aston, considered the top facelift doctor in New York. Aston has performed work on Tipper Gore and Anna Wintour. He's also a full professor of surgery at NYU. Aston is the husband of Muffie Potter Aston, prominent Manhattan socialite (who also chairs the New York City Ballet Committee). Muffie's pretty ascetic about her diet. As she says herself, "My attitude toward food is not obsession, but it's not far off. I am religious about what I eat. I start the day with a bowl of sliced cantaloupe, three apricots and three prunes; then I go to the gym. Being three pounds overweight drives me to distraction." (The happy couple can be found pictured here.) They have a son, Matt, who opened up a bistro called Calliope in 2001 (thanks to family cash). Their other son is Jay, a money manager and ladies' man known to date people like Soshanna Lonstein.

I raise these biographical tidbits up to convey exactly where the Astons stand in New York society. They are extremely affluent, extremely elite, and we might also infer that they are extremely protected, particularly from any criticism of surgical procedure.

But according to the New York State Department of Health, Aston has paid out three malpractice settlement payments in the past ten years: one on 5-27-01 for a "below average" amount, another on 12-03-96 for a "below average" amount, and a third on 4-9-96 for an "average" amount. It should also be noted that the NYS DOH indicates that "Below average means the doctor has made a payment that is less (in amount) than New York doctors in his or her field and in the same geographical area." Since Manhattan Eye is the top-rated surgical clinic in its area, we might infer that "below average" might be a veritable bonanza compared against the average cosmetic surgery clinic. Furthermore, since Aston is loaded with cash, it is likely that he retains an ace deal-cutting attorney.

The most investigative piece on the matter has been Ralph Gardner, Jr.'s piece for New York Magazine. However, Gardner seemed to pay more attention to Goldsmith's life and mental health, rather than investigating the procedures undertaken. He did note that Goldsmith had come close towards getting discounted or comp surgery when she was researching her book, Flavor of the Month. He also noted that Larry Ashmead, Goldsmith's editor, recalled that Goldsmith wore a long blonde wig for her cover photo in The First Wives' Club, and that Ashmead forced Goldsmith to retire it.

Gardner also consulted with an unnamed plastic surgeon who suggested that Goldsmith may have withheld the fact that she was on antidepressants, and that this may have affected her pulmonary system. But the question I have here is whether Manhattan Eye had the duty to determine whether or not the patient was on any other medications before undergoing procedure. If two patients have died because it's not current Manhattan Eye procedure to check for factors which might affect a patient during anesthetic procedure, then this may suggest a major screw-up.

The surgeons for both the cardiologist's wife and Goldsmith have not been revealed by hospital representatives. However, the Gardner article revealed that Dr. Norman Pastorek was the doctor responsible for Goldsmith's surgery.

This cached message board notes that Pastorek was trained by Dr. Eugene Tardy, a prominent cosmetic surgon in Chicago. Pastorek (and Manhattan Eye) is also involved with NYU. In fact, NYU offers a fellowship program with Manhattan Eye.

However, as Rush and Molloy pointed out, the person who carried out anesthetic procedure was never identified in Gardner's piece. And according to the New York State Department of Health, Pastorek has not had any malpractice actions since becoming an M.D. in 1969.

As of last week, Goldsmith's attorney, Steven Mintz, has not yet proceeded with legal action. And a search through the New York State Unified Court System revealed no recent actions filed by Mintz's firm.

The Sydney Morning Herald used Goldsmith's death to play up the increasing allure of plastic surgery, noting the recent desperation of a 51-year old British schoolteacher who submitted herself to $120,000 worth of televised plastic surgery. The surgery did little to alter her features, but it had arisen from jealousy directed toward's her sister's looks. And even Good Housekeeping was forced to save face, justifying their support for a lucrative beauty industry by tying in an article related to the Goldsmith death recommending "10 Ways to Cut 10 Years."

But the larger issue here, beyond whether Goldsmith was emotionally troubled or not, is why two women had to die during an anesthetic procedure in an exclusive plastic surgeon clinic. Why did one of them die while the hospital was under investigation? Why has there been no independent unbiased statement issued to the public? And while I can understand why Gardner would dig up dirt on Goldsmith's character to write a good story, this still doesn't excuse why he wouldn't be similarly penetrating about the safetys or hazards of anesthetic procedure.

If there is danger within current Manhattan Eye procedure, then the public needs to know about it, so that these problems can be exposed and rectified, and nobody else has to die.

[UPDATE: I did a defendant search for "Manhattan Eye, Ear & Throat" on the New York Unified Court System site and was able to turn up three active cases. Case No. 24786/1999 is a complex medical malpractice case. Case No. 8382/1999 is another complex medical mal case. Case No. 8898/2001 is yet another complex medical mal case. Gordon & Silber represents Manhattan Eye.]

Match.com -- Maintaining the Status Quo Since 1995

Well, if Haggis can do it, so's can I. The Match.com Physical Attraction Test, purportedly millions of dollars and years in the making, is a disturbing image-oriented Flash thing that asks you such terrible questions as "If these were the only five women left on Earth, who could you tolerate?" Now how the hell can any vaguely humanistic-minded person answer that? Well, dear readers, you'd be surprised by how quickly you cross into darkness. Particularly if, like me, you've seen The Omega Man and Logan's Run more times than medically recommended.

Make no mistake: This test is fucking evil. The phrasing of questions makes this test perfectly designed for nihilists, pyromaniacs and armageddon enthusiasts. Namely, people like me. Worse still, it's all visual. Never mind if the lady I was sharing a sleeping bag in a post-apocalyptic Times Square could quote Robert Burns or engage in mischevious banter. There was a stage in this that reminded me of Press Your Luck, whereby you're supposed to single out women you can't stand. Except, in my case, I was concentrating on the women that I'd have no problem spending six lifetimes lovin' and found it difficult for my libido-charged mind to reverse the polarity of the neutron flow.

The results would indicate otherwise:

The choices you made in the test suggest you have strong, automatic preferences for certain types of women. You made your choices quickly suggesting you have clear physical instincts.

Uh, maybe because I'm a dude and I'm more visual-minded, mayhaps? Or I was clicking desperately on the choices to make this hard Hobson's choice objectification stop? You make the call, Match.com. You evil bastards.

But onwards.

My Favorite Features:

• Your photo choices suggest a woman over 55 is probably getting a little old for your tastes (Seems a sick Freudian joke to start this out with.)
• You seemed interested in dating a woman at least 30 or older (Yeah.)
• So-called "Ecto-Mesomorphs," with narrow chins and nicely angular faces (What the hell is this, Ghostbusters?)
• Blue eyes (Oh, don't get Kristallnacht on me, muthafuckas.)
• Light brown hair (This morning, maybe.)
• Wavy hair (Yeah.)
• Straight hair (Yeah. But doesn't that contradict my previous choice?)
• Medium-length hair (Not quite.)

Unique Traits:

• Sometimes, you like younger women, by a good gap. (Saturday night after a lot of Jamican rum? Yeah, a roll in the hay with an undergrad ain't bad.)
• Sometimes, you like women over 5 years older than you. (Damn straight.)
• More unique than "mainstream" appeal (Fuck Maxim, anorexia and silicone implants.)
• Thin, angular faces with a classic or refined look (Bingo again, but only if they look like Liz Scott or Ann Sheridan. Not that your culturally amnesia-charged minds would know anything about that.)
• Cute, button or small noses (Cute? Fuck no. But I do like interesting noses.)
• Glasses and the sophisticated and smart look that goes with them (What can I say? Me like smart women.)
• You appreciate someone with a few extra pounds (As opposed to, say, the starving waifs you presented me with? Jesus, does "plus size" these days mean anyone who has more than one meal a day? If so, count me in.)

Not Your Type:

• Women over age 55 (Again with the Freudian shit.)
• Women under age 30 (Maybe because I might have, you know, specified this at the beginning of the test?)
• High "mainstream" appeal, with little unique flair (We've covered this, I think.)
• Long and narrow "rectangular" faces (Only if someone paid me to kiss Bruce Campbell.)
• Thin lips (Yup, labia latitude's a plus.)
• Black hair (No. Anyone who knows about my obsession with Jennifer Connelly will testify to this.)
• Curly hair (Not necessarily.)
• Women of Black/African descent (Oh, bullshit. You want to play the fucking race card, Match.com? I clicked on hot mommas of all ethnic dispositions, as your "Maybe" photo collection, asking me why, will attest. Maybe because they're, uh, hot? You didn't exactly present a lot. Something like ten out of 100?)
• Hispanic or Latino women (See above.)

How You Compare to Other Men:

4% Very attracted to women my type
14% Attracted to women my type
21% Somewhat attracted to women my type
61% Not at all attracted to women my type

Yeah, mofo! How you like me now, Match.com?

Body Types:

One body type that seems to appeal to you is scientifically called "Endomorph," which roughly translates into solid, "plus-sized" women. She's not overweight, but her big bones and large frame make her hard to miss. Endomorphs are definitely curvier than the other body types, with hips that are wide in proportion to shoulders. Although she is prone to gain weight over her lifetime, at this point she doesn't have a "pot belly" or "love handles," just nice womanly curves! As she ages and puts on weight, she usually carries it in her hips and butt. This type usually makes up 7% of single women. Telling signs of this body type include wide and curved jaws, round faces, "chubby cheeks," a girlish look, a very short and wide neck, plus larger legs and butts.

In other words, the kind of woman that people had no problem with in 1962, but that carries a stigma today. Or as Elizabeth Hurley once said, "I'd kill myself if I was as fat as Marilyn Monroe."

Breast Size:

While you may enjoy looking at different breast sizes, based upon the choices you made, you prefer a well-endowed woman with much larger breasts.

And while you're conveying this earth-shattering piece of news, why not expound on the Third Law of Thermodynamics while you're at it?

My Ideal Match:

Reese Witherspoon? I must confess, I like her as an actress. But, dear Match.com, you clearly do not understand the kind of women I fantasize about while I'm jerking off. As such, you have proven your test, purportedly millions of dollars and years in the making, to be irrelevant and silly.

But there's a far larger issue here: Within seconds of taking the test, you sent me a list of profiles of women who "matched" my purported ideal. That may be fine and dandy with the Sears catalog set, but that disturbs me on multiple levels, Match.com.

So I have to ask, Match.com. Since you're in the business of profiting off of instant objectifying of the opposite gender, how do you sleep at night?

Shameful Joy? I Don't Think So.

Derek has posted some marvelous photos of City Hall marriages. It's bad enough that the Republicans seem shocked or outraged by the idea of other people experiencing happiness. (What kind of a sourpuss do you have to be to deny that?) But I cannot fathom why the Democrats (including John Kerry, that so-called all-American bastion we're all doomed to vote for in November) don't have the courage to get behind normal people who want to be married. Do these swell folks look like they're going to destroy this nation? Has happiness become a weapon of mass destruction?

And another thing: How can any reasonable person be against same-sex marriages while simultaneously supporting the 30 second Las Vegas marriage? In this country, I guess it's perfectly okay to enact a life partner decision when you've snogged a stranger and had far too many margaritas. But heaven forfend that we grant the same right to two people who have been with each other for decades and who base their decision to marry on something more than drunken vagaries and killing time between blackjack tables.

Mergers, Revelations and Glorious Kooks

The Independent notes that separate literary entities are being killed by their corporate parents. HarperCollins recently killed off Flamingo (home to Ballard, Lessing & Coupland) and Random House threw Harvill into Secker & Warburg, turning it into "Secker Harvill" and forever expunging Warburg, Orwell's publisher, from the label. When asked about how this will alter diversity, a HarperCollins rep replied, "What do you think literary fiction is? Some kind of affirmative action?" In unrelated news, Bell Curve authors Richard J. Herrnstein and Charles Murray are said to be at work on a new book, The Book Curve, whereby 1,000 pages are devoted to explaining why popular fiction sells more than literary fiction, and proving that some publishing executives have less attention span than the average reader. (via Literary Saloon)

Maud has been interviewed by the Gothamist. Among some of the more interesting revelations: Maud turned down the lead in an Off Broadway revival of The Verdict. Every morning, Maud practices her jujitsu on waterbugs that have a mean height of six feet. (Mr. Maud apparently cowers from anything remotely entomological.) Maud also single-handedly disarmed a posse of Remington-firing Confederates in Brooklyn. She reports that her combat moves were inspired by Carrie-Anne Moss kicking butt in The Matrix.

The Sydney Morning Herald interviews Isabel Allende. Allende's quite the eccentric: She starts all of her books on January 8, she thinks about Zorro while having sex with her husband, and holes up in her office writing for 8 to 10 hours a day without speaking to a single soul. She also dresses funky, though the Herald couldn't get specific answers on this end. I wish I was making this paragraph up, but I'm not.

In one of the most anticlimactic journalism moves seen from the Grey Lady this month, the Times reports that the Doyle-Joyce fracas is simmering. Really? 1,000 words to state the obvious in a major newspaper? Sign me up.

The Independent talks to Marjorie Blackman. Her Noughts & Crosses children's book trilogy examines race relations in an unknown country.

Regina Taylor's Drowning Crow looks like a fascinating update of Chekhov's The Seagull. If you're in New York, it's playing at the Biltmore. The Times also has a 26-second video excerpt of Alfre Woodard giving Anthony Mackie hell.

And Stephen Fry goes nuts: He's called the Hilton sisters "a pair of bloody whippets," Sting "false," and damns Americans for believing that the key to happiness is thinking about themselves. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortuantely, given the recent Dean demise), Fry wasn't running for public office.

(via Book Ninja)

How to Make a Caitlin Flanagan

Take:

One jigger of Anita Bryant
One jigger of Jane Russell
One jigger of Ann Coulter
A dash of pretentious language (for faux sophistication and New Yorker credentials)
One quart of self-entitlement
An expendable income

Mix. Serves establishment.

Don't Blame the First Lady. She Still Doesn't Know About EKG Treatment.

The Age has the Mark Haddon profile to end all Mark Haddon profiles. He confesses that he's a fortysomething who listens to the Flaming Lips and Sparklehorse, is 30,000 words into his next novel Blood and Scissors, and (regrettably) has been reading the McSweeney's crowd.

Laura Bush has called gay marriage "a very, very shocking issue." She also reports that she faints at the sight of blood.

The American Prospect has some fun with a comparative review of stalker/sucker/spineless wanker memoirs.

Caryn James examines the recent rise of Hollywood fiction.

And if, like me, you were an RPG geek back in the 80s, you might be interested to know that Paranoia has returned.

Fifty Years Ago Today...

...I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night...

Most People Just Go to Anger Management Training Or Get An Antidepressant Prescription

Salon: "And instead of playing the peace-loving Christian, Gibson is swatting at critics, real and imagined. Of New York Times writer Frank Rich, Gibson admits to having said, 'I wanted to kill him. I want his intestines on a stick. I want to kill his dog.'"

And that's not all, kids:

Sawyer: You said, "The Holy Ghost was working through me."

Gibson: I've received a lot of ridicule for that statement. I think that the Holy Ghost is real. I believe that he's looking favorably on this film and he wanted to help.

Proclaiming himself "somewhere between Howard Stern and Saint Francis of Assisi on the scale of morality," Gibson also seems creepily preoccupied with evil, both apparently in the focus of his film and in his current situation.

Sawyer: You said at one point, "The big dark force didn't want us to make this film."

Gibson: Sure.

Sawyer: What was the force?

Gibson: What was the force? It's the thing you can't see. I'm a believer, by the way. So if you believe, you believe that there are big realms of good and evil, and they're slugging it out.

(via A.O.)

Press Secretary Reveals Wedding Ring-Marriage Connection to Journalists; Iraq-WMD Link Remains Unanswered

Quickies & Jesus, Not the Book Babes Again

Ro Sham Bo in lit: Unfortunately, the article stops just as it begins to reveal something.

McSweeney's vs. Partisan Review/Agni: guess who gets more coverage.

The Book Babes are so absurd that I've decided to start addressing their columns on an equally absurd first-name basis. This week, they weigh in on the Amazon brouhaha, with predictably vapid results:

"How are readers supposed to trust reviews if they don't know who the reviewers are and what their biases might be?" Absolutely, Margo. So why not cough up your own biases up right now and explain why you allowed Norman Mailer to get away with that ridiculous New Journalism claim a few weeks ago? Or why you and Ellen didn't press Keller further? Or how you both remain silent over the pre-NYTBR regime change's move to non-fiction? You two think you're covering the book scene?

"Everybody is entitled to an opinion." Everybody's entitled to an informed opinion with a reasonable argument, Ellen. And confessing your love for a has-been as tripe-heavy and WASP-blindsided as Anne Tyler suggests to me that you might be unqualified to review literature.

I Must Confess That This is REALLY Good Tylenol

Janet Maslin demonstrates how you can write a redundant-laden lead about nothing: "The history of Texas would seem to be a natural subject for the popular historian H. W. Brands. For one thing, Mr. Brands, biographer of Theodore Roosevelt and Benjamin Franklin, is a professor at Texas A&M University. For another, the much-vaunted wildness and wooliness of Texas' story would seem to lend itself to Mr. Brands's accessible, personable approach." That's three mentions of Texas in three sentences and more adjectives than you can shove onto a Hometown Buffet plate. Hasn't Maslin learned anything from Twain?

The Daily Californian has a modest Octavia Butler profile up. Apparently, Butler's working on a vampire novel.

Who needs the amateurism of Writer's Digest when you can hear the same obvious swill for free from romance novelist Debbie Macomber? Before her writing ritual, Debbie reads the Bible and devotionals. And of course, Debbie's convinced that women aren't interested in steamy sex scenes (and, as she states, what does she know about sex being married?). Yes, kids, Debbie's that best-selling romance novelist that you can read in the break room without embarassment. Sexed up trash? What are you thinking? Pick up Debbie Macomber tomorrow. Remember, kids: a Debbie Macomber "airport novel" purchased from a Barnes & Noble is a purchase for America! You too can turn your head away from reasonable standards and become a published romance novelist!

"Tilda! The real Tilda! Tilda and her beautiful voice! The real Tilda and I meeting in a gay bar! Tilda! Tilda! Movie-life and real-life often do not bear any resemblance to one another, but Tilda!"

Don Kleine -- quirkyalone professor? I hope not.

Kevin Smith's on tap to write and direct The Green Hornet.

No less than four recently published books agree upon the notion of an "American empire." And in the first half of 2004, 25 books critical of Bush will be published by commercial houses. Yee haw! It's beginning to look like 1968 again, isn't it?

Fuck No

Sarah Jacobson has passed on. She died last night. She was only 32. Cinetrix points to this forum for those as bummed out about this news as I am. And if you're lucky enough to be in the East Village, tonight, there's a screening of all her films at the Two Boots Pioneer Theater. Words fail me.

Too Good to Keep the Silence

The Observer: Camille Paglia, who traded blows with Ms. Wolf in the early 1990’s over their radically different views on female sexual power, said she was no longer at war with Ms. Wolf, but was "shocked" to learn of Ms. Wolf’s accusations against Mr. Bloom, who is a long-time mentor of Ms. Paglia’s.

So I guess in Camille's world, "you are either with us or against us." I'm guessing here that Wolf is Oceania and Paglia is Eastasia. Either way, I'd love to see how Bloom gets out of this. This could be the Greer-Mailer matchup of our time.

And in the same article: Caitlin Flanagan's been hired by the New Yorker to write pieces on "modern domestic life." Would that involve how a well-to-do mother can blow $100,000 a year on child care? I think that's something within everyone's resources, don't you?

Okay, back to recuperation.

A Respite

Away for a few days or more.

Sorry, the Bronchitis Has Made Me Angry

Asimov's somehow emerged as a magazine choice in a school fundraising drive. But one mother flipped through the magazine and was "shocked" to read about "young girls with no panties, young girls in white socks, young girls looking at his wank-mags with him, young girls doing it with one another while he watched." What pisses me off about this is not only does Ms. Suburban Mom miss the point about what spec-fic is about, but that this perpetuates the impression that spec-fic is nothing less than stories about bug-eyed monsters and gender domination. A quick glance through the collected works of Urusula K. Le Guin, Octavia Butler or Margaret Atwood (the latter having escaped the "science fiction" ghettoization) shows that it's a lot more than this. And if Ms. Suburban Mom can rally against the "naughty" qualities of spec-fic, how dare she remain silent about the sexuality expressed on magazine covers, television commercials, album covers, advertisements that eroticize children, and the like. Fuck the yokels in Grandville, MI. And fuck 'em hard.

The New York Times interviews Anne Tyler by e-mail. Amazingly, she characterizes her work as "truthful." Hey, Anne, I've got your truthful right here. It's called five figures a year. Apparently, Tyler's based in Baltimore these days. If that's the case, please, Hag, beat some sense into her.

Following up on the Jacqueline Wilson news, the Guardian has the top 100 borrowed books in the UK up. It's not inspiring.

Well, fuck me, the Globe has tried to examine "fuck" without mentioning it.

But What If You Want Them to Live?

Cinemorgue: Easily one of the most disturbing sites I've ever encountered.

An Uncharted Desert Isle

Rashomon's been asking bloggers what their top 10 albums to take on a desert island are. Here's my ten (at least right now in my present quasi-bronchitis mood, and discounting classical):

1. Johnny Cash, At Folsom Prison
2. Bob Dylan, Blonde on Blonde
3. Janis Joplin, Cheap Thrills
4. Jurassic 5, Quality Control
5. The Kinks, Something Else by the Kinks
6. Miles Davis, A Kind of Blue
7. Minor Threat, Complete Discography
8. Nirvana, Bleach
9. Sly and the Family Stone, Fresh
10. The Who, Tommy
10. Hank Williams, The Complete Hank Williams

Meeting Minutes for the Sunday Major Metropolitan Newspaper Review Society, Sioux City, Iowa Branch -- 2/15/04

7:15 PM: Meeting Coordinator Alice Koon let down the gavel, deferring floor to President Horace Henrietta Woosey (hereinafter "HHW"), who slid the curtain (meager partition to be replaced with available funds from till; note to self: cost benefits analysis) and called meeting to order.

7:17 PM: Till noted to be $4.37 for month. Detailed accounting to be taken up at next meeting.

7:18 PM: Alfalfa (not real name, but sobriquet he prefers) had not arrived with organic nonfat snacks. Cell phone reception was poor, confirmed unavilable by Sprint PCS, T-Mobile and AT&T Wireless. HHW went outside, trying to call Alfalfa. Koon carried out roll.

Attendees: Horace Henrietta Woosey (not present at roll, but present @ 7:15 PM and likely to be present approx. 7:22 PM), Alice Koon, Milagro Sanchez (self/secretary), unnamed bearded gentleman who declined to reveal name (unless "I'm here for the free food" is legitimate answer; the Secretary leaves future scholars to make the distinction between declaration and Christian/surname shenanigans).

May Arrive: Alfalfa (real name not to be jotted in lodger)

7:21 PM: Estimation correct. Secretary pats back without anyone noticing. HHW returns. Alfalfa on way.

7:22 PM: Paper of Record (hereinafter referred to as "Lady of Off-Black Hue," aka "LoO-BH") presented to Society. HHW asks if all attendees had read it. 3-1. Free Food Man declined to vote. Counted as nay to add exciting plurality.

7:23 PM: Alfalfa arrives with food. Dried fruit is not organic. Koon calls for Alfalfa's temporary explusion, declined. HHW notes that all snacks are nonfat. Alfalfa would have subcommittee on his rear end if he violated dichotomous snack conditions. But he has only overlooked one. Free Food Man grabs package, sets up in back of room.

7:25 PM: Daniel Okrant's Week in Review column discussed. Has Okrant gone off deep end? Koon adds testimony to record: she received call from (212) 557- prefix last week, man initially breathing into phone with "obscene fortitude" and then claiming to be LoO-BH reporter. Koon provided necessary information, but notes that Okrant singles out ancillary prefix. HHW notes that all email has gone unanswered and that average length (according to Powerpoint data) is 23 words.

7:31 PM: Free Food Man deposits empty package into collections box, asks for more food. Koon consults Robert's Rules of Order, sees no precedent. Free Food Man persuaded to sit down after given second package of dried fruit.

7:40 PM: Additional discussion about Radosh deal, as addressed by LoO-BH's Corrections column. Is Peter Landesman legit reporter? HHW adds to record that Landesman threatened financial and professional ruin to Radosh and that current till amounts to $4.37, not enough for a retainer agreement. Koon makes note to look for "ACLU type" who will take on Society's legal defense pro bono should Landesman find out that Society is discussing his article, Landesman call Alfalfa on cell with harsh language and threats, et al.

7:42 PM: Free Food Man, stirred by Landesman discussion, offers to be Society's "bodyguard" and brawl with Landesman (or anyone else) should he hinder society business. Free Food Man (now identifiying himself as "Dennis") then places a $100 bill into till and vows to attend every meeting. Dennis's intervention offers nice segue away from dangerous Landesman topic. Dennis is inducted. HHW calls for vote on whether Society Funds should go to three month gym membership. 4-0 in favor.

7:45 PM: Meeting adjourned. Aside: Dennis has nice pecs.

Anonymous Eggers Review: You Make the Call!

Since Sarah did some digging, I became a bit curious myself. The following review has a very similar feel to McSweeney's house style. Is it from Eggers?

From "A reader from San Francisco, CA," February 6, 2004, four stars, for Vendela Vida's And Now You Can Go:

Unlike some close-minded readers, I found the premise of basing an entire novel around one incident fascinating and was hooked after the first page. However, it was El's dry wit and sharp, detailed observations that I quickly found I could laugh out loud at and even identify with. The often sarcastic and self-deprecating tone kept me chuckling, even at seemingly serious, inappropriate moments. Unexpected moments like that are what make a story truly stand out to me. This is a terrific first novel that keeps up a swift, satisfying pace, which kept me up, finishing the book late in the night.

I recommend this highly to those who are open to examining a potentially harrowing incident from a fresh, and often very witty, perspective.

[REASONS IT MIGHT BE EGGERS: The obvious reason: Vida is Eggers' wife. And given how protective he was towards Julavits, he'll be tenfold so to his main honey. The short-hand reference to "El" instead of "Ellis," implies greater attention to detail. There's the implication that other readers are "close-minded" (deliberately misspelled?). The follow-up phrasing, which is very much like Eggers: "and even identify with." The annoying McSweeney's modifiers: "often," "seemingly" and the like. The deliberately awkward phrasing: "Unexpected moments like that are what make a story truly stand out to me" instead of "These unexpected moments made the story stand out." The extraneous Eggers-like clause after "kept me up" (which already implies that the "reader" stayed up all night).]

Current Feelings Towards Unfinished Books on My Bed

The Crimson Petal and the White by Michael Faber: Oh, come on. I'm almost done with you. You've been good for about 500 pages. But isn't this getting a bit anticlimactic? I've followed you this far and I'll finish you, of course. But you can do better than this, even though I still love you. For the most part.

The Fifties by David Halberstam: Lots of info there, pal. Too bad I'm reading another longass book. And a couple of recent dense reads burned me out a bit on history. But I'll finish you up eventually. You've done your homework like a good boy. But what's up with the "us" shit?

Empire Falls by Richard Russo: Sorry, boss, you're a bit too simplistic and cartoonish for my tastes. In fact, you resemble a popular novel. But I have to finish you this week for the book club. What were you thinking naming the daughter Tick? And sure, you can move characters around on a chessboard, but I'm a bit puzzled why you won the Pulitzer. The blue-collar people here are fey facsimilies of upper-class upstate types: both in their makeups and their problems. 50 pages in and no one's hurting. Please tell me, Mr. Russo, that all of your books aren't like this, and that things will get more effed up here.

American in the Twenties by Geoffrey Perrett: I'm not quite sure why I haven't jumped into you. You're sincere, you're informative, you're a labor of love. But you're not quite my cup of tea right now. Maybe we can both blame Halberstam. Can't wait to get into you, but there's still this quasi-bronchitis thing. Go figure. Maybe we'll sleep together sometime this week.

Fuck Me, It Had to Happen on a Long Weekend

I get sick very rarely, but one thing I do know: the current loss of appetite, aching muscles, headaches, lack of concentration, and weird pain in my alveoli is not normal. Plus, I'm having difficulty putting sentences together and revising dialogue. And I'll need to rack up some energy for my obligations tonight and this weekend. What this means is probably not much here over the weekend. But for couples, happy Valentine's Day. And for singles, avoid the propaganda. You're all sexy too. But you don't need a partner/date or some Quirkyalone bullshit to affirm this.

In the meantime, check out some of the fine folks on the left, or revel in Lindsayism's IM conversation or Tom's description of "the Witch." Or keep track of the closing days of Will Leitch's Life as a Loser. (To hell with Dave Sim. Leitch only has seven columns left!)

Sad news from Lusty Lady: Sarah Jacobson has cancer. For those pipsqueaks who weren't in San Francisco during the mid-90s, Jacobson was a shining beacon in the indie filmmaking community. I saw Mary Jane is Not a Virgin Anymore back in the day, and dug it. All my best to Sarah, hoping she can beat the rap.

The Effect of Reviewing Backwards

Big news from the Times this morning: An Amazon glitch unmasked the psuedonyms of reviewers. One "David K. Eggers" (confirmed to be Eggers) called Believer editor Heidi Julavits' novel "the best book of the year." Eggers' response was put up to counter negative criticisms that he believed to stem from the Underground Literary Alliance. But it turns out that everyday people thought that the Julavits book sucked. Did Julavits author the anti-snark manifesto to prevent not so much "savage" reviews, but the singling out of her own mediocre writing? Most people in this business have thick skins and can simply ignore negative reviews. Furthermore, how ethical is it for a close associate to post a book review because of their own paranoia? The more I hear about Eggers' shenanigans, the more I am convinced that, behind the "nice guy" image, the talent, and the charity, lies an unethical and highly scrupulous enfant terrible. Then again, much of this impression is, like Eggers' ULA conspiracy theory, framed on hunches and things I've heard from bookstore clerks. The difference is that I'm willing to admit that I might be wrong.

Sins of the Father

"No man can cause more grief than the one clinging blindly to the vices of his ancestors." -- William Faulkner, Intruder in the Dust

A Special Guest Column by Dale Peck

Several weeks ago, the Village Voice told me never to write for them again. My literary outing had come, as it were, as a hatchet man. But after talking with my therapist and having lots of sex one wistful Friday evening with my main man, it suddenly occurred to me that I could continue to write articles about the articles I had already written. Furthermore, I could become something of a schizophrenic, wavering between long savage reviews and a kinder, gentler Dale Peck. A Dale Peck as adorable as a plush toy, a cuddly critic, but not too cuddly.

So it was with some relief that I accepted Edward Champion's offer to clarify a few things on his blog. What Mr. Champion realized, unlike my other enemies, is that I would never shut up about my thoughts on the novel. And so he encouraged me.

If criticism can be called a sandwich, then it is composed of tuna fish. Nearly every critic today fails to consider the mayo once they've opened the can. But I, Dale Peck, am always capable of mixing my tuna with the mayo. Sometimes with relish, sometimes without. If you get my obvious metaphor, properly preparing a tuna fish sandwich is a duty that has eluded the current generation. And while the Voice and others may not appreciate this, someone very important out there does. Namely, Dale Peck.

It's destiny, I'm sure, to take up space on the blogs that celebrate literature, sandwiched between the LiveJournal entries and the link-plus-commentary approach which counts for punditry. The reasonable argument is for the loser. And the true critic must remain chronically bitter, because the situation is well out of control.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not blaming any particular book blogger for the phenomenon. I lost my love for literature the minute they started publishing my books, but certainly I'd rather write about my enmity than work in an office. Either way involves a unique form of hatred. If I didn't express my contempt for authors, I'd probably be expressing it to a manager. I'd make any manager's life a living hell, possibly stalking them after work.

When I read any sentence I get angry with it, and I am convinced that all sentences are out to get me. Thus my hatred is directed lovingly towards anyone who composes a sentence in the English language. This is because I see myself as a kind of self-loathing human being, not so much towards others but to the sentences they crank out.

So when Roddy Doyle goes after Joyce, I say, let the man go hog wild. I support Mr. Doyle's ranting because I happen to think his nose is sexy, and I'm sure he would be a good lay. Mr. Doyle hasn't yet returned any of my calls, but as any writer knows, perseverance is what counts.

The plain truth is that I am less and less capable of intellectual engagement because I no longer have any ideas or emotions left in me, save one that you probably aren't interested in.

In Defense of Terry

Since everybody wants to see some dissing (well, maybe only Mark), and Terry's been accused of "joining the ranks of other conservative authors and commentators who have recently been expressing their disdain for 'modern art' and literature," I thought I'd weigh in.

Terry has been called "conservative" for expressing his dislike for Virginia Woolf, who he dared to call "marginally readable." But how precisely is this conservative? Is Terry conservative because he writes for Commentary and The Wall Street Journal? Is Terry conservative because he expressed disfavor towards a woman? (And if that were the case, why then did he also praise the Algonquin Round Table, led by Dorothy Parker, in the same post?) What precisely is it, in Robert Green's mind, that makes Terry the literary equivalent of a gun-toting right-to-lifer?

Point of Order: "One would think that conservatives would value an approach to literature that keeps the emphasis on its literary qualities, on its capacity to reinvigorate the aesthetic impulse, to exemplify imaginative 'human accomplishment,' to use Murray's phrase. In my mind a truly conservative approach to art would seek to preserve the Western tradition of artistic skill and innovation to which writers like Joyce, Faulkner, and Woolf decidedly belong."

Beyond the extremely conflicting manner in which Daniel "I Came Off the MFA Assembly Line" Green lays down his terms, what this basically boils down to is another literary vs. popular snobfest. I can imagine literary champions shoving such terrible misfires as Faulkner's Sanctuary and Woolf's The Voyage Out down throats like plastic polymer vitamins we have to enjoy, that we must not admonish, and that we must hole up with, a glass of claret in our hands, killing all doubts, extolling the literary qualities in the same shameful way that an unemployed steel worker stands in the dole line. The Grand Literary Author, it would seem, can do no wrong.

And how reactionary is that?

The conservative critic is the one who falls into line, who likes everything handed to him from the canon, and who regurgitates the same tired arguments. The conservative critic is the one who stands against snarky fun, setting forth the "play nice" dogma into a bullshit manifesto for a fledgling magazine. The conservative critic is sometimes like Heidi Julavits, Dale Peck, Laura Miller, and (in this case) Scott Green: replacing valid criticism and the joys of reading with a stunning need for attention.

Terry may not have elucidated his reasons for disliking Woolf, but I can give you a one sentence exemplar, res ipsa loquitur really, that might express why:

She thought of three different scenes; she thought of Mary sitting upright and saying, 'I'm in love -- I'm in love'; she thought of Rodney losing his self-consciousness among the dead leaves, and speaking with the abandonment of a child; she thought of Denham leaning upon the stone parapet and talking to the distant sky, so that she thought him mad.

That's from Night and Day. And if you think that convulted attempt to get at consciousness is even remotely readable, then I shudder at your sensibilities. Woolf may have been among the first authors to describe every nicety of existence under the sun, but that doesn't mean that she should have.

Excluding A Room of One's Own and Mrs. Dalloway (from what I've read of Woolf -- and I started, unfortunately, at the beginning), I'm in Terry's camp. But then I whole-heartedly confess that I am bored by ponderous and humorless prose.

Now That I Have Your Attention

H Bomb is one thing, but now that a Yale panel has concluded that the U.S. is too uptight about sex, I'm convinced that the next wave of unfettered sexuality's coming from universities.

Today, Kerry plans to respond to Drudge's claim. Predictions: Much ado about nothing and a Playboy spread for Alex Polier.

In South Korea, activists are miffed by an actress's muff shots. Lee Seung-yeon is selling nude and semi-nude photos of herself donned in WWII sex slave attire.

The Fort Worth Star-Telegram copy desk must be bored. How else can we explain this headline?

And a German edition of Psychology Today reports that men can remember how many women they sleep with (even if they boast about it), but seldom remember their names. Women, by contrast, have total recall.

Norman Mailer: Innovator In His Own Mind

A couple has donated $100,000 to the University of Mississippi for the only national scholarship devoted to the work and life of William Faulkner. "We hoped that we could stop Cliff's Notes from publishing summaries of Faulkner's work, but Cliff wanted more cash," said Campbell McCool. "So we thought: Why not get the kids spinning cart wheels?"

Ernest Gaines has been nominated for this year's Nobel Prize in Literature. Not a single American has won in ten years. (Toni Morrison was the last winner.) So it might be our time. Then again, both Bush and Blair are nominees too (for the Peace Prize). So who knows? The winner will be announced in mid-October.

Jacqueline Wilson is the most borrowed author in UK libraries, unseating last year's Catherine Cookson. But it could be worse. Danielle Steele was number two.

The following quote may not explain why Bernardo's obsessed with the bump and grind (namely, in his new film, The Dreamers), but it does offer compelling evidence that Bertolucci may be insane: "The passionate love I have is for the cinema. It is very strong, so that the first time I meet the director Jean-Luc Godard, I vomit on him; that was the expression of love. He understand. We have a talk in the bathroom of the Mayfair Hotel, where we are cleaning our suits."

The March Atlantic (which hasn't yet been posted online) deals with the issue, but, for the nonce, "America's oldest college newspaper" has the scoop on the SAT's new writing section According to the new standards, Shakespare, Hemingway and Stein are slipshod. Ted Kaczynski, on the other hand, scores off the charts.

Sometimes, sex doesn't sell. Thor Kunkel threw in sex, Nazis, and Nazi pornography into his novel, finished his book, and then returned home from vacation to discover that his publisher dumped the book two months before its release. One of his editors reported, "He's read too much Thomas Pynchon and has over-estimated his artistic possibilities." If only Manhattan could be as honest about certain "political satirists" on our side of the Atlatnic.

Focus on the Family's latest target? Christian porn addicts. They even have fey billboards up. (via Quiddity)

Jose Saramago gets medieval on Bush's buttocks. (via TEV)

And Norman Mailer claims he's the father of New Journalism: "Tom Wolfe claimed he was the discoverer of New Journalism ... Actually, we were both doing it quite separately. But I'm much older than he is ... by eight or 10 years. So I'm the only one of the post-World War II generation to practice it. Sorry if I shoot down your theory." What most people don't know about Mailer is that he also invented beat poetry, postmodernism, and the footnote. No word on whether he's still terrified of the word "fuck" or getting his ass kicked by Germaine Greer in a debate.

Woo Hoo!

We're in. Look for Wrestling an Alligator, written and directed by Edward Champion, at this year's San Francisco Fringe Festival, sometime in September 2004. More details later.

Nebula Award Nominees

This year's Nebula Award nominees are up, with links to most of the short stories and book excerpts. Among the nominees: Carol Emshwiller, Neil Gaiman, Harlan Ellison, Cory Doctorow, and Jeffrey Ford.

Drudge on Deck for Old Sparky

Does Matt Drudge seriously believe that an unconfirmed rumor is going to stop Kerry? Because if he does, and groundless character flaws are the best he can muster against Bush's National Guard AWOL, his failure to offer an Iraq-WMD link, and the skyrocketing deficit (to name just a handful), then his finger ain't even close to the American pulse.

Let's say the allegations are true (and, so far, the burden of proof is shaky). Does anyone really want to go back into Monicagate territory? No. Been there, done that. Trivial, really, in a post-9/11 world and a shaky economy. And there's no simply way that Bush will be able to escape deficit/lack of Iraq-WMD link questions, even if Kerry slept with an intern. The media, even with its shaky ethical plinth, wouldn't let that double standard happen. Call it the fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me syndrome.

If it turns out to be true, then this may be the piece of news that destroys Drudge's career, much as Harry Knowles' credibility was eviscerated when he "predicted" the Oscars. It's a shame. Because there are Internet columnists and bloggers out there of all stripes who actually bother to fact-check.

Elder Statesmen

Ann Taylor Cook, aka the Gerber Lady, has been using her postpartum postergirling to move copies of her first novel. Cook said that she sold 10 books in an hour when the Gerber drawing was on the table next to her. The 77-year old newcomer plans to start drooling and repeatedly banging her spoon into a bowl for future in-store appearances.

Harlan Ellison's copyright case against AOL has been revitalized by an appeal. The 69-year old curmudgeon declared that his blood pressure hadn't dropped and that he would "beat the shit out of those motherfuckers, tearing their obsidian sphincters out with my bare hands." When asked how he would unleash this violence before a judge and jury, Ellison offered no explanations, but he called the journalist asking this question "a parvenu of the first order."

A "quirkyalone party" has been planned in New York for Valentine's Day. Several dateless thirtysomethings plan to attend, crying for hours into a collective cistern, and then spending the afternoon dwelling on their misery rather than ignoring the silly holiday (like most single people). The Quirkyalone label that has now been trademarked. An I Am Quirkyalone! Hear Me Wilt! affirmation video can be found in Wal-Mart in August.

The Guardian reports that, far from being a dour bore and a real pissant, Immanuel Kant was a wild and crazy guy. According to three new biograhies, Kant was actually known as "the Robert Downey, Jr. of his day." So committed was Kant to debauchery that attentions are now being paid to a recently discovered treatise called "Critique of Crystal Meth."

New census results reveal that Americans would rather curl up with a good book than surf the Web. It was also reported that book bloggers would prefer this to, but that most of them could not refrain from posting links because "their jobs were unbelievably boring."

And happy birthday, Sarah!

The Cultural Debate of the Century. Obvs.

Pollack vs. Grambo on Lou Dobbs. If anybody Tivoed it, let me know.

Katharine the Great

Rush & Molloy reports (via Darwin Porter's upcoming bio) that Katharine slept with the following people: Claudette Colbert, Greta Garbo, Judy Holliday, Judy Garland, Laura Harding, Irene Selznick, the daughter of Louis B. Mayer, the wife of David O. Selznick, Ernest Hemingway, John Ford, George Stevens, John Barrymore, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., Robert Ryan, Robert Mitchum, Burt Lancaster, Paul Henreid, and (of course) Spencer Tracy.

Edwards Appeals to Former Clark Supporters With Hand Shadow Show

AM Quickies

Maya Angelou is profiled by the Boston Globe. Several paragraphs focus upon Angelou's effect on a crowd. There are comparisons made between Angelou and Lorraine Hansberry. In fact, the general gist is that if you haven't read Angelou, you probably should, though without explaining why and without outlining an argument. It's the kind of tepid summary that spells out what's wrong with current book coverage. In