Edward Champion's Return of the Reluctant

BEA Prep

Configured laptop, check. Minidisc reserve, check. Digital camera, check. Batteries, check.

This one-man journalistic army is ready to embark on a four-day mission. If you're attending BEA, that mysterious redheaded man with the earphones, the bag of tech tricks, the camera around our neck and the goofy grin is, in fact, us. We are, perhaps, placing too much of our faith in wi-fi connections. But we have a backup plan if even this dependable conduit deciides to falter. Keep watching the skies. We're ready. As Louis Pasteur once said, "Chance favors the prepared mind."

Dalton Trumbo's Deep Throat

Pre-Trip Link Dump (for Later)

• The Top 100 All-Time Voices in Cinema (via Cinetrix)
• "The Prodigious Fiction of Richard Powers, William Vollmann, and David Foster Wallace" -- very interesting stuff.
• Richard Powers' "They Come in a Steady Stream Now" -- electronic-based fiction from the maestro.
• Richard Powers at Davidson College (October 2001)
• Early interview with Vollmann. Vollmann called "an incorrigible flirt," includes RealAudio excerpts (June 1996).
• Gilbert Sorrentino: "The main concern of a writer, if you mean a writer as artist, is to make art. He must have the luxury of being permitted to do this, just as the physicist is permitted to do physics and the surgeon to operate. An artist makes things. All else that he does, in his role as an artist, is incidental, accidental, or peripheral. If he worries about being an anachronism then he should quit writing and do something else."
• Gilbert Sorrentino on Flann O'Brien
• Grand Text Auto: a group blog about narrative in games and art.
• An epic documentary on BBSes.
• Long Emergency author James Kuntsler is an angry man. (See Clusterfuck Nation Manifesto. Also of note: Interview with Kuntsler and Jane Jacobs)
• Invaluable list of HP Lovecraft's influence on pop culture.
• 1985 interview with Anthony Burgess.

Taking A Bite Out of the Big Apple

Postings are going to be light and then heavy. But whatever the format and timing, they will be comprehensive on the other side. Either way, my ass is heading to New York to check out this BEA bidness. Count on this site to give you the honest lowdown and to seek out the devoted stragglers.

If you're in town, I'll be at the Slipper Room on Thursday night (between 6-8) with several other nice lit bloggers. Please stop by and say hello.

Insomnia

• How to make a lightsaber dildo
• The Daily Dancer: "I am Daily Dancer, a computer geek who loves to dance! Every weekday morning, you can watch me dance to a different song."
• Reflectoporn: The infamous eBay image kick starts a new movement.
• Classic Good Girl and Romance Covers
• Seventies' Greatest Album Covers (with histories of design conception)
• Beatles TMI
• Twins deliver babies on same day
• Forget Me Not Panties: obviously for those who don't build relationships on trust.

Sun-Soaked Roundup

• Sarah is interviewed by Kacey Kowars. Sarah talks about the history of her blog, how she reads and selects content, her new day job, inter alia. The subject of "mean-spiritedness" is also brought up, to which I reply that what I do here isn't nearly as vicious as 200 proof vodka. I trust most people to read between the lines.
• So what were some of the other LBC nominees? Were they corporate sellouts? Were they part of the "literary demi-puppet" conspiracy? Au contrarire. Michael Orthofer weighs in on his selection, Christa Wolf's In the Flesh. I hope to weigh in on my selection (which was second place!) sometime soon too, but there's some incredible sunshine and a big trip to Nueva York to prep for.
• The wifi cafe problem is one of the reasons why I've remained reluctant to use wi-fi embedded laptops (although this is likely to change to give you folks up-to-the-minute BEA reports). Cafes are social places where you unexpectedly run into friends and acquaintances or get into conversations with strangers about the books they're reading or the cool tees they're wearing or the guitars that they're playing. But I've noticed the gloomy misanthropes who stare into their Powerbooks as if expecting some great theological pronouncement taking up tables intended for four people at my own neighborhood cafe and wonder if this is indeed part of the lingering problem Robert Putnam wrote about in his book Bowling Alone. These people, who feel the chronic need to be connected in all ways but the most tangible ones, rarely buy anything, tip or consort with the nice people behind the counter. Frankly, if killing wi-fi access during the weekends will get these deadbeats to understand that (a) a change in locale doesn't necessarily mean that you're not a work-every-minute drone, (b) you won't be rebuked if you don't answer your email within an hour (at least by the people who matter), and (c) if access is the thing, perhaps broadband at home is more your cup of tea (or hazelnut latte, as the case may be).
• Tanenhaus Brownie Watch is forthcoming. But cut some slack. It's a three-day weekend.
• Jacquelyn Mitchard thought that calls from Oprah were a prank and very nearly didn't call her back for an OBC selection.
• They're young! They're hot! They're good-looking! And damn, these puppies can write! Wouldn't a writer make a great catch? Lisa Allardice exposes some of the realities behind pairup glamour. And, yes, J-Franz is name-checked.
• Hemingway's Havana estate is endangered.
• Why does Dracula endure?
• Diana Abu-Jaber dishes dirt on her food memoir.
• Decency prevents me from commenting upon this Nick Laird "training" revelation. Return of the Reluctant promises a two-month moratorium on Zadie Smith and Nick Laird news, for reasons similar to Ms. Tangerine Muumuu.

I Heart Garry Trudeau

The latest Doonesbury pretty much sums up my disillusionment with Memorial Day.

Things Just Got A Bit Hotter in Saudi Arabia

King Fahd is dead. This guy's next in line. Crown Prince Abdullah is mostly friendly, but unlike Fahd, Abdullah didn't like American involvement in the initial Gulf War and tried to broker a peace deal with Israel. Expect oil prices to climb and international relations to get rather interesting.

Vollmann Club Update

Several new Vollmann posts are up. The main page has been updated.

Well, Living Your Life By A Movie Can't Be All Bad If It Eventually Involves Triple-Breasted Ladies

[Above: Arnold using taxpayers' money to stage a scene and play a guy performing construction.]

[Below: Arnold using Hollywood money to stage a scene and play a guy performing construction in the film Total Recall.]

California State Assembly: The Forum for Fruits & Nuts

Scott points to this disturbing article. The California State Assembly has decided to ban school districts from purchasing textbooks longer than 200 pages. The bill itself can be found here. As phrased, the bill could actually go beyond mere textbooks and be destructive to books in general. AB 756 states, "This bill would prohibit the State Board of Education and school district from adopting instruction materials that exceed 200 pages in length." So what are instructional materials?

According to California Education Code Section 60010(h), "instructional materials" are defined as "all materials that are designed for use by pupils and their teachers as a learning resource and help pupils to acquire facts, skills, or opinions or to develop cognitive processes. Instructional materials may be printed or nonprinted, and may include textbooks, technology-based materials, other educational materials, and tests."

In other words, what we have here is a definition so broad that a "material" that might be used in a Grades 1-8 classroom such as a book that exceeds 200 pages will be tossed in the dustheap. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn? Sorry, 360 pages. Too long. Silas Marner? Maybe, but be sure to order the edition minus the introduction and the related resources page. Because Eliot's just on the brink of 200 pages.

Beyond the baffling anti-intellectual nature of this bill (which was introduced by Democrats), there's the troubling financial impact it will have upon school districts. Instead of ordering that big 500-page compilation for a classroom, I forsee an age where school districts will have to order three 200-page books to cover the same material. And with school districts already pinching their pennies, it's doubtful whether they'll pony up the dough.

Fortunately, Governor Schwarzenegger (how I do hate typing those two words together) has not yet taken a position on the bill (which needs to be signed into law to be effected). Since he has previously gone on record with absurd approaches to fiscal spending, perhaps the fiscal approach might be the way to get through to him.

Oh, More Hype of It All!

Michiko: "It's a book as hip and intermittently tender as Dave Eggers's 'Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius,' as gripping and overstuffed as David Foster Wallace's 'Infinite Jest.'"

L.A. Times: "The main problem is that Wilsey hews too closely to the McSweeney literary model: typographical tricks, hyper-fluency in pop culture and exuberantly high-pitched prose. All conspire against the emotional registers he so wants to express."

Francine Prose: "To write about the sufferings of the well-to-do imposes a certain set of demands on a writer, and Wilsey rises to the challenge with agility and grace. His narrative voice reflects a vivid mix of brio, self-awareness and sophistication, and he is able to meld the point of view of the troubled boy he once was with that of the stable and sensible adult that he has, admirably and against all odds, become."

Village Voice: "...if the book slips at all, it's in Wilsey's willingness to cast her in the one-dimensional role of wicked stepmother."

Frankly, I'm a bit tired of all the Sean Wilsey coverage. Another book-length journey down McSwee's Way might permanently damage my cerebral cortex. But the reviews seem to be hailing the memoir, Oh the Glory of It All, as the cat's pajamas. So I can't help but remain curious about this memoir, particularly since David Foster Wallace's name has been invoked. I really don't feel the urge to run out and get this book, but if an enterprising publicist were to send a copy to me, I'd certainly give it an honest assessment. And if it were indeed the bomb (exploding in whatever timbre), then you'd certainly hear from me.

A History of Violence

Cronenberg's new film, A History of Violence, looks like a ballbuster.

Ten Things I Wish I Did

While I believe it's still possible to do some of these things, I still wish to respond to Mr. Teachout's recent item. Here are ten things I feel a sizable regret not doing (or at least putting off):

1. Learning to play the piano.
2. Learning French.
3. Visiting Rome and looking for what remains of the road markers.
4. Personally cooking the food for and preparing a fantastic dinner involving at least 50 guests.
5. Having a one-on-one three hour conversation with the President about the issues of our time and seeing what he has to say.
6. Getting a proposition on the local ballot, seeing it pass, and watching it help other people without being squashed by the cold realities of bureaucracy.
7. Performing a live one-hour set of my own personally composed songs in front of an audience and making them happy.
8. Reviving the reputation of ten great and forgotten writers.
9. Making a sizable dent to end poverty and to promote world peace.
10. Getting carte blanche to write and direct a modestly budgeted feature film that devastates and gets a decent release.

There are more, but then revealing these would cut even closer to the personal. And I have no desire to unleash this upon you folks.

Even so, I'm curious. What ten things do you want to do? Pass the meme around.

Maybe Because Machines Designed to Destroy Aren't Sentient Enough to Populate a Narrative? Just a Wild Guess.

Jimmy Beck has the scoop on Charles Baxter. He writes:

When asked what he was working on, he said he spent two years on a novel about bombs but gave up on it. Perhaps because it was too disturbing? I don't remember exactly. "I couldn't do it," he said. "I've gone back to short stories."

Author Recognition Survey Results

METHODOLOGY: On May 26, 2005, during lunch hour, surveyor Edward Champion asked various people in the Embarcadero Center (a multi-block shopping center in San Francisco's Financial District), if they had heard of eleven authors. The surveyor tried not to discriminate by age, gender, race, or class. Among the participants were a smug investment banker who claimed to be "a literary type" (and who was only able to identify two authors) and a down-to-earth cable car operator catching a smoke between runs.

Ten women and nine men were asked in person by the surveyor to offer a "yes" or "no" answer if they recognized the name of the author. (The gender makeup was tracked separately from the data, so as not to corrupt it. I should again point out that this was an informal study that tried to extend across demographics without preference to makeup.) If they knew of the author's name, they were then asked to name a book that the author had written.

The surveyor remained impartial, so as not to intimidate the participants, only stepping in at times to urge the participants, "Don't beat yourself up," pointing out that there were no right or wrong answers and that this was just an informal survey.

RESULTS:

• One could not name a single book by the authors recognized.

• One could name a book correctly by one of the authors recognized.
• One could not name a single book by the authors recognized.

• Two could not name a single book by the authors recognized.
• One could name a book correctly by two of the authors recognized.
• Three could name a book correctly by one of the authors recognized.

• Three could name books correctly by two of the authors recognized.

• Four could not name a single book by the authors recognized.
• Two could name a book correctly by the one author recognized.

No authors recognized (1)

Authors Recognized by Name:

Margaret Atwood (12)

• The Handmaid's Tale: 2
• Cat's Eye: 1
• Wilderness Tips: 1
• "I heard her on NPR": 1
• "Cheesy paperbacks": 1
• No Book Title Offered: 6

• "I heard him speak": 1
• No Book Title Offered: 7

• "Confessions of a Communist": 1
• "'Red' in one of the titles": 1
• "American something": 1
• No Book Title Offered: 4

• No Book Title Offered: 6

• The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay: 2
• "Comic book novel": 1
• "Is he the guy who writes gay novels?": 1
• No Book Title Offered: 1

• No Book Title Recognized: 1

• No Book Title Offered: 1

• No Book Title Offered: 1

• No Book Title Offered: 1

William T. Vollmann (0)

Sue Monk Kidd (0)

CONCLUSIONS:

The results here are quite interesting. I didn't realize that Atwood would not only be so known, but that the participants would name books beyond The Handmaid's Tale. Given his work with the Motley Fool, David Gardner's recognition in the Financial District isn't much of a surprise. His book titles, apparently, slip through the mind like a sieve. James Robison's unfortunate success on the Trinity Broadcasting Network probably plays a hand in name recognition. Since Michael Chabon lives in Berkeley, I had thought he would do better. But participants were able to name a book by him better than the others. Philip Roth was quite the reverse. Participants knew his name, but really couldn't remember a book title by him. Even more interesting, they came close to mentioning the novel, I Married a Communist, but weren't quite able to do so. All this despite the alleged critical and popular success of The Plot Against America.

And, of course, I weep for Vollmann.

But does all this mean that a literary crisis is at hand? You make the call. Try this excercise in your neighborhood and see how the results stack up.

In the Works

We've finally discovered that we can actually view the Internet on our cell phone and that it actually loads fairly fast (under the circumstances) and looks pretty darn spiffy. The problem, of course, is that this blog isn't yet designed for those tiny display resolutions (or, rather, a specific URL for you mobile folks does not yet exist). Because of this, when we eventually do redesign this damn site, we'll be considering those of you with mobile devices.

The other thing: some of you have written in expressing interest in our audio ramblings, whether they be further episodes of the Neurotic Chronicles or additional interviews through the Bat Segundo Show. Please know that we've been sitting on a few short author interviews that we've been hoping to string together for a solid hour-long future episode of Segundo. The problem is that our narrator, a seminal part of the show, is more reluctant than we are to introduce these things. As soon as we pry him away from the Tecate, we'll get his lazy ass talking again.

We also plan to continue the Neurotic Chronicles. The next few episodes have been written and ambient sounds have been recorded. Just need to find some time to mix it.

But as to the emails, frankly, we're shocked that our audio content is not only thoroughly appreciated, but even being dumped onto iPods for this thing called Podcasting. While our feelings about the iPod are on record for all to see, we're not necessarily against those who use it. And if those motherfuckers at ABC are going to do this, then we figure we should too, if only to preserve the independent spirit. So we'll be keeping you folks in mind during the next month.

Never let it be said that this place didn't consider the gearheads.

And if you're wondering about BookExpo America, for those of you who missed our previous announcement, yes, we plan to be there. Yes, we plan to cover the damn thing with gusto. Yes, we plan in-depth, no-bullshit coverage. And there may even be a surprise interview or two soon after our return to San Francisco. Keep watching the skies.

Deconstructing Amazon Images

The website AAUGH has unearthed how Amazon adds those annoying image tags ("40% Off!") to their cover images. It's all in the tags. (via )MeFi)

On Audio Books and Reading

In a heated post, Scott takes audiobooks to task, pointing out that the audio book experience ain't tantamount to reading. "Listen Jim," writes Scott, "and all other audiobookphiles out there: If I can barely wrap my little mind around Vollmann while I'm holding the book right before my face and re-reading each sentence 5 times each, how in the hell am I going to understand it if some nitwit is reading it to me while I'm brewing a cappuchino on my at-home Krups unit?"

While I would agree with Scott that there's a fundamental difference between reading a book and listening to a book, I don't necessarily believe that audio books should be completely discounted. Personally, I've found that reading a book aloud (or hearing another person read a book aloud) allows one to discover or familiarize herself with a book's particular cant and rhythms. To some degree, it's a bit comparable to only experiencing a play on the page. Sometimes, the intonations, the delivery and the visual nature of the staging leads the mind to frame the narrative in a new context and unearth a subtext that may not have been as readily apparent from a strict read.

The problem then with audio books, aside from the fact that rewinding can't beat the exactitude of rereading a specific passage on page, is not necessarily the content, but in the way that the work is often delivered by the author. Too many audio book producers make the mistake of enlisting the wrong voice to read the work. And let's face it: some authors, even though their text scintillates, are pretty damn horrible readers. (Without naming names, I'll just say that if you go to enough readings, you experience this unfortuante phenemonon repeatedly. I would even suggest that this is an obstacle that may prevent poetry from being completely accepted. For more on this subject, I refer you to Mark Twain's famous essay, "How to Tell a Story.")

Further, for many people (particularly Southern Californians), the audio book serves as a surrogate to listening to an obnoxious FM radio DJ blather on during rush hour. While I bemoan the idea that this may be a person's sole exposure to a book (as Scott says, the text is the thing and I would add that, if you are a supremely active reader, nothing beats copying passages, looking up words and references, or taking notes to understand an author's intent further).

The problem here is that the audio book experience isn't the same as a reading experience. But this does not mean that listening to the text of the book while driving and then returning home to study it further is without value. Further, comfort reads and potboilers may, artistically speaking, offer nothing more in the way of entertaining fluff and, on the whole, may be better experienced in one listening. From this perspective then, the audio book serves as a better use of one's time, even if the sanctity of reading may be compromised in the process.

Updated Hitchhiker's Guide Entry: Case Histories Mostly Not a Bestseller

At the LBC site, editor Reagan Arthur weighs in on Case Histories. Arthur confesses her partiality, but does remark that Case Histories is the first of Atkinson's novels to go into six American hardcover printings. Atkinson also playfully points out that Case Histories' sales are "not so stratospherics" and that, thus far, it has not hit any bestsellers list.

Birnbaum Alert

Seconds after throwing the Birnbaum Signal into the sky, our literary superhero respodned by interviewing Courtney Angela Brkic and Kevin Guilfoile. Commissioner Gordon's services are no longer required.

Literary Awareness

Today at The Elegant Variation, during the course of Kevin Smokler's appearance via the Virtual Book Tour, there was a heated though civilized thread about whether the infamous Reading at Risk report issued by the BEA was useful or even genuinely reflective of diminishing literary awareness. Arguments concerning the methodology and the resultant media reaction (which Smokler contends is equivalent to hyperbole involving those darn kids who listen to rock and roll back in the day, a sentiment I certainly agree with) were unloaded. But the central question of whether or not the everyday world is aware of authors remains not only unanswered, but largely unexplored on an empirical basis.

In a unconnected post on the same topic, Sara at Storytelling has a very interesting idea in response to some of the raging debates that have been going on at the LBC. She has a list of ten authors: five of whom are recognizable, five of whom are not. She wants people to go outside with this list and see how many people can recognize the names. She's enlisted her daughter to posit the list to fellow students in her high school.

I think this is an excellent idea. For many of the same points that Sara made, whether there exists a "crisis" or not (depending upon your definition of the term), it would be a fascinating (if unscientific) experiment.

The list of authors is:

1. Chris Clarke
2. James Robinson
3. Margaret Atwood
4. Erik White
5. Sue Kidd
6. Michael Chabon
7. David Gardener
8. Philip Roth
9. Kate Atkinson
10. Joanne Mitchell

Tomorrow, I plan to ask fifteen random strangers not only if they have heard of these authors, but whether they can name a book that was written by them. And just because I can (and because I'm knee deep in his books), I'm adding an eleventh name: William T. Vollman.

I will post the results here. But for those who are interested in getting results, I would highly urge you to do the same in your respective regional areas. (I'm based in San Francisco.)

My thinking is that the results may surprise us. But the proof resides in carrying out the experiment.

[UPDATE: Ron Hogan suggests that Bookmark Now fails to tie in the "Reading at Risk"/literary awareness alarmism into its scheme of essays.]

Will Repetition Destroy Vollmann's Legacy?

While reading The Rainbow Stories, a book that I've been greatly enjoying (if kicking around with skinheads, drug addicts and terrorists can be "enjoyed"), I've been giving a lot of thought to some of the book's parallels with other Vollmann ideas that appear later in his work. In Rainbow, several brief mentions, for example, are given to the failed artist as clerk, specifically the time that the clerk leaves (eight thirty). This reminded me almost immediately of Vollmann's wonderful description of commuters entering the subway like dung beetles to their jobs in The Royal Family. But what strikes me is the specific nature of the image: (1) the office worker is masking some dormant artistic desire, (2) the office worker is thus a fraud, and (3) the nature of how the office worker commutes figures prominently in the office worker's deceptive and/or duplicitious nature.

Another Vollmann fixation is the epigraph. Indeed, one cannot get through a Vollmann book without a reference to either a classical or off-the-beaten-track scientific work. He is perhaps more devoted to these than most writers. I would argue that these epigraphs represent Vollmann's method of cementing his pursuits (whether journalistic or historical) into the recurring patterns throughout history.

The other commonality between The Rainbow Stories and The Royal Family is that, much like its later companion, Rainbow's narrative is composed largely of anecdotes, with frequent asides by Vollmann as narrator that clue us into his working methods. When talking to some strippers, for example, Vollmann leaves footnotes that express just how much a particular paragraph cost in dollars. It's a curious yet fascinating technique. One would think that Vollmann walking around largely unprotected in the Tenderloin, chatting with lowlifes of various types, was a sacrifice in and of itself. But dollars are equally important in Vollmann's world. It is money that allows him to continue doing what he does. It is money that often forms the motivations of his characters. And I suspect that it is money that has motivated Vollmann to include the bail bond chapter in The Royal Family.

In this fascinating Bookforum overview of William T. Vollmann, James Gibbons writes:

Whatever the personal cost, Vollmann's graphomania foregrounds what it means to be prolific in an age when most people will devote only so much of their leisure time to reading. Perhaps there are some sort of tacit guidelines regarding output that "serious" writers are expected to follow, because Vollmann's productivity has been, at best, a mixed blessing for his career. The truly prolific author, as distinct from the merely respectably productive one, is either a genre writer or a relic.

This is considerable food for thought. But when we consider that Vollmann, as prolific as he is, also resorts to repetitive images to come closer to a specific theme, to tie everything altogether, I wonder if this too might set him back. Scott has previously remarked on Vollmann's use of repetition. And like him, I think that Vollmann's rhythms add to his work immensely, perhaps aiding a reader plunging into an underworld that might be otherwise be ignored. But I think the repetition is invaluable to understanding Vollmann. I suspect that the man, much like Richard Powers, is a wildly ambitious and extremely erudite novelist who hopes to connect everything together. But where Powers leaves a lot of questions unanswered, wanting the reader to dig through his fantastic spates of consciousness, in his narrations, Vollmann is far more inviting on an emotional
level -- that is, if you're willing to take the plunge.

I'll have more to say about Vollmann's voice in my next Vollmann Club entry.

A Craving Holds Across the Blogosphere

For those who can't wait for the Pynchon Bookforum issue (which we are salivating for as readily as the Learned English Dog), as Maud points out, much of it is available online. There, you can find reminiscences from some top-notch writers (including Richard Powers, George Saunders, Lydia Davis, Don DeLilo and Jeffrey Eugenides).

The Great Speeches

American Rhetoric has listed the top 100 speeches of all time. The text is available for all speeches. But what's particularly amazing is that audio exists for a substantial chunk of these. The obvious ones are here. But the site is a fantastic trip down memory lane. This speech takes me back to fifth grade sitting at a desk with other stunned kids watching the television, while this speech, which I was not alive to hear, continues to amuse me with its hypocrisies.

Email Catchup

I've sent close to 150 emails tonight and I'm still backed up. If you sent me an email before May 5 about something, give me a buzz and I'll respond. My profuse apologies for the delay. It's been busy. But hopefully I'll make up for it this week.

He's Not a Naughty Librarian, But We Suspect He'll Do

Pop Matters has kicked off a new column entitled "Bad Librarian." The column is written by Erik Wennermark, a man who may or may not bite the heads off of small animals. (It all depends on your political persuasion, although, in light of the Patriot Act, we forgive Mr. Wennermark's paranoia.) In his inaugural column, Wennermark prides himself on being a fake librarian, meaning that he's man enough to confess that he doesn't have the full MLS credentials, while pointing out a secret library dogma: don't rag on the poor bastard's unreadable take-home load. The Bad Librarian may be bitter, but he hasn't lost his heart. We'll be seeing how his column develops.

The Worst Kind of Blogging Hiatus Imaginable

A blogger, merely worrying about his Japanese report, posted an eerie entry just before he was murdered. Police MeFi)

The Robert Sheckley Fund

Neil Gaiman provides the link for a Paypal fund for the noted science fiction satirist Robert Sheckley. Sheckley, as reported here not too long ago, is currently recovering in Kiev from respiratory failure. According to this press release, Sheckley's condition has improved. His lungs are now clear from infection. But upon his return to the United States, Sheckley will require hospitalization. This is where you come in.

Alternatively, checks to Mr. Sheckley can also be sent to P.O. Box 656, Pine Plains, NY 12567.

(Additional details are available at Sheckley's website.)

Whither the Beach Book?

To whit:

• Phil at Collected Miscellany asks whether reading choices are related to the season.
• Anthony Miller
looks into the "summer reading" semantics.
• The Columbus Telegram takes the tone of a schoolmarm, perhaps losing potential summer readers in the process.
• And there are lifelong cognitive advantages to reading during the summer.

To address all of this, I should start by saying from the offset that I view "summer reading" as a load of poppycock. This may have something to do with living in a city where the weather remains fairly consistent year round. But I suspect too that my reading habits stemmed from spending my teenage years living in Sacramento holing myself up with books and films in the coolest indoor environs available. (Because of my pallor, I was known to roast into ruddiness and sometimes burst into flames, thus precluding me from completely enjoying movies where vampires exploded with pyrotechnic splendor along these lines.) So the notion of reading a thick Doestoevsky novel keeping me in a cool place was infinitely more rewarding than hours-long exposure to the sun (although friends, respective of how little effect the strongest sunblock had on me, were kind enough to drag me away).

The real question then is whether climate has any bearing on reading habits. If we are to understand the definitions posited, nice sunshine and wearing little clothing is conducive in some sense towards one reaching for a "beach book," generally described as a book with little substance, little in the way of grit, and much in the way of lobe-flabbing sensationalism.

I'm not necessarily badmouthing trashy reading or relaxing. Sometimes, it's necessary to aid a rebound from a synapse-bursting bout with Ulysses. I'm just curious why we're all intended to, framing the image in literary terms, turn into margarita-sipping idiots for three months.

I suspect the term "beach book" arose from the "summer movie" concept, when seasonal distribution results in Hollywood bombast being deployed in every multiplex from here to Tripoli. But a movie involves a two-hour experience. A 300-page book, at 30 pages or so an hour, might involve an experience that lasts around ten. So if one is submerging one's self into a book for such a lengthy period of time, why then would one reach for nothing more than comfort reads during a three-month period? Would not instant gratification (or chill time) be better served through the film conduit?

Conversely, if readers are supposed to dumb themselves down for three months, what then is the purpose? Anyone who has ever been in a library for hours at a time knows that, with their far-from-lavish budgets and their malfunctioning heaters, they are just as sweltering as a summer day without a breeze. The temperatures are comparable, but in the library's case, the results are insufferable. The beach, by contrast, is intended as a comfortable spot to perch up and laze away with a potboiler.

I would ask those who champion the beach book why they are content to champion a dull novel in a comfortable environment. Surely, if a reader is placed in a comfortable clime, he will be more relaxed and perhaps more willing to exert his mind into a William Gaddis novel.

Does it not then make sense to champion robust and multi-layered epics as beach book candidates?

Pynchon Anecdote of the Month

Said Laurie Anderson: "She tells a story about asking Thomas Pynchon whether she could turn his novel Gravity’s Rainbow into an opera. He said yes, but only if it was played on one instrument: the banjo. 'Some people have the nicest ways of saying no.'"

[RELATED NEWS: Holy cow! The new Bookforum will be a special issue on Pynchon. Hat tip: Rake and Derik.]

The Impetus Behind CliffsNotes

If you're like me, you avoid CliffsNotes with a passion and go out of your way to remember pedantic book details that the slackers salivating over those by-chapter summaries in those hideous yellow pamphlets will never possibly account for. (For example, I still remember almost two decades after I read Animal Farm that Napoleon was a Berkshire boar.) If you're also like me, you're probably curious about who this Cliff character was, the man who opened Pandora's box back in the day.

Fortunately, Ask Yahoo! has some of the details. It seems that the Cliff in question is one Cliff Hillegass. Mr. Hillegass, who died a few years ago at the age of 83, was a disciple of the "self-starter" school of thought. That's all fine and dandy, until one considers that being a "self-starter" extends into the unfortunate realm of Dale Carnegie.

But no matter. Hillegass, it seems, was a grad student in geology and physics working as a college representative for Long's College Bookstore. Cliff cultivated contacts, like many a successful businessman. But here's the interesting thing: the CliffNotes summary idea was actually pilfered from Canadians!

In the golden days before 1958, when one could walk into an American bookstore without being tempted and when one was forced to discern meaning on text alone, it was a man named Jack Cole (not to be confused with the creator of Plastic Man) who had offered Cole's Notes for Canadian consumption. And it was Cole who planted the seed during a fateful conversation with Cliff that provided the yellow-backed lifeblood, the idea that was unapologetically cribbed, for many an intellectual deviant during the next fifty years.

Hillegass tried to sell the Nebraska Book Company on the idea. They passed. So Cliff borrowed $4,000 from the bank and began unleashing the beasties from his basement in Lincoln. He started with 16 Shakespearian titles, made a bit of money, and the rest is history. Eventually, in 1998, Hillegass sold his enterprise to IDG for more than $14 million.

To be fair to the original Cliff, he did repeatedly point out that his notes "are not a substitute for the text itself...and students who attempt to use them in this way are denying themselves the very education that they are presumably giving their most vital years to achieve." Cliff did genuinely love literature, gave $250,000 to the University of Nebraska-Lincoln for an English chair and was really into rare lamps and sculpture gardens. But despite Cliff's quirkiness and generosity, his statement is a bit like telling a pyromaniac with a lighter that he should probably use the disposable Bic in a judicious manner.

Of Jack Cole's fate, I can find no trace. But I plan to find out what happened to the Cliff before the Cliff. For if he is the true originator and Cliff the mere opportunitist, then we now have another equitable reason to blame Canada.

Single-Screenless in San Francisco

It's a sad time for San Francisco cinema. The Roxie is at death's door. But unlike the bailout in 2002, this time, it doesn't look like it's going to happen, unless some enterprising person gives Bill Banning $140,000 in the next 45 days.

This comes not long after the Coronet, the finest single-screen theatre for blockbusters, died a few months ago.

So what's left? Well, I've never given the Castro a dime ever since the owners fired programmer Anita Monga last year and replaced the calendar with safe repertory programming. If the Roxie goes, the only decent single-screen theatres left will be the Balboa and the Red Vic.

Three single-screen theatres compromised in one year alone speaks ill of the future.

Top o' the Morning

• Paul Collins has unearthed a new scandal. It seems that author Misha Defonseca was denied royalties for her Holocaust memoir, Misha: A Memoir of the Holocaust Years. A state appeals court upheld a $22.5 million award to Defonseca and her ghostwriter, Vera Lee of Newton. The specific publisher was Mount Ivy Press, founded by Jane Daniel. The court docket for the case can be found here. While Judge Kantrowitz's opinion is not yet posted, it appears that the judgment amount may have been amended. The question here is whether $22.5 million was genuinely withheld from the two writers or whether the damages might be punitive. (via Moby Lives)
• Scott Esposito talks with Richard McCann.
• If Bill Clinton's memoir wasn't plodding enough, the paperback version will have additional pages. But get this: the extra pages are being added to acknowledge the criticisms about length. Isn't that a bit like lighting up a cigarette in front of a cancer patient after you've been repeatedly asked to put it out?
• Apparently, David Cronenberg wasn't even in the running for the Palme d'Or for his new film, A History of Violence. As a Cronenberg fan, I blame Toni Morrison.
• The University of Texas, now in the business of withholding books and volumes from undergraduates, will be getting Norman Mailer's archives. The archives will be shipped with a full-scale reproduction of Mailer's ego for articulate Third Wave feminists to whittle down in a nanosecond.
• The "dead white male" reading list debate has been revived on the East Coast. But it appears that some teachers may be playing the multicultural card because Great Expectations is too hard for some students to read and because dense books like Heart of Darkness can't be taught by teachers, even after playing the film Apocalypse Now in class. One reading list replacement is John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany. Irving is inarguably white and male and some might argue that he is dead on page.
• A $53,609 check was awarded to Claire Tomkin, a 21 year old fiction writer. The Sophie Kerr Award is the largest undergraduate literary award in the nation.

So Long As Leonardo DiCapprio Isn't Involved, We're Happy

A new adaptation of Macbeth is in the works. But this one has some interesting casting. Jennifer Connelly, whose beauty and talent often causes me to curl up into a fetal position, will play Lady Macbeth and Philip Seymour Hoffmann will play the infamous murderer. Todd Luiso is attached to direct. The film promises to be "a different kind of Shakespeare". But whether this means Baz Luhrmann bombast or West Side Story, it's difficult to say. However, Luiso might be just the guy to do this, given that he previously directed a film adaptation of Tom Stoppard's short play, The Fifteen Minute Hamlet. (via Romancing the Tome)

SF Sightings -- Tayari Jones

It was a preternaturally sunny afternoon in the City. But that didn't stop Scott and me from checking out Tayari Jones at A Clean, Well-Lighted Place for Books. Jones, who initially attracted my attention when I learned that her next-door neighbor was Richard Powers, was there for the final stop on her book tour to support her second novel, The Untelling. Told from the perspective of a young girl who copes with the effects of a car accident on a broken family in Atlanta, Jones started the novel almost immediately after her first novel, Leaving Atlanta.

Jones, who is 34, read two passages from the book: the first segment setting up the family in question and the second involving a revelation on Halloween night. She read in a warm and mellifluous voice that evoked the purity of childhood and young adulthood covered within the novel (and wasn't bad at all for a first book tour out). JOnes had recently rebounded from a two-week bout with laryngitis. Apparently, she had been conducting her readings without drinking any water. When she was kind enough to sign my book to "Ed the Champion," I urged Jones to drink more water while on the road.

Jones started writing The Untelling in 2000. It took three and a half years to finish, with the last fifty pages coming out of her during the last year. The novel emerged when she started thinking about home ownership, specifically with the often unspoken issue of single women assuming "house power." Jones was curious about how families assume multiple debts to take on a house. Since she had turned thirty near the beginning of writing The Untelling, these thoughts, along with the marital ambition that often plagues people around twenty-nine, had her focusing her instincts into her novel. She pointed out that marriage often prevents people from asking about parents, because a married person, when asked about her life, can simply point to her spouse and avoid the question of parents and siblings altogether.

Jones said that she is working on a third novel "about bigamy" and didn't reveal much. But she did point out that in order for bigamy to work, one family would have to be complicit.

Lauren Cerand has informed me that Jones has an opinion piece in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution about writing her first novel.

Tanenhaus Watch: May 22, 2005

WEEKLY QUESTION: Will this week's NYTBR reflect today's literary and publishing climate? Or will editor Sam Tanenhaus demonstrate yet again that the NYTBR is irrelevant to today's needs? If the former, a tasty brownie will be sent to Mr. Tanenhaus' office. If the latter, the brownie will be denied.

When I saw this week's cover with the NASCAR photo, I felt a sharp pain in my solar plexus. And it wasn't just because Tanenhaus failed to capitalize all of the letters in NASCAR. (Yo, Sam, I'm about as uninterested in the Daytona 500 as the next guy, but even I know that NASCAR is an acronym for the National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing. This is about as absurd as referring to the Super Bowl as "the final Nfl matchup.") The NASCAR book comparison, written by Jonathan Miles, isn't a bad idea. But does it merit a cover review? Judging by the snide tone of Jonathan Miles' review, the review favors snotty defensiveness rather than a genuinely interesting (and, dare I say it, inviting) exploration of the subject. Rather than indoctrinating a reader unfamiliar with NASCAR about the appeal, Miles opts instead for a red state/blue state divisiveness that is becoming as deeply cloying in today's journalism as any reference to post-9/11 guilt, as if he genuinely believed that all blue staters equate watching the Daytona 500 with voting for Bush.

More egregiously, the "review," if it can be called that, spends half of its length bogged down in tired rhetroric and unfounded generalizations (the only literary detractor Miles can dig up is Tom Wolfe and the essay cited is from 1965) before finally getting to the two books in question. There are laughable comparisons to commuter traffic and not a single reference to the pit area (where people perform incredible overhauls and refueling on a car between laps; when have you seen that during rush hour?).

Eventually, things get a little interesting (if not book-specific) with a cursory overview of Curtis Turner's life. But not before Miles voices further contempt about NASCAR's potential future, equating it to Elvis dying on the toilet. If Miles had even bothered to do any research, a quick look at NASCAR demographics would have turne up the following for him:

• More than half of all NASCAR watchers earn between $30-75,000, a far cry from the NASCAR fans who "drive to the 7-Eleven to pick up a pack of smokes."
• 40.1% of all NASCAR fans have attended college.
• In fact, there isn't all that much in a disparity by region as the Southern picture painted by Miles. 38% of NASCAR fans are based in the South, but 35% of America lives into the house. 3% is hardly a figure substantial enough to invite stereotypes.
• Between 1999 and 2002, Hispanic and African-American audiences for NASCAR have notably increased. Hispanics went from 3.6% to 8.6% of the fan base while African-Americans went from 4.9% to 9.1% of the fan base.

For wasting his space on such stereotypical assaults, encouraging such lazy generalizations, and blowing an opportunity to represent an area of publishing that might be of interest to the NYTBR's readers, there can be no other recourse than the Brownie Bitchslap Factor.

BROWNIE BITCHSLAP FACTOR: Two and a half pages devoted to this nonsense? What were you thinking, Sam? SLAP! (Minus 1.2 points)

THE COLUMN-INCH TEST:

Fiction Reviews: Six half-page reviews, two one-page reviews, a one-page Crime roundup, a one-page Fiction Chronicle. (Total books: 16. Total pages: 7.)

Non-Fiction Reviews: One 2.5 page review, one two-page review (Hitch, go figure), seven one-page reviews, four half-page reviews. (Total books: 14. Total page: 13.5 pages.)

No surprise. This is Tanenhaus on autopilot. With nonfiction coverage dwarfing fiction at an almost 2:1 ratio, this is disgraceful. Half-page reviews of today's fiction, with the only one-page reviews going to Chuck P (who, with all his press, may as well be relegated to a half-page review) and Ann Beattie. 34% doesn't cut it, Sam.

Brownie Point: DENIED!

THE HARD-ON TEST:

This test concerns the ratio of male to female writers writing for the NYTBR.

Thirteen male reviewers (with two of them getting at least two pages), with a mere ten female reviewers, most of them kept cooking and cleaning with thankless fiction blurbs.

This is a remarkable slip from last week and one that deserves zero tolerance.

Brownie Point: DENIED!

THE QUIRKY PAIR-UP TEST:

Now this, I must say is a nice move: Francine Prose weighs in on the overhyped Oh the Glory Of It All. Even if there is a typo on the web version's headline, Prose is relatively fair on the book's merits while getting in a playfully sarcastic opening paragaph.

Christopher Hitchens takes The John Hopkins Guide to Liteary Theory and Criticism to task for its obfuscatory stance on the language to be found in literary criticism.

Unfortunately, all this is thrown to the well when one considers the Walter Kirn's review of Everything Bad is Good for You, or rather the way that Kirn has, in his work for the NYTBR continually stopped short of making a compelling and thoughtful point. Instead of explaining why Steven Johnson's argument is persuasive to him (despite being empirical), Kirn makes the mistake of making Johnson's claims more dubious and throwing in two references to Kojak to boot.

But the quirky mix is remotely interesting to get by.

Brownie Point: EARNED!

CONTENT CONCERNS:

[The NYT site is down this afternoon. I'll weigh in on this later.]

CONCLUSIONS:

Brownie Points Denied: 2
Brownie Points Earned: 1
Brownie Bitchslap Factor: -1.2 points
TOTAL BROWNIE POINTS REQUIRED FOR BROWNIE DELIVERY: 2
TOTAL BROWNIE POINTS EARNED: -.2 points

Tanenhaus Watch: May 15, 2005

WEEKLY QUESTION: Will this week's NYTBR reflect today's literary and publishing climate? Or will editor Sam Tanenhaus demonstrate yet again that the NYTBR is irrelevant to today's needs? If the former, a tasty brownie will be sent to Mr. Tanenhaus' office. If the latter, the brownie will be denied.

Unfortunately, certain events prevented me from offering an encompassing pronouncement last weekend. To pursue the Brownie Watch with a completist's gusto, I'm reviewing last week's NYTBR on tests alone. The results from last week are remarkably surprising. The Content Considerations section will have to be overlooked, but I will pursue this week's NYTBR with greater depth. For those who require further commentary, I direct Brownie Watch readers to this Observer editorial, which criticizes Robert Leiter's review of Buried by the Times and puts the question into an influential context.

THE COLUMN-INCH TEST:

Fiction Reviews: 1 - 1 1/2 page review, 1 two-page Louisa May Alcott retrospective, 5 half-page reviews, 1 one-page Shel Silverstein review, 1 - 1 1/2 page children's book roundup, 2 one-page children's book roundups, 1 1-page Hans Christian Anderson overview, 1 one-page "Fiction Chronicle" roundup. (Total books: 23. Total pages: 12.5.)

Non-Fiction Reviews: 1 two-page roundup of atomic bomb books by Richard Rhodes, 2 one-page reviews, 2 half-page review, 1 one-page jazz book comparison, 3 - .75 page reviews, 1- 1.25 page reviews
(Total books: 13. Total pages. 9.5.)

Buoyed in large part by the Chldren's Book Section, Sam Tanenhaus has done the unthinkable. He's offered most of the NYTBR's pages to fiction. And not just any old fiction: he's included a Louisa May Alcott Libary of America volume, a translated novel and a modest return to the Chip McGrath days of championing midlisters like Jane Alison (whom Max Millions is crazy about). Or to look at this in hard numbers, a good 57% of the May 15, 2005 issue is devoted to fiction, well above the 48% minimum threshold requried.

I sincerely doubt we'll see numbers like this again. But because some unexpected force has allowed Mr. Tanenhaus to come to his senses, all brownie bitchslap factors for this week will be withheld.

Brownie Point: EARNED!

THE HARD-ON TEST:

This test concerns the ratio of male to female writers writing for the NYTBR.

Here again, Tanenhaus has somehow balanced things out. This week, there are eleven male reviewers and twelve female reviewers. While most of the ladies have been relegated to the Children's Book section, I'm still pleased to see that some smart ladies have been granted the pen (and hopefully the keys to Joe Queenan's car, so that Queenan will be too busy to contribute more of his tired bluster for the NYTBR).

Brownie Point: EARNED!

THE QUIRKY PAIR-UP TEST:

Could it be possible that Tanenhaus will, for the first time in Brownie Watch history, earn three out of three brownie points? Indeed, it is.

First off, Richard Rhodes is the kind of guy we like to see offering thorough roundups about history in the NYTBR's pages. It's more of a history than a review proper, but if this is the way that Tanenhaus must squeeze in his political obsessions, that's okay by us.

Meg Wolitzer is an interesting choice to write a children's book roundup. However, I'm not sure if Ms. Wolitzer knows what audience she's writing for. At one point, she addresses "you obsessive, Egypt-factoid-gathering kids," which, personally speaking, may have been a valid address to me twenty-five years ago, but now it has me wondering why I'm dunking a graham cracker in milk as a Sunday morning hangover cure. And I'm not certain if complaining about the registered circle is worth a paragraph.

But an even stranger choice than Wolitzer is M.P. Dunleavey. This might be an instinctive reaction, but I don't entirely trust a personal finance consultant to dispense advice on children's books. Particularly when she sees a children's book as something to "lull a the little ones to sleep." Part of the point of reading a bedtime story is to get as caught up in the narrative as the kid is. In fact, I'd venture to say that had not my father read me the Lord of the Rings and Oz books when I was a wee tyke, my appetite for epic tales (albeit, better ones than Tolkein) wouldn't be nearly as great as it is today. Dunleavey's slightly bitter take on children's books belongs in Good Housekeeping, not the NYTBR.

Then there's Steve Erickson's welcome presence. Erickson's review is by-the-numbers, perhaps because of the reduced space granted to him. But it's still good to see Tanenhaus throwing in a trusted experimental fiction writer to weigh in on the books of our time.

I'm tempted to bitchslap Tanenhaus for the Dunleavey review, but since all brownie bitchslaps are verboeten, I'll instead commend him for the steady crop of matchups.

Brownie Point: EARNED!

CONCLUSIONS:

I'm as shocked as anyone else, but Tanenhaus met the burden (and then some) for his work on the May 15, 2005 issue. Brownies will be sent to him this week.

Brownie Points Denied: 0
Brownie Points Earned: 3
TOTAL BROWNIE POINTS REQUIRED FOR BROWNIE DELIVERY: 2
TOTAL BROWNIE POINTS EARNED: 3 points

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

I've started reading The Rainbow Stories as part of The Vollmann Club. The last book of Vollmann's I read was The Royal Family, which was about four years ago. Scott has remarked on Vollmann's tendency to repeat himself in that book, suggesting that Vollmann wants the reader to become as bored with this world as the whores are. The idea here being that Vollmann considers it a duty to indoctrinate his audience into the daily grind, something they (certainly not a suburbanite reclining on a chaise longue with a tumbler of bourbon and a book) may not be wholly familiar with and that indeed might make most readers shy away.

But I think Vollmann is doing something more audacious. He's unafraid to comment directly to the reader about the character traits he finds important, or the very human observations of supremely troubled people, moments as valid as the hard details that Balzac remains celebrated for, but that contemporary literature often turns its back on. The interesting thing is that this results in his books resembling some confluence of hard reportage and Vollmann's fervent imagination.

Consider this passage which describes Sapphire in Section 378 of The Royal Family:

I do not propose to 'explain' her, because I do not understand her. But I love her more than any of the other characters in the book, except perhaps for Domino, and I refuse to refrain from praising her. Should astronomers and ethicists ever succeed in proving that God resembles her, then lost and weary Cain won't need to flee anymore.

And there is this similar address in an early moment in a radiology clinic in The Rainbow Stories:

The man after him was very calm, and did not wince when the needle went in. But he looked away. I think it is very funny that if you shoot yourself up four or five times a day you do not mind the needle going in, but you cannot bear to watch someone else do it.

Vollmann then remains a curious narrator, one willing to reveal his own limitations while simultaneously looking hard into the face of the truth (whether metaphorical or strictly observational) he sees and the truth that is often ignored on a daily basis right in front of us.

This is not exactly postmodernism and is it not quite journalism. It certainly offers us an important glimpse inside Vollmann's consciousness. But I would suggest that, in openly confessing his amusement by something as horrifying as a junkie finding fear in a needle (away from his alley, away from a rotting apartment), or in pointing out that not even he (a no-holds-barred observer) can fully understand his subjects, Vollmann is more of a reassuring narrator than an opportunist or an outright mocker. His goal here is to humanize, but in selecting a tableau of lowlifes, he's daring us to look beyond the easy labels of good and evil that antidrug campaigns, do-gooder reformers, and hazy two-hour sashays by self-proclaimed pundits often mistaken for qualified expertise.

It's worth observing that The Rainbow Stories includes a revised color spectrum near its beginnings. And while colors themselves are used as starting points for this collection of sordid tales, the salient point here is that, if there is an idealistic goal somewhere over the rainbow, the human spectrum needs to be broadened beyond an easily recognizable selection of hues.

A Meme That Involves Ears

1. The person (or persons) who passed the baton to you.

The trusty Tito Perez -- whom I wish I had run into while at Coachella.

2. Total volume of music files on your computer.

Somewhere in the area of 40 Gigs, although it could be quite more than that. I have a horrible tendency to put everything in one place, which includes music I buy, music I -- *ahem* -- try out, and music that slips into my hands at gunpoint.

3. The title and artist of the last CD you bought.

This Perfect Day, C-60. As some regular readers know, I'm madly addicted to Swedish rock. (The Shout Out Louds, for example, was one of Coachella's highlights. And I sung along to almost every song!) For whatever reason, Swedish rock contains a sense of purity that really needs to be explored and understood more. And in the Shout Out Louds' case, I can't think of anyone else willing to use xylophone so unapologetically in a live set. My guess is that it has something to do with Systembolaget, which I've yet to try. But I'd hazard a guess that drinking the stuff would probably make me pick up my guitar again and write cheery goofball songs.

4. Song playing at the moment of writing.

Doves, "Ambition" (a supremely sad song from a very good album, Some Cities)

5. Five songs you have been listening to of late (or all-time favorites, or particularly personally meaningful songs)

I'll stick with the songs in my head at the moment:

M.I.A., "Bucky Down Gun" (Really, how can anyone resist this track? Old school hip-hop mixed with crazed banshee-like rapping, a clarion call that is deliberately artificial and lyrics that demand a call to revolution, which seems particularly apposite in our current political clime.)

Nine Inch Nails, "You Know What You Are?" (Look, I'll confess that With Teeth is a spotty album and that even a cursory examination of this song's lyrics shows that Reznor makes little sense. But I still contend that Trent Reznor shrieks "fuck" perhaps better than most. And somehow, I've really come to appreciate that crazy-as-fuck percussion.)

Of Montreal, "Oslo in the Summertime" (Thank you, Kevin Barnes, for yet another addictive album, The Sunlandic Twins, that sneaks up on you after several weeks of listening. What's particularly striking about this track is the semi-electro tone mixed with the languorous Ray Davies feel to the lyrics. The first time I heard this song, I was mildly annoyed by the buzzy timbre. The third time, I had a goofy grin on my face. And now the song just won't go away.)

Doves, "Almost Forgot Myself" (I don't think I'll ever hear a track this year as uncoditionally directional as this one is this year. This may be the best use of a percussive clang in a pop song since the Beatles' "Everyone's Got Something to Hide Except For Me and My Monkey." Plus, it sums up what's so fantastic about the Doves: a moribund tune in a minor key driven by a defiant snare and a guitar fuzz that involves carrying on in the face of existential chaos.)

Royksopp, "Eple" (What is it about Nordic pop exactly? I've been relistening to Melody A.M. for the first time in about two years, and hoping that these folks might get me crazy about electronica again. This track, in particular, which offers a goofy downbeat drive just this short of mellow without coming across as yet another pretentious ambient nightmare designed for the New Age, Air-listening crowd.)

6. The five people to whom you will 'pass the musical baton'

Maud Newton, who I hope will remind me about the importance of guitars
The Old Hag, because I'm damn curious about what she's listening to these days
Mark Sarvas, because I know there's more than meets the eye to his audio palette than certain CM-lead bands that get too much airplay
Speedy Snail, because he's been considerably silent on the musical question (and I blame his insane devotion to Neal Stephenson)
Scott Esposito, because he's younger than me and probably has a better set of ears than I do

Clarifying the Panties Issue

If you're coming here from James Callan's Telegraph article (not yet available online), welcome. I'm not certain how accurate he was about calling this place "an addictive mix of urbane musings and taut riffs against the pack mentality of the traditional book-reviewing press," but I'm honored nonetheless.

Callan is absolutely right about the panties, however. Callan got the info out of me only because he was an affable gent who asked a lot of interesting questions. I never announced the panties here, because I feared that this would invite more packages of panties to the P.O. Box. (Frankly, I'm more interested in panties that are worn on ladies and, if the mood is right, slid down sinuous legs, ideally with a soul attached. All this is the aftermath of a remarkably repressed upbringing, in which the very mention of sex was enough to cause melodramatic pronouncements of surprise, if not flames to spontaneously burn onyx sppors through my bedroom. The many Victorian novels I read growing up certainly didn't help things.) But perhaps one day, I'll offer a rundown of the odder packages I've received over the past year.

Nightmares & Solutions

If you thought that Abu Ghraib was an isolated incident, brother, have I got a serious wakeup call for you.

Read this. Then come back here.

The people in charge are letting inhuman monsters perform acts that fly in the face of decency. Ask yourself if you would treat your worst enemy this way. And ask again if you would let such a corrupt gang of goons eke out such vile and despicable acts on other humans. But the key part of the article, the thing that goes far and beyond simple hatred for the enemy is this paragraph:

It would be many months before Army investigators learned a final horrific detail: Most of the interrogators had believed Mr. Dilawar was an innocent man who simply drove his taxi past the American base at the wrong time.

This is not a matter of being red state or blue state. This is not a matter of being liberal or conservative. This is a matter of being American and standing up for what's right. And that sure as hell doesn't involve denying a manacled man water or humiliating a man far beyond the call of mere Saddam underwear pictures or letting a man die because he was a cab driver who happened to be wandering around in the wrong area.

I got the link from this Metafilter thread. It was suggested by the posters that this article and that this information be distributed to churches. Churches, as most people know, are the congregation points for many who live in the heartland. They are instrumental in disseminating information to ordinary people and promoting decency. And I think that anyone reading that article would be hard-pressed to argue that what we have here is something that speaks beyond the realm of what is decent and germane.

Inspired by the thread, this afternoon, I sent a group fax of the article to ten churches in Alabama, thinking that a state that had a history of bombing a church and killing four little girls back in 1963 because of the color of their skin might be more receptive to the current plight, which involves torturing and letting people die because of the color of their skin.

But within this idea lies the potential to take back this country. I urge anyone reading this blog to send a copy of this article by fax or by mail (keep in mind that hard copies offer a physical quality which cannot be easily deleted and that not everyone in this nation is hooked to the Net) to churches of varying stripes and distinctions.

There are hundreds upon hundreds of churches in this country. Even if we were to reach just one, we would plant a seed demanding greater accountability for our government's actions.

Never Knock the Doctor While He's Down

Apologies for being down and out for the count. Back in the day, we made the mistake of registering our domain with Network Solutions and it took several angry words to explain to the unhelpful little bastard on the phone that we had been screwed over by his company and that the company itself hadn't bothered to send us any notice that we hadn't renewed this domain. So if you emailed us lately, we didn't get it. (Of course, our backlog and response rate is so embarassing that we apologize for this too.)

And while we're at it, we've got to stop using first person plural. Last we heard, we hadn't been coronated by anyone. And in fact, the last time we played checkers, we recall very clearly never being crowned once.

All this is to say that we apologize for the delay and we offer a return to ferreting out the finest literary news of our time.

Republicans Propose NFL Referee Signals As Replacement for Filibuster

That Is the Sound of a Thousand Bad Vanity Press Titles Coming Our Way

Apparently, your blog can now be turned into a PDF book.

Not A Bad Deal for First Class Mail

Guy mails camera through postal service, guy instructs USPS workers to take pictures. To guy's surprise, postal workers fulfill their end of a nutty Faustian bargain. There's even a cameramail schematic to boot if you'd like to try this experiment yourself.

List of Possible Titles for New Brigid Hughes Magazine (Dated March 2005)

A Private Shack
A Soul Apart
A Ryder Rental
Plimpton's Enigma
Won't Sell Out
George is Holding on Line Five
Revue Review
Lit My Fire
Lit Me Darkly
Lit Me Beer Me Seduce Me
Literary Merlot
Tales for George
Tower of Richard Powers
Surrender, Dorothy Parker
Bridgid's Bitchin' New Mag
Hughes & Plimpton: Together Again
The Peoria Review
The Paris Review Review
Melt My Tallow
The Disbeliever
The Atlantic's Remains
Kiss Me, Short Story
Do What You Like
Do Like You Do
Mr. Do's Literary Castle
Slush Puppy Pile
Form Acceptance Letter
We Put the Ink in Slink
SweecMeeney's
Quarterly Schmarterly
A Public Bus Shelter
A Public Telephone
A Public Television Pledge Drive
We Pay Writers, They Don't
Playstory
A Private Cache
A Private Privacy
A Public Privacy
A Public Space

Shortly After Noon

• Scott wants to know: What is the literary mainstream?
• In Seattle, the Tiny Ninja Theatre has concocted a plastic toy version of Hamlet.
• Viggo and Cronenberg sitting in a tree.
• Jim Fergus has had enough of personal details about authors. The Rake (and others) have their own thoughts on this question.
• Tod Goldberg takes Writer's Digest's 101 Best Websites for Writers to task.
• What's your favorite word not in the dictionary? (via Book Ninja)
• And be careful where you order those Amazon used books. A Los Angeles woman found the words "Death to all Muslims" on the inside cover when she received her shipment. (via Moby Lives)

And They Said the Literary Magazine Was Dead!

Former Paris Review editor Brigid Hughes (Plimpton's short-lived successor) will be launching a new magazine. What's particularly cool is that she's enlisted Richard Powers (one of my favorite living novelists) and Yiyun Li as contributing editors. Hughes is also reportedly luring away Paris Review contributors for the new venture, which will be called A Public Space. This reporter is certainly curious to see how this will all turn out.

Episode III

1. Amazing as this may seem, in Revenge of the Sith, George Lucas does recapture the Saturday matinee cliffhanger feel of the IV-VI trilogy. (In fact, characters hang from ledges fairly frequently in this film.)

2. George Lucas has no business writing love scenes. Mr. Lucas grasps intimacy about as well as I grasp Fermat's theorems. And while said scenes are in short supply in Sith, they are about as egregious as it comes.

3. Obi-Wan rides one of the coolest Star Wars creatures since the Tauntaun.

4. So what the hell, George? What's with the despicable gender gap in the Star Wars universe? The only chicks we have are Padme (quite literally, a barefoot and pregnant Ophelia archetype) and one token Jedi chick who gets eviscerated in seconds. Further, all the younglings are white and male, supporting my theory that the Republic/Empire represents a strange eugenics-inspired confluence of Nazi Germany and late 20th Century America. (Factor in the Germanic-sounding Vader and it all becomes self-evident.)

5. Jar Jar appears, but does not speak. But he is not flayed alive, as he rightfully should be, during one pivotal massacre.

6. The transformation of Anakin into Vader is very cool and very Return of the King-inspired.

7. I actually enjoyed the gradual black eye shadow applied to Hayden Christensen as the film went on. But while Christensen delivered a less cringe-worthy performance than the last film, he was again very silly and over-the-top near the end. Fortunately, through Ewan McGregor's sneaky underplaying, the film's denouement wasn't completely demolished by Christensen's histrionics.

8. Believe it or not, there was a minimum of Lucas' environmental clutter. It was a relief to finally watch a film in which I didn't have to pay attention to 6,000 CGI elements at once.

9. The traditional Star Wars dissolves weren't nearly as intrusive as they were in the last two films.

10. The so-called "darkness" wasn't nearly as "dark" as Lucas made it out to be. Certainly not Empire Strikes Back-dark and certainly not worth a PG-13 rating.

11. I have to ask: Does the Jedi Council just cavalierly sit by as one of its members kills an unarmed man? I mean, call me crazy, but if I were a member of the Jedi Council and some snotty little kid did that on my watch, I'd box his ears. It doesn't take "the Force" to second-guess an asshole.

12. I'm not sure who was the genius who casually suggested to George that people often use contractions in their speech, but thank fucking god. Contractions go a long way to improving Lucas' wooden dialogue. (ANAKIN: "I sense Count Dooku." OBI-WAN: "I sense a trap.")

13. Wookie Planet! Yes!

14. Yoda's Jedi moves have improved considerably. He no longer resembles Sonic the Hedgehog, largely because Lucas is wise to keep Yoda's back flips in long shot.

15. When lightsabers don't have the allure they once had, what do you do? You have a cool fight scene where one character wields four of them.

16. R2D2 finally has character again! He beeps, he's active, and he zaps people. I had completely forgotten R2D2's charm, which hasn't been seen since the first trilogy.

17. Jimmy Smits, are you going to fall asleep? Jimmy Smits, are you going to fall asleep?

18. Inconsistent is Yoda's grammar, yes? Put to rest, the tired green guy.

19. Despite wars, revolutions and political upheaval, traffic apparently does not stop in the Star Wars universe. Just another day on the flying car bypass. Move along.

20. Finally, a compelling scene in the Senate chamber! Who knew that the place would be more interesting once the talking stopped?

Three stars. Mabuse says check it out.

Episode III

The short answer: Good, not great. Far superior to Episodes I and II. Fun, far more imaginative than I expected. A more detailed report to follow. Now: To bed.

The Donkeys Need A Little Galloway In Their Diets

British MP George Galloway demonstrated what a politician can and should be doing in response to the shoddy ad decidedly undemocratic groupthink that passes for political discourse in this nation. By comparison, the Donkeys continue to come across as weak-kneed cowards. Nancy Pelosi's ethical standards is a nice idea, but it still won't demonstrate to the blank-eyed Little Orphan Annies who voted last November what political action is all about. Galloway is an inspiring yet sad reminder that there was a time when conviction not only meant something, but was absolutely essential to the political process. By my calculations, we are now less than eighteen months from midterm elections. Yet where is the mobilization? Where are the grassroots campaigns? What is the strategy to at least get a house or two back come November 2006?

I see nothing in the cards. Nothing in the way of commitment, nothing in the way of thinking forward, nothing in the way of divergent viewpoints. It's a sad time indeed to be a principled progressive. Paul Robeson, a ghost playing through my speakers, bellows on repeat.

Oh, the Hype of It All

Oh, the Glory of It All, a memoir written by McSweeney's editor Sean Wilsey, has been getting hyped hyped HYPED. Wilsey is the son of Dede Wilsey, a wealthy socialite here in San Francisco. And the book, which purports to be this year's answer to Mommie Dearest and has folks in this town (including Armistead Maupin) claiming mighty conflagrations, arrives in bookstores this week. It's got the Dave E________ Seal of Approval. It's had launch parties bounced from the San Francisco Art Institute. it's got the New Yorker excerpt, and now, as if that sort of publicity wasn't enough, it has this lengthy Gray Lady profile:

The title of his book, "Oh, the Glory of It All," was something Mr. Wilsey uttered when he was alone and things were glorious: The first time he can remember saying it, he writes, was "alone in the bathroom, when I finally got a grip on potty training."

Sometimes a shaggy dog is just a shaggy dog. (Or in this case, probably just a guy in a bear suit.) I've had a lot of experiences alone in the bathroom too, but no matter how much money you gave me, I don't think I'd ever commit them to the spine of a tome. I respect human decency too much.

If this memoir is what it's cracked up to be and if Wilsey is today's answer to William Styron, then why couldn't Wilsey come up with a better pulp-inspired title? (Why not My Momma Screwed the Rich Men Over on Mink?) Further, how "brave" is it really for a privileged man to badmouth a number of local socialites in the interests of "revealing all" in the process? Isn't this exactly what Egghead gave Toby Young hell for when he penned his memoir, How to Win Friends and Influence People?

But to hell with casual hypocrisy and another jaunt down Jean Renoir Lane. The gang at SFist have a better take on this mess than I do.

He Also Gave Peter Sellers a Wedgie, Which Explains Why Sellers Was Never Cast in 2001

Roger Ebert has been offering some good coverage of Cannes, butin this entry, Ebert reveals something quite interesting:

...it reminded him that Stanley Kubrick sometimes drove up in front of the houses of his friends, talked to them on his cell phone, and then drove away "without seeing a single person." I was not sure about the purpose of this anecdote, but I was happy to hear it.

Revenge of the George

This may be a colossal mistake, but somehow I've been roped into the 12:01 AM Revenge of the Sith show.

Regular readers of Return of the Relutant know that while I have fond childhood memories of Episodes IV-VI, if I had to choose between one of the two bloated mainstream sci-fi Hollywood franchises (as all Americans must do), I would lean towards Star Trek (discounting anything beyond Deep Space Nine, because that hot Tasha person was right you see when she said it NEVER happened!).

Yet I'm heading into this bastard, no doubt contributing my hard-earned ten bucks for another rumpus room on George Lucas' palatial estate (the evil bastard is laughing at us!), because (a) I sat through the other two crappy movies and if I'm to be disappointed by a trilogy, I may as well go the distance and (b) if I get through this movie, whose climax and outcome is as predictable as a bad prix fixe menu, I will have the grand consolation of never having to experience Star Wars in any form again.

So look to these pages at some point on Thursday morning and you'll get a no-holds-barred assessment on Sith from Dr. Mabuse. Will it be another steaming piece of turd ("That is the sound of a lot of bad cash coming our way!") or will it be, as some reviews have indicated, an unexpected point of redemption? Will that Jar Jar bastard die? Will Anakin and Padme get it on with all the explicitness of a Bollywood movie? Probably, to the last question. But your humble reporter hopes to answer these hard questions (and many more).

Greenfield & The Popular History Question

Without even bothering to read the book in question (David McCullough's 1776), professor David Greenberg has declared war on popular history in a two part argument on Slate. Specifically, Greenberg suggests that McCullough's "surfeit of scene-setting and personality, the meager analysis and argument, the lack of a compelling rationale for writing about a topic already amply covered" will drive Greenberg and his academic colleagues up the wall.

Greenberg's assault is largely composed of ad hominen tactics and arguments without support. Without citing any specific examples (the stuff that one would expect from a professor), he has declared popular history "vapid mythmaking that uninformed critics ratify as 'magisterial' or 'definitive.'" But if the alternative to popular historians along the lines of Stephen Ambrose or Will Durant is a populist reading public that is not concerned or curious about history, I have to wonder why popular history is such a bad thing.

In a paragraph on academic vs. popular history, Greenberg bemoans doctorates who "command little scholarly respect" -- again, without citing examples or clarifying why. He then points to an anti-Zinn Michael Kazin essay that is similarly sparse with its supportive examples (the Greenberg argumentative approach in a nutshell). (Kazin, for example, complains, "The doleful narrative makes one wonder why anyone but the wealthy came to the United States at all and, after working for a spell, why anyone wished to stay," apparently not aware that it remains a triusm that, irrespective of class, families, sometimes lacking resources to migrate, will subject themselves to misery to (a) survive and pine for a better tomorrow and (b) insure that their families are taken care of.)

Even more curious, Greenberg takes offense to journalists who write about the past ending up in scholarly footnotes. But if a journalist has confirmed a fact or talked with a primary source to confirm a detail, how is this any different from what a scholarly historian does? It would be difficult, for example, to accuse bestselling biographer Robert A. Caro of being anything less than thorough in his lifelong work on Lyndon B. Johnson. His footnotes alone could probably squash out an ant colony.

Then with a hasty conclusion, Greenberg concludes, "institutional status hardly correlates with quality." I absolutely agree. In fact, I'd argue it from a radically different perspective. After all, it was a self-taught amateur (Heinrich Schliemann) who discovered the ruins of Troy. A history book, whether popular or scholarly, is subject to whatever level of scrutiny the public (or academics) will give to it. But to suggest that a wall between academic and popular history exists is to remain inflexible to the transitory nature of books and scholarship. For those who insist upon maximum scholarship, that market will always exist -- if not in books, then through communications among scholars.

One sizable problem with Greenberg's argument is that it is laced with a strange contempt. At one point, Greenberg openly confesses his jealousy to losing a job because of another man's dissertation, but he also proudly confesses his deliberate ignorance of its contents. Is the inability to read what you're criticizing the stuff of scholarship? I would certainly hope not.

Greenberg also complains about radical histories being "tinged with a sentimental celebration of 'average Americans' that no more prods us to critical reflection than does a Richard Brookhiser biography of Alexander Hamilton." So if I understand Greenberg correctly, it's apparently a mistake to comb over the everyday people who populate this planet in favor of the leaders, artists and sundry mighty figures who were essentially history's administrators (rather than the people who voted for a leader or, as Goldhagen has chronicled, those who followed genocidal orders without question). Furthermore, Greenberg fails to elucidate us on what he considers "sentimental." For example, if the reader stares into the famous Dorothea Lange photo, "Migrant Mother," one will indisputedly have a "sentimental" reaction. But to cover, say, the Great Depression without referencing this would overlook a seminal photograph that captured a moment at a particular time. Is it the historian's fault that the reader actually feels sad by the photo?

While Greenberg seems completely adverse to the notion of popular history (he is more a booster of the academic beating out the easy explainer), he does have a few solid points about how histories, whether academic or popular, can be improved. In particular, Greenfield's second part, while directed towards academics, is far more constructive on this topic.

Greenberg does have a good point when he bemoans the cult of personality now coveted by historians. If I had my way, I'd suggst that certain academics be wiped from the face of television after five appearances on Charlie Rose. If you're a historian pining for an east wing to add to your palatial home, then become a ruthless capitalist, not a talking head.

I concur with Greenberg when he suggests that analysis should co-exist hand-in-hand with narrative, although I would suggest that something be left for the reader's perspective. And I also agree that banishing jargon isn't the answer. I would suggest that publishing books which explain things in clear and understandable terms are part of the answer. For example, last year, I read a book by David Bodanis called E=MC² that went to the trouble of explaining nearly every part of Einstein's famous equation. I was finally able to understand not only what the damn thing meant, but how it influenced thermodynamics in the process.

Greenberg is also right to point to historian Christine Stansell's review of Edmund Morris' Theodore Rex, pointing out that history without varying context or new perspectives fails to ensure a fresh perspective. Then again, this is only one example, not several. One could also also argue that there's plenty of fresh perspectives in popular history. What of Joseph Ellis' American Sphinx, which focused exclusively on Thomas Jefferson's character? I'm curious to know if Greenfield considers this a novelty or a contextual triumph. And are we to discount Ellis' Founding Brothers, which used Lytton Strachey's Eminent Victorians as the inspriation for its comparative portrait of figures from the Revolutionary War?

Greenfield provides an interesting perspective, but I'm troubled by his generalizations and his inflexibility to certain fields of history. He says that "we need critics who will expose the perils of the historical blockbuster trend and show us more substantial ways to think about the past," but I would argue that there is plenty of criticism out there already.

Since Greenfield didn't bother to check out review coverage, I'll do it for him. Here are some review excerpts for David McCullough's books:

On John Adams:

Sean Wilentz writing in The New Republic: "In conveying so much about Adams's goodness, in vivid and smooth prose, McCullough slights Adams's intellectual ambitions, his brilliance and his ponderousness, his pettiness and his sometimes disabling pessimism. McCullough scants, in other words, everything that went into rendering Adams the paradox that he was: a great American who would prove virtually irrelevant to his nation's subsequent political development. And in its very smoothness and vividness, McCullough's life of Adams is useful also in another way. It gives a measure of the current condition of popular history in America, in its strengths but also--rather grievously--in its weaknesses."

Michael Waldman in The Washington Monthly: "This is not a tome for scholars, or for those who want a detailed rendering of political differences between Federalists and Republicans. At times the reader wonders if the prickly Boston lawyer is being subtly reworked into Give-'Em-Hell John."

And in the most recent New Yorker, Joshua Micah Marshall writes: "McCullough, whose books include superb biographies of John Adams and Harry S. Truman, rarely finds his way into clashes of ideas or vast impersonal forces. (The word “equality” gets its only mention halfway through the book.) This is history at the ground level, sometimes even a few inches below."

All of these reviews criticize McCullough's smooth-as-silk approach to history. However, none of them suggest alternative paths about how we should look and chart history. At the very least, we should probably thank Greenfield for reminding us to ask that very question.

[UPDATE: Kevin at Collected Miscellany also weighs in.]

Invasion of the Google Snatchers

The folks at the University of Texas at Austin have decided to do away with books for undergraduates. 90,000 volumes in the undergraduate libraries will be replaced by something called an "electronic information commons." Instead of doing research by sifting through magazines, tracking through footnotes to determine primary sources, and otherwise performing the bare minimum of research that a properly investigated and fact-checked essay requires, books are to be done away with because students aren't using them. What's even more distressing is that the students are being encouraged by librarians and professors.

On Symbiosis Between Humans and Books

The book medium itself is a trusty format. It can be read and reread. It can be started or stopped at any point. It can persused at any speed: as slow as Ulysses or as swift as a throwaway potboiler. For the truly devoted reader residing in an urban environment, with careful dexterity and enough practice, even a bulky hardcover can be balanced in one hand while standing in a moving subway during rush hour.

A book can be the subject of a conversation. Hey, wazzat your reading? Any good? or That's a great book! or Fertheloveofchrist, why are you reading Judith Krantz? In certain situations, the book operates as a sociological indicator. There are books that everyone is reading (e.g., Reading Lolita in Tehran), books that literary types are reading (e.g., My Name is Red) and specific books that are only read by an I-could-care-less-what-you-think-of-me sort of person (perhaps someone reading a thick Vollmann volume). There are even people who eschew books altogether, wondering why there's "nothing" of value on their 57 channels. If only these people realized that a book represents one in a limitless array of channels, that the book is often smarter and that, on the whole, it is devoid of troubling, flashy and stress-inducing advertisements, save Don DeLillo's "Celica." Of course, for those who need an explicit visual medium, there are always pop-up books, which are known to amuse small children and John Birch Society members.

Books come in different sizes and shapes. There are mass-market paperbacks, which are short and thick and sometimes have questionable content and often fall to pieces if they have been packed tight in a box. There are trade paperbacks, which are almost as expensive as hardcovers but offer a very disingenuous price buffer that is often as little as five dollars, an emotional threshold that is perhaps most humiliating when the trade paperback edition is released months after a reader has purchased its hardcover edition, causing remorse for having neglected it, shame for having not read it, and a very peculiar kind of rage that is outside the understanding of most citizens. And of course, there are the robust hardcovers, which demand to be read without dust jackets, lest the jacket be torn or folded and thus divested of its "new" condition. In this sense, "preserving" the hardcover is the closest the bibliophile comes to anti-wrinkle cream, hair implants and liposuction. Like a mere mortal trying to squeeze a few years out of time, the obsessive hardcover enthusiast does not understand that time moves in only one direction and that books, like anything else, are suspect to age and will eventually fall apart. In fact, the book sometimes outlives its owner. And if imbued with a sturdily constructed spine, a book can last multiple lifetimes.

From a posterity standpoint, we can safely conclude that books pose a threat to humans. While dumb humans may beget dumb humans, books themselves are incapable of such inept procreation. And dumb books (and, sadly, dated books), unless having a fey appeal along the lines of Edward Bulwer-Lytton, are unlikely to endure. However, some smart books are likely to be forgotten because the rampant and variegated nature of the book population means that a reader cannot read them all. In this sense too, the book is superior to the human. While a book may come into contact with multiple humans throughout the course of its duration, often passed around through libraries, used bookstores and through social networks, it demands that the human adjust to its pleasurable format, forcing the human to recline, lie, sit or sometimes stand with hands perched out to hold both ends. What's interesting is that the human demands no such physical contortions from the book on a regular basis, save through comfortably turning its pages and perhaps cracking the spine. Indeed, it should also be noted the book has remained in its rectangular form for several centuries.

While books have no specific sentience (although, ironically enough, books contain elements of human sentience), books also have no sexual needs whatsoever. And this too shows the unfair disparity between books and humans. If a book contains licentious elements, it is likely to be the victim of spontaneous jisms, which stain the page and cannot be properly cleaned up (unless paper is eventually replaced with Formica, a slippery affair that would alter the steady relationship between book and human). Even worse, while the book does not secrete any liquids whatsoever (save perhaps the ocassional wood shaving), the book often serves as a surrogate napkin or bandage, almost always without the human asking. Humans bleed, leave crumbs of sandwiches, write notes, and deface the book in numerous ways that they would never do to other humans. Through these various defacings, the book is very much a passive and innocent victim.

As preposterous as it may seem, some humans even burn books because they genuinely believe them to be a threat. In the many centuries that the book has been around, a book has never harmed or killed anyone, save perhaps in clusters overturned on large shelves collapsing and maiming other humans. But is it the book's fault that the humans have failed to construct their bookshelves adequately? Or that humans have failed to exercise their sentience and work out how many books can stand on a shelf or how many shelves can rest in a building?

That humans would use such energies and waste such wanton aggression when books themselves remain harmless and somnolent suggests that either the human is more of a savage creature than he advertises or that books pose a belligerent menace that is utterly foreign to this thinker. Books have not declared war. They have not executed anyone. They have not locked themselves up in filthy prisons. And they certainly have not let anyone go cold and hungry. (Indeed, in a pinch, a book can be thrown into a fire for warmth or the paper eaten.) They have instead served as amicable beacons which convey information from one human to another. It is a pity that humans take this unique and seminal symbiotic relationship for granted.

Bush Promises Return to Pat Nixon-Style Wardrobes with Ultra-Conservative Judicial Nominees

Evidence That Today's Copy Editors Are Probably Humorless and Not As Playful as They Could Be

Exhibit A: Only one (one!) outlet resorted to "Newsweak" when writing about the Koran scandal.

Morning Tidbits

• Bill Moyers, responding to attacks by "the right-wing media and their allies at the Corporation for Public Broadcasting," says that the Internet represents the future to serve the public with a variety of perspectives. And that includes downloading hot MILF action with George Seldes' voice ranting about the evils of controlled media over the soundtrack.
• Gawker features an interview with Jamie Clarke, author of an unpublished novel, Vernon Downs, that involves a young writer who stalks Bret Easton Ellis. If you join this Yahoo group, you can read the novel in question. However, judging from what I've seen, it doesn't look like much and it's laden with grammatical mistakes. The first sentence reads: "James stared out the airplane window, focusing on a cloudbank [sic] in the shape of the disappointment he expected to find on his parents face [sic] when they picked him up from the airport." The dialogue doesn't fare much better: "There's a psychotic out there imitating the crimes in A Complete Gentleman and he's threatened to come after me. My picture in the paper will only facilitate this threat."
• Andrew Sean Greer's The Confessions of Max Tivoli has won the California Book Award. The awards, now in its 74th year, will be held on June 14 at the Commonwealth Club in San Francisco. Greer will apply considerable skin lotion before that evening, but he (and the skin lotion manufacturers) has personally guaranteed that he will not age backwards during the ceremony.
• As Maud reported this morning, Jonathan Lethem will pen a new comic book series based on little known 1970s character Omega the Unknown. The ten-issue series will launch in early 2006. Reportedly, Omega won't suffer from Tourette's syndrome.
• James T. Farrell, author of the Studs Lonigan trilogy, will have one block in Chicago named after him. Farrell's block, which proved too controversial for two blocks, has been confined to the South Side, where the block will be forgotten for several years until an omnibus set of blocks is issued (with considerable controversy) by a distinguished zoning authority.

The Vollmann Club

With the considerable help and participation of Black Market Kidneys, Conversational Reading, The Happy Booker, Rake's Progress and this site, The Vollmann Club, an insane effort to read all of William T. Vollmann's work, is now active.

Three's Company by Jonathan Franzen

And then the perfect trio, Jack, Janet and Chrissy, who first hooked up at a party, with Jack waking up drunk in a bathtub and wondering if this American knockoff of a British television comedy would last, went on to amaze the network executives by lasting for several seasons and resorting to Chrissy's decolletage and her dorky snorts and the overall sophmoric level of innuendo. They were only in their mid-twenties and they drank very frequently at the Regal Beagle, a bar that offered a security to their wanton virility much like Linus' blanket. Every Tuesday night, for the next seven years, sometimes after Happy Days and Laverne & Shrley, tens of millions of smiling Americans listened to the theme song ("COME AND KNOCK ON OUR DOOR TAKE A STEP THAT IS NEW") and watched as the trio walked on the beach during the opening credits. In joint appearances sometimes with Larry, the upstairs neighbor who had a new lady on his arm every week -- Chrissy's snorts, Janet after a rough day at the flower shop, and Jack, hamming it up like a bad hairdresser stereotype, who the Ropers living below them suspected was gay -- there were fun times and pratfalls and Jack was such a sweet, good-natured guy who would find a way to fall over effectively at least six times each week because the audiences liked that. "I hope to open a bistro at some point," Jack said. "Failing that," Janet said, "you'll continue working for Mr. Angelino." The happy trio, whose ratings went through the roof and who were declared to be too smutty for primetime television by dint of Chrissy's tight sartorial garb, reconfigured their lineup when Chrissy wanted too much dinero. There was at first Cindy Snow, who laughed as brayingly as Chrissy but was not nearly as curvaceous, and then eventually a landlord named Furley and a nurse named Terri, whom Jack and Larry tried to play a prank on after Jack was humiliated by a hypodermic. But all good things had to end when Jack fell in love and ran a bistro with a chef named Felipe and decided that three was a crowd rather than good company, watching his show depart the airwaves and, lacking further character dimension despite his life circumstances being changed by the writers, departed into the mist of much-heralded sitcom characters.

At their mountain hideaway, to which, for several long and unpleasant years, fanzines were shuttled up narrow pathways and the occasional "Where are they now?" segments were spawned by "entertainment journalists," Janet and Chrissy spent several years in limbo. ("I'm sick of running a flower shop," Janet told Tripperland, a fanzine printed and disseminated in Ohio. "I miss Jack," Chrissy said, "I should have made it with him while he was still young and single.") Despite several months of amusement, it became apparent that the "entertainment journalists" were asking the same questions. Of the remaining cast, only Larry had some success running a used car lot. Terri, tired of nursing annoying patients, had thrown herself out a window on her fortieth birthday and had ended up a parapalegic nursed to health by Mrs. Roper, who, dissatisfied with Mr. Roper's continued inattention, had read up on ancient islands and Amazon warriors, and had decided that other women were more dependable than a landlord who complained and who had his eyes consistently pop out.

No one, however, had anticipated the popularity of television series on DVD. And decades after they had graced the airwaves, the remaining survivors were permitted to grace private living rooms courtesy of the generous "box sets" that were now being sold in stores. Jack was forced to annul his marriage and give up his bistro. Larry was forced to abandon his used car lot. Mrs. Roper was forced to return to Mr. Roper. And all were required to shed twenty years and repeat the dreaded dialogue and moves that had cemented their posterity. It was a terrible price to pay. But sooner or later, the public would forget about them.

LBC Read Thsi!

The first Read This! offering has been announced. Joe Bob says check it out.

Mabuse at Rest

We're in the process of restoring our juju, but we should be back in time for tomorrow's Brownie Watch.

In Mamet's Case, the Play's Truly the Thing.

The Huffington Post, which has been a colossal misfire since its inception, has provided at least one colossal service: it proves just how humorless and bombastic David Mamet can be.

In related news, pugilistic critic John Simon has been fired from New York Magazine.

And While We're On the Subject of Patrick Swayze: Nancy Drew or Dirty Dancing?

Tito quizzes his audience on one of the most seminal questions of our time: Happy Baby or Road House?

Censorship at Ingram?

Maud points to this Daily Kos item. The rumor is that orders for Tim Schilke's Growing Up Red: Outting Red America from the Inside are being canceled by the Ingram Book Group, a wholesaler that ships books for Barnes & Noble out of Tennessee.

Unfortunately, the Daily Kos didn't consider actually calling Ingram, the Nashville based wholesaler in question. So what we have right now is an unconfirmed rumor. Being here on the West Coast, I caught wind of this news item after business hours, but I did track down the appropriate number. I spoke to a very nice Ingram employee who wished to remain anonymous. But he said that he was very aware of the title, but declined to provide information. He believed that he might have seen the title on a shipping circular, but couldn't quite remember.

If orders for Growing Up Red are being cancelled, my hope is to determine the precise reasons why and see what the horse's mouth has to say. But to get the true story on this, we're going to have to do some work. If anybody reading this has actually tried to order this book from a Barnes & Noble in a red state, I would appreciate it if someone emailed me the precise store you tried to buy the book from, so that I can contact them and speak to the store's manager.

Medved Denied His Meds

Michael Medved apparently has no grasp on reality. The snide little man lost it on a radio show when confronted with these facts: (1) Bush supports the privatization of social security; and (2) Chris Chocola is a Congressman. When unable to present any kind of argument whatsoever, Medved reportedly called Hans Reimer "a liar," even when Reimer had the facts at his disposal.

Hopefully, this will put an end to the mystifying notion of Medved being taken seriously as a critic and commentator. But I suspect not. Medved represents the uninformed and moralistic yokel given a bullhorn -- in other words, a doofus for the doofuses to latch onto. Talk radio is not about intellectual discussions, but hollow pyrotechnics designed to foster the illusion of such.

Tristran Egolf Dead

Writer and activist Tristan Egolf has died at 33. The death is an apparent suicide, but police are investigating. Egolf was the writer of two novels, Lord of the Barnyard and Skirt and the Fiddle. Another one, Corn Wolf, a novel about a werwolf in Amish country, will be published next year. Egolf had his first novel published after 70 rejections and was initially discovered as a street musician in Paris. Further, Egolf was the head of the "Smoketown Six," a group of men who were arrested when protesting against George Bush.

I haven't read any of Egolf's work, but if he was as promising as several folks have made him out to be, I plan on taking him up.

Two Sets of Clues

Life is busy. Posts are sparse. However, in the meantime, there are two things to look out for.

1. In three days (May 15, 2005), the LBC will reveal its first Read This! book choice. I'm not permitted to reveal the title, but since I was allowed to play fast and loose with the nominations, it seems only fair that I be allowed to offer clues for all eager guessers (after all, we're only three days away):

• If you unscramble the word "hack," you will have the author's initials and the initial(s?) of the book's title.
• I happened to love this book quite a lot, even if I didn't nominate it. (But it was a close race. The book I happened to nominate was second place.)
• I liked the book so much that I expect to read other books that this author has penned.
• There is one murder (or possibly more) in the book.
• There is awkward sex in the book.
• One of the characters shares a first name with a notable painter.
• One of the characters shares a first name with a notable painter's brother.
• One of the characters shares a first name with a notable pilot.
• An animal factors into the plot.

That is all until Sunday, folks. And if you manage to guess the book correctly before Sunday, I will personally send you a copy.

2. In addition to the LBC, there is a second exciting multi-blog venture that will be announced very soon on these pages. Perhaps we'll be ready in time for Sunday's LBC announcement. Perhaps not. I'll only say that the people involved are dedicated, nice, and friendly, and that we will be performing a major service. Keep watching the skies. More to come.

Headlines

• While certain litblogs looking for a picayune fight keep their heads in the sand about anything written outside the English language, Scott Esposito talks with Dalkey Archive Press' Chad Post. Post reveals how he picked the books for the Reading the World program (an effort to promote global literature based on PEN's celebration), but stops short of responding to Mr. Esposito's questions in French. Chekhov's Mistress has the full skinny on the titles. Taking things further, Robert Gray has pledged to review each book on his blog.
• Within a very interesting Cannes juries (headed by the underrated filmmaker Emir Kustarica, who I am nothing less than nuts about), Toni Morrison is a judge this year. Morrison is also adapting Beloved into a tragic opera.
• One of the first comprehensive world atlases is now on display in Australia. Amazingly, the geographic area that comprises Ohio today is marked as "Beezlebub's Valley."
• Kinky Friedman is dead serious about his Texas gubernatorial run. He's so serious that, in an effort to appeal to Texas conservatives, he's changed his first name to "Milton."
• Matt Damon as Marco Polo? What next? Ben Affleck as Galileo?
• Apparently, in addition to being a fabricator, Mitch Albom is also a playwright.
• The California Literary Review tackles Paul Auster.
• Author Peter James is so upset by the film adaptations of his novels that he's decided to make them himself.

Mr. Excitement

GEORGIA (AP): Defying reports that he was the blandest and least exciting man to head the United States in its entire history, President Bush demonstrated a newfound virility during the final moments of his five-day tour through Europe. He hit the town with Georgian leader Mikheil Saakashvili and, at one point, even called him "Mickey baby." Mr. Bush's playfulness continued to surprise experts, while others pointed out that this came hot on the heels of Mr. Bush's impromptu hopscotch game with Vladimir Putin earlier in the week. A White House spokesman said that these relatively new qualities were unfurled in the interests of international diplomacy, part of a long-term plan to show "a kinder, gentler Bush." But Mr. Bush still shows no signs of backing away from his unilateral policy even a tad. The playful Bush is "the closest compromise you'll get."

"I didn't know he had it in him," remarked Mr. Saakashvili, who led Mr. Bush and several dignataries in a "chugging contest." Reportedly, French President Jacques Chirac, accompanying Mr. Bush on his way back to France, was the loudest to chant, "Chug! Chug! Chug!" Referencing the infamous fried potato fiasco from years back, Chirac added that he hoped Mr. Bush might "chug for freedom."

The President refrained from chugging beer during the ceremonies, which disappointed the delegates from the Czech and Slovak Federated Republic, who had hoped that Mr. Bush might demonstrate his flair with pilsner. Bush stated that he had given up alcohol several years ago and that "the wife would kill me" if he so much as picked up a bottle. But he gulped down more than a gallon of Gatorade in one go, pointing out that Gatorade was "made in America." When Mr. Chirac pointed out that Quaker Oats Co. had outsourced the jobs six years ago and that even the trustworthy X-Factor filling the keg was bottled by an emaciated seven year old, Mr. Bush responded with silence.

The high point in Georgia came when Saakashvili attempted to show Bush how to folk dance.

"Where's Laura?" said Saakashvili.

"Out reading. Dag nab it!" exclaimed Bush.

"Well, why not try dancing with one of these nice people in red hats?"

"That's adultery!" cried Bush. "The only dancing that God and I recognize is that between husband and wife!"

Saakashvili appeared confused and then began dancing with one of the cute red-hatted girls. Bush sat the round out, but hinted that he "might join in next time." On his way out, Mr. Bush slipped one of the white-robed boys a business card to a Roman Catholic priest who might "help in times of trouble."

Absence

Due to personal circumstances, I'm not going to be posting here for a while.

[UPDATE: I've decided to give it the old college try. But expect posts to be sporadic.]

Tanenhaus Watch: May 8, 2005

WEEKLY QUESTION: Will this week's NYTBR reflect today's literary and publishing climate? Or will editor Sam Tanenhaus demonstrate yet again that the NYTBR is irrelevant to today's needs? If the former, a tasty brownie will be sent to Mr. Tanenhaus' office. If the latter, the brownie will be denied.

And now onto this week:

THE COLUMN-INCH TEST:

Fiction Reviews: 1 two-page review, 1 one-page review, 1 one-page poetry review, 2 half-page poetry reviews, 3 half-page reviews, one half-page crime roundup. (Total books: 12. Total pages: 7.)

Non-Fiction Reviews: 1 two-page review, 7 one-page reviews, 1 half-page review. (Total books: 10. Total pages. 9.5.)

The real question to ask here is whether Tanenhaus and Keller's efforts to make the NYTBR more "accessible" by concentrating on shorter reviews is really a subconscious campaign to kill off meaningful fiction coverage. After all, when we consider that nonfiction coverage has received roughly a full page review for each title, while fiction and poetry are increasingly capsulized and deemphasized, what we have here isn't necessarily "accessibility," but one in which, more often than not, the dumbest books of our time are seriously considered. How else to explain a book as preposterous as Moneymaker: How an Amateur Poker Player Turned $40 Into $2.5 Million at the World Series of Poker getting coverage over literature?

What next, Sam? A retrospective on the complete works of Dale Carnegie? Chuck Klosterman called in to assess L. Ron Hubbard's literary subtext ? Dave Pelzer reviewing memoirs?

I must point out again that there is a fundmental difference between People Magazine and The New York Times. The former is intended to soothe bubbleheads with tedious gossip while they wait for their nails to dry in a salon. The latter -- well, some of us who subscribe on Sunday sort of expect it to stand for something.

Of course, retrospectives on Frank Conroy's teaching career do go a long way towards establishing credibility. It serves to provide perspective to readers who might not be aware of writing programs or Conroy's particular character. Likewise, Lee Siegel's Freud essay, which suggests a number of points that I'll respond to shortly, indicates an effort to shift things to a conversational level.

But Tanenhaus needs to understand that he cannot have things both ways. He must decide whether the NYTBR is a serious weekly book review or something to be placed near the john next to a stack of Maxims. One of the reasons the Brownie Watch exists is to express our hopes that it does indeed represent the former.

But this week, yet again, Tanenhaus has decided otherwise.

Brownie Point: DENIED!

THE HARD-ON TEST:

This test concerns the ratio of male to female writers writing for the NYTBR.

It's a little better than last week. But ten male writers to seven females still troubles us, particularly when the nonfiction section again demonstrates that cold warriors are ready to hammer out their arguments at the old boy's club while the ladies stay in the kitchen covering fiction and memoirs. While I must confess that it's good to see the nonfiction crop this week isn't so astringently policy-based, we still believe that some balance is in order.

Brownie Point: DENIED!

THE QUIRKY PAIR-UP TEST:

Nell Fruedenberger is an inspired choice to cover Stewart O'Nan's latest. Like last week's Lethem essay, Freudenberger is personal, candid about how O'Nan breaks the rules, and comes across as a passionate reader. Again, it's the kind of book reveiw that is critical without coming across as a humorless blowhard. It represents a kind of invitational feel that offers a balance between literacy and democracy.

For Freudenberger alone, Sam gets the brownie point.

Brownie Point: EARNED!

CONTENT CONCERNS:

I like Elmore Leonard as much as the next guy, but do we really need to be reminded about how entertaining he is or how jazzy his dialogue he is every time a new book comes out? The first half of Chip McGrath's review reads almost as a hodgepodge of all other Leonard reviews. Will this now be de rigueur for all new Leonard releases? Tanenhaus gets off lightly this week, but the Tanenhaus Brownie Watch pledges a bitchslap, should Tanenhaus again offer profuse yet recycled accolades for Leonard. And why, only a few sentences after McGrath finally gets to The Hot Kid, does he stop abruptly to quote Leonard in an interview? If this is a Leonard profile (and that's indeed what McGrath seems to want to write), great. Make it a profile. But if it's a review, one would hope to get to the book without all the paragraphs of prefatory biography.

And speaking of McGrath and "authorial fingerprints," we're wondering if McGrath is afraid of the word "auctorial," a jazzy word for a review of a jazzy writer.

This week's letters section is close to the John Leonard days. Cynthia Ozick responds to Salman Rushdie. But perhaps more interestingly, drummer Butch Trucks clarifies the precise details behind Grover Lewis' stint with the Allmann Brothers, providing a good deal of background on Lewis and his Rolling Stone takedown, published weeks after Duane Allman's death. Trucks also points out that while he is from the South, he isn't the hick that Lewis presented him as. He's a guy who likes to read books and talk about them. Filling in information like this is what a letters section is supposed to be about, and we applaud Tanenhaus' willingness to use his space like this.

Kate Zernike's review of a collection of noted physicist Richard Fenyman's letters does provide some interesting biographical context. However, Zernike doesn't quite address the central premise over why such a collection would be necessary.

Yo, check this out! I was trying to scramble for a lead-in, and figured that the stuff I was seeing on the teevee maybe fit the bill for the Vowell book I was reviewing. Dig? And Tanenhaus bought it! Ho ho ho! Schiavo and the Pope! Funny shit, that. They have everything to do with presidential assassins, right?

Good to see Charles Portis name checked, but the correllation between Portis and Rick Bass seems specious and half-hearted at best.

Muddled phrases used to describe poet A.R. Ammons: "an offbeat, sideways, unpredictable radiance," "a homespun glory," "what Emerson called 'fluxions and mobility'," "an adept of process," "a proponent of motion," "a kind of scientific pragamatism," "a philosophy of transit and change," "a deterination to 'study the motions'," and "filled with geometric shapes."

And that's just in the first paragraph. I'm pretty darn confused. Are you? Here's a hint, Sam: Edward Hirsch might be a stellar poet, but he doesn't seem to understand that reviews require coherence. Particularly ones that hope to get other people excited about poetry.

Scott and Maud have weighed in on Lee Siegel's article, which boldy suggested that Freud's influence has resulted in less memorable characters in contemporary fiction, perhaps resisting exploring psychological depth in fictional characters. This is an interesting notion, but I think that Siegel's article falls in too easily with yet another comfortable dichotomy: namely, between those who have religious faith or those who see faith as an illusion and might prefer a Freud-like fixation on a universal code of human behavior.

Siegel claims "the most intractable division in the world now is between those who believe that the subconscious plays a fundamental role in human life, and those who don't. That's the real culture war, and maybe even the real clash of civilizations." Siegel suggests that this perceived cultural disparity is what accounts for the "absence of character." But while he may claim postmodernism, "self-annulling irony" and "deliberate cartoonishness" as detracting (or possibly debilitating) factors, I see these stylistic devices as potential liberators that reframe consciousness so that readers can perceive characters through another prism and better understand their own view of humanity. That might be troubling if you're a critic trying to ride out a thesis to the end. Because it certainly doesn't fit within faith or the belief in a subconscious.

If you look at an experimental novel like David Markson's Wittgenstein's Mistress, what are these snappy statements but a reflection of the narrator's consciousness? The reader (and, in particular, the rereader) might be able to draw certain clues or impressions about the character, even if the subconsciousness might not be spelled out in the precise Freudian terms that Siegel alluded to. But if it helps to allow varying impressions about characters and events to flourish. Surely, this is a good thing for perpetuating characters in literature. Because as anyone who ambles upon this planet knows, one person's behavior will be perceived differently by different people. Who needs unilateralism?

CONCLUSIONS:

No brownie this week, but some progress and discussion.

Brownie Points Denied: 2
Brownie Points Earned: 1
TOTAL BROWNIE POINTS REQUIRED FOR BROWNIE DELIVERY: 2
TOTAL BROWNIE POINTS EARNED: 1 points

Tanenhaus Watch: May 1, 2005

WEEKLY QUESTION: Will this week's NYTBR reflect today's literary and publishing climate? Or will editor Sam Tanenhaus demonstrate yet again that the NYTBR is irrelevant to today's needs? If the former, a tasty brownie will be sent to Mr. Tanenhaus' office. If the latter, the brownie will be denied.

This is the first of two concurrent Brownie Watches. Coachella pretty much precluded me from weighing in last week's issue (May 1, 2005). It relaxed me to the point where I would have likely awarded Tanenhaus a brownie for simply existing. While I'm happy to give brownies to just about anyone, I think the readers here would be hard-pressed to argue that such generosity is fair or critical for the Brownie Watch. Since there are now reports circulating that Tanenhaus enjoyed his package of brownies, it is my seminal duty here to get Tanenhaus to salivate for more. And I should remind those paying attention to the Brownie Watch's official policy that there are armies of brownie bakers who would happily provide Sam his sweet-toothed sustenance. They often weep profusely when Tanenhaus lets them down.

However, just as there is no such thing as a free lunch, here at Return of the Reluctant, we're all too aware that there is no such thing as a free brownie.

So for completists, here's the score:

THE COLUMN-INCH TEST:

Fiction Reviews: 1 one-page poetry review, 3 one-page fiction review, 2 half-page reviews. (Total books: 6. Total pages: 5.)

Non-Fiction Reviews: One two-page review, 3 page and a half reviews, 4 one-page reviews, 2 half page reviews. (Total books: 12. Total pages. 11.5.)

Pathetic! This is among the worst of Tanenhaus's figures. Nonfiction coverage outweights fiction by more than 2 to 1! The telling disgrace here is that a miserly 30% of the May 1 issue is actually devoted to fiction.

Bad enough that Tanenhaus consistently scores under the 48% fiction minimum threshold. But scoring under 35% is a disgrace to the remarkable output of today's contemporary novelists and poets. And it calls for some pugilistic intervention:

BROWNIE BITCHSLAP FACTOR: 30% devoted to fiction, Sam? Do you even care anymore? SLAP! (Minus .5 points.)

Brownie Point: DENIED!

THE HARD-ON TEST:

This test concerns the ratio of male to female writers writing for the NYTBR.

Continuing the sad trend of ladies left in the dustheap, there were eleven male writers to five female writers covering books in last week's issue. Again, we have a situation that is completely fails to grasp the world population's real demographics. And at a ratio of more than 2 to 1, the gloves once must again be unslipped from the hands.

BROWNIE BITCHSLAP FACTOR: Women are sexy and smart, Sam! Let them run like gazelles through your pages. SLAP! (Minus .3 points.)

Brownie Point: DENIED!

THE QUIRKY PAIR-UP TEST:

Fortunately, Tanenhaus recovers from the last two tests with a few inspired choices. He's enlisted Jonathan Lethem to write a sizable review of Roberto Calasso's K, a book of essays about Kafka that hasn't received a lot of attention outside of The Weekly Standard. The fact that Calasso's book is a translation and that Lethem himself gets some time to offer his own personal experience with Kafka and gets some time to champion the erstwhile Franz transforms what could have been a throwaway review into something that is both impassioned and informed. What's particularly refreshing about Lethem's essay is its earnestness. Lethem writes, "It's a measure of Calasso's accomplishment that his readings feel familiar, as though his erudition were inside us, a pre-existing condition only waiting for diagnosis." This is the kind of sensory take on a semi-scholarly book that one doesn't find very often in the NYTBR, let alone any newspaper review. What's interesting is that Lethem doesn't sacrifice too much in the way of addressing Calasso's ideas. Given this careful balance, I certainly hope Tanenhaus enlists Lethem to write more essays.

It counts as a quirky pairup, even though it's a mystifying one. John Grisham isn't exactly known for his critical acumen, but Tanenhaus seems to believe that he can write about baseball. But the reality is that, outside of penning legal briefs, it's doubtful that Grisham can write anything. Consider the lede's passive voice: "The languid pace of baseball allows it to be enjoyed by those with even the most rudimentary knowledge of the game." It only gets worse, as Grisham addresses the reader in second person as "you, the manager" and proceeds to turn a pretty damn rollicking sport into something that sounds as clinically preordained as root canal surgery initiated by Dr. Mengle. I could spend the next hour editing the clunky prose, the lack of focus, or the unfortunate second grade book report feel. But I have two issues to cover today and editing is Tanenhaus' job, not mine.

Did Tanenhaus even edit Grisham? If Grisham had final edit, then I can only imagine the Hades that Times copy editors were put through as they tried desperately to turn a sow's ear into a silk purse.

BROWNIE BITCHSLAP FACTOR: This isn't so much a slap, as it is a call for self-respect. Don't let the likes of Grisham appear again. SLAP! (Minus .2 points.)

Nevertheless, despite all this, we award Tanenhaus a brownie point for mixing it up better, although he should know better than to hire Grisham.

Brownie Point: EARNED!

CONTENT CONCERNS:

Deciding upon Kevin Young's noir-influenced poetry for a page-length review shows a growing awareness of off-the-beaten-track content. But I'm wondering if Joel Brouwer is the right guy to cover it. Brouwer writes, "Why bother reading 'Black Maria' at all, when you could go to the movies instead?" Correct me if I'm wrong, but was this not the very question that Brouwer was hired to answer? Brouwer spends far too much time in his review trying to figure out his own perception of poetry, sticking with rudimentary statements like "Poetry celebrates the musicality of language" that he fails to really articulate what he thought of the book beyond a piecemeal assessment.

"You don't need to read a book with a title like 'Lost in the Forest' to guess that Sue Miller will be using it to acquaint you with a wolf and a version of Red Riding Hood," writes Kathryn Harrison. You also don't need a one-page book review to suggest that Sue Miller is anything more than a straightforward novelist, let alone capable of compelling insight.

It went largely unremarked by my fellow colleagues, but I noticed that Laura Miller had taken some time off from the NYTBR's pages. It turned out to be a good idea. Her review of History of Love is actually imbued with a less hysterical (indeed, one might dare say, critical!) voice this time around. If Tanenhaus had any input here ("Laura, why don't you be more constructive? Why not leave the bitterness to a minimum?"), we applaud it. Her review recalls the Laura Miller of old. Which is to say, someone who actually enjoys the reading experience. We hope to see more of this Laura Miller, as we haven't seen her on a regular basis since about 1999. If she keeps this up, I'm almost tempted to send Miller a care package. Perhaps some jellybeans to encourage a sense of humor.

Idiot Photo Caption of the Week: "Orson Welles as he appeared (with Dorothy Comingore) in 'Citizen Kane.' Beneath the makeup, Welles was 25 years old." No shit? Are there actually people around (perhaps readers who haven't seen a single movie in their lives) who didn't know this?

Boy, the ledes are extremely silly this week.

Benjamin Kunkel: "Fiction seeks to deliver life from mere literalism, to release people and things into a significance beyond themselves." Yeah, that and a bunch of shrooms ingested just before a trip to Burning Man.

Walter Reich: "Were American troops killed in the Holocaust?" Well, as we all know, the Nazis served their POWs tea and crumpets.

Alissa Quart: "The alarmist nonfiction book is a staple in publishing." And the generalization embedded within a lead sentence is a staple in book reviewing.

CONCLUSIONS:

It's good to see that Tanenhaus rebounded from the previous week's negative score. But a zero is still a zero. And we certainly hope that the skewered ratios seen in the May 1 issue won't be a long-term fait accompli.

Brownie Points Denied: 2
Brownie Points Earned: 1
Brownie Bitchslap Factor: -1 point
TOTAL BROWNIE POINTS REQUIRED FOR BROWNIE DELIVERY: 2
TOTAL BROWNIE POINTS EARNED: 0 points

In Tribute to International Haiku Day

1. This morning's beauty
Sun shining on pallid flesh
Time for Coppertone

2. Four years for J-Franz
And still there's no new novel
Remnick, why publish?

3. Sam, earn your brownie
You're good enough to take risks
So why play it safe?

4. Bookpiles overflow
How will I read these authors?
Speedread? Not a choice

5. Ayelet needs journal
Or tranquil haikus. A therapist?
For personal woes

6. Haikus are nifty
They make me nice and toasty
No Foetry scam

7. Beatific books
Wall my hallways, line my bag
They like you too. Read.

8. Lazy Saturday
Don't tempt me to do nothing
Weekends whoosh too fast

9. Drink too much coffee
Reliant on jitter gods
To not waste a day

10. People who send things
To my PO Box are sweet
Thanks. Will try to read.

11. To answer email
I'm trying, but there's too much
Respond, if it's months

12. Papers make me sad
No good news, just thugs and creeps
There are better folks?

13. Three overdue books
Librarians will ream me
Here, have my Visa

14. Will see my honey
Tonight, which is nice. Where to?
Must come up with plan

15. Three beer hangover?
I'm getting old, now cheap drunk
Drink lots of water

16. The hummer parks near
I have thoughts of smashing it
Teach it a lesson

17. Amazing how people
Waste time, money, energies
On picayune things.

18. Oh, that explains head
Forgot dinner. Despite friends
Telling me to eat.

19. Instead of violence
I'll draft a law to fine fucks
Who park hummers here

20. Twenty haikus here?
Well, why not? Hope others will
Take up the pen now

Episode III: A New Hope?

So Indiewire, Hollywood Reporter and Variety say that the new Star Wars film is quite good. I remain a firm cynic. Of course, if there's extra violence, this could mean a graphic and painful death for Jar Jar Binks. Which I applaud. (via GC Daily)

Stet

For the most part, we're big fans of editors. We firmly believe that they are sexy people, among the most underappreciated people ironing out the English language. Beyond functioning as a seminal second set of eyes, a good editor can save a writer's ass (often with the writer unaware), tear an inflexible hothead a new one, or encourage a dispirited voice. Hell, we wish this blog had a damn editor so we'd refrain from rampant grammatical mistakes. (And please, dear readers, if you ever want to fact check our asses -- as opposed to Xeroxing them -- then we invite you to weigh in.)

Unfortunately, even a pan from a dependable river has its dregs. We refer our readers to the Cinetrix, who has revealed the horrors of bright and talented people being dumbed down by the pivotal magazines of our time, let alone criticized by readers who don't appreciate the phrase "semaphore of pulchritude" in a major magazine.

Bill Bradley, assistant managing editor at the Nashville Tennesseean, noted recently that a Tom Colleen, Vandy resume story was changed, but the changes weren't sports-related. And then there's the Washington Post's desperate stab to draw readers: keep the stories shorter and add photographs. Which solves two problems in one go: you can cut down on editorial workload and give the people who hate fancy phrases the paper they want all in one go!

For our own part, we still plan to throw around the ten-cent word every now and then. And, yes, Mr. Birnbaum, that includes "jejune."

But we still can't help but wonder if there's a happier medium between a well-edited paper and an independent site that shoots from the hip.

Sheckley Seriously Ill

Robert Sheckley, whose combination of comedy and science fiction is criminally underrated (and whose work inspired Douglas Adams), is in critical condition in Russia. Apparently, Sheckley went to Odessa to attend a science fiction writing forum and suffered from a respiratory insufficiency. What's worse is that there seems to be a major struggle to get Sheckley into a state clinic.

I certainly hope Sheckley pulls through.

Fun With Amazon's SIPs

Spurned on in part by Maud, here are some statistically improbable phrases from certain books:

• Absalom! Absalom!: "monkey nigger," "balloon face," "dont hate," "right all right all right"
• American Psycho: "little hardbody," "wool tuxedo," "her asshole," "urinal cake," "clock reservation," "drink tickets," "spread collar," "dry beer," "pocket square"
• Atlas Shrugged: "furnace foreman," "young brakeman," "tower director," "transcontinental traffic," "superlative value," "best railroad"
• Beloved: "men without skin," "white stairs," "baby ghost"
• Blindness: "black eyepatch," "white sickness," "milky sea," "emergency stairs"
• Brick Lane: "multicultural liaison office, "tattoo lady," "ignorant types," "girl from the village"
• Cloud Atlas: "steely gate," "our dwellin" (Only four come up, despite the presence of the "Sloosha's Crossin'" section!)
• Concrete Island: "overturned taxi," "route indicators," "metal crutch," "feeder road," "paraffin stove," "bruised skin"
• The Corrections: "country ribs"
• A Death in the Family: "her trumpet"
• Empire of the Senseless: "red sponge"
• Gravity's Rainbow: "pig suit," "rocket field," "firing site," "runcible spoon"
• The Great Gatsby: "old sport"
• A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius: "fucking wallet," "green fluid"
• I Am Charlotte Simmons: "ilial crest," "very hide," "sobs sobs sobs sobs," "compressed his lips," "library tower," "depressed girl," "camper top"
• Mrs. Dalloway: "solitary traveller"
• One Hundred Years of Solitude: "porch with the begonias," "insomnia plague," "banana company," "ermine cape," "eating earth"
• Oryx and Crake: "fridge magnets"
• The Recognitions: "tall bellboy," "small man with beer," "plexiglass collar," "distinguished novelist," "weh weh," "bull figure," "hand mounting," "youthful portrait," "yetzer hara"
• Revolutionary Road: "rubber syringe" (Well, who else referred to it so obliquely?)
• Slaughterhouse-Five: "old war buddy"
• The Sot-Weed Factor: "bit oft," "poet exclaimed," "our barge," "ocean isle," "silver seal"
• This Is Not a Novel: "died mad"
• Tropic of Cancer: "rich cunt," "guys upstairs"
• The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle: "man with the guitar case," "vinyl hat," "macaroni gratin," "telephone woman," "cooking spaghetti," "vacant house"

Franzen Kafka

Patricia Storms serves up a pictorial response to the Great Oprah Debate.

Arcade Fire? More Like Mario, If You Ask Me

At long last, Tito has unveiled his Coachella report, which includes a video of the much heralded Arcade Fire upwards crawl.

PM

• Will Self once suggested that if Tony Blair should read John Gray's Straw Dogs to put Blair's thoughts into perspective. Tom Freke begs to differ, suggesting that it "could have been an interesting book, if only it was written by someone without such a large chip on his shoulder."
• Europeans are up in arms about Google Print. They're so upset about the potential for American cultural dominance that a "European digital library" is being talked about. Now if only Europeans could get angry enough to create an all-powerful search engine without ads and without tracking an obscene amount of personal information.
• Believe it or not, there's hope for the future. Around 70 middle school students engaged in a "Battle of the Books" quiz that had the kids recalling details from books they read months ago. They've had to pry books out of these kids' hands. And here's the cool thing. This went down in Piedmont, Virginia. The organizers of the event have seen this thing spread to 22 states.
• John Updike takes on surrealism in the NYRoB.
• Mark lists what he'd do as LATBR editor.

Nothing to Read

As an informal poll, I'm curious how many readers here may share the following reaction:

Through unexpected circumstances, you end up somewhere else. You've failed to bring any sort of book whatsoever. In fact, you didn't even bother to bring your backpack. Now you're faced with the circumstances of traveling back to your original destination where the bag and the book sare. But through some strange alignment of the cosmos, there's not only nothing to read nearby, but nowhere to buy anything decent. Not even so much as an issue of the New Yorker that you've already read.

Of course, you can tough it out. At least that's what you believe you can do. But reading is such an ingrained part of your life that, with the exception of rampant copulation, you can't think of a life without it. Whenever there's a spare moment or the eyes can't stay shut at 2 AM, the book is there to comfort you, to transport or inform you, and to provide a certain equilibrium that puts existence into a certain perspective.

Without that dependable security, you start to pace. You try desperately to find other things to do. You talk to the strangest people who might be in the same boat. Or something else.

You see, that's where you folks come in.

What is it that you, dear readers, do when there's nothing available to read? Do you read street signs? Do you get excited over the directions on a bottle of aspirin? To what degree does the reading experience become somewhat sociopathic, where the eyes must rest upon words and the imagination transported in order to remain of sound and jovial mind?

BookExpo America

Since I've received a few emails on the subject, the rumors are indeed true. I'll be at BookExpo America this year, where I'll be covering the event and the panels with gusto. If you're interested in hooking up sometime while I'm in New York, please don't hesitate to drop me a line.

As noted by Ron, the LBC will also be having a party on Thursday night at the Slipper Room on Thursday, June 2nd between 6-8 PM. Several of your favorite bloggers (including me) will be there. So do feel free to say hello.

If you're wondering about the LBC nominations, at the main site, I've given some clues to folks who are wondering about the titles.

AM

• Ian Rankin describes a week in his life, and it's about as routine as Rebus.
• The rights to Nick Hornby's A Long Way Down have been sold. Hornby has earned enough to add a west wing to his home. Will he remember the little people?
• Ms. Chicha deconstructs the strange trend of legs and shoes on current covers.
• Forget historical integrity. There's a plan in Salem to erect a Bewitched statue at the busiest intersection. Residents are understandably miffed. After all, the least this statue can offer is a twitching nose.
• Maybe this is the literary video game folks are championing: Sony has one in the works based on The Tale of Genji.
• Librarians are employing comics to get kids to read. It was either that or free ice cream.
• John Updike reviews Mo Yan's Big Breast & Wide Hips. We're positive the title had nothing to do with his selection.
• Search Engine Watch compares the current book search engines.
• Ed Levine scarfed down 1,000 slices of pizza to research his book. He also filed a petition to change his last name to Pepperoni.
• More on Wasserman: He's heading back to publishing. The gang at LA Observed also has the memo issued.

Tricky Mitch

Mitch Albom has apologized for fabricating his column. Where other columnists would be sacked on the spot, Albom, by contrast, has been permitted to continue his career. What's particularly interesting are the parallels between Albom's apologetic column and Richard Nixon's famous "Checkers" speech from 1952:

STEP ONE: Repeat An Adjective Three Times for Emphasis

NIXON: "I say that it was morally wrong if any of that $18,000 went to Senator Nixon for my personal use. I say that it was morally wrong if it was secretly given and secretly handled. And I say that it was morally wrong if any of the contributors got special favors for the contributions that they made."
ALBOM: "I felt terrible for the mistake, terrible that my newspaper had to take heat, terrible that my editors were besieged."

STEP TWO: Acknowledge Yourself as a Public Servant With a Clipped Sentence

NIXON: "I come before you tonight."
ALBOM: "I write for you."

STEP THREE: Declare That the Battle Isn't Over With a Stunning Statement of Personal Strength

NIXON: "But let me just say this last word. Regardless of what happens I'm going to continue this fight."
ALBOM: "And know this: Just as you can't assume the future, you can't always assume human nature."

STEP FOUR: Underplay the Sin

NIXON: "Every penny of it was used to pay for political expenses that I did not think should be charged to the taxpayers of the United States. It was not a secret fund."
ALBOM: "I made a careless mistake in a column. It wasn't malicious. It didn't harm the subjects. But it was factually incorrect in four paragraphs."

STEP FIVE: Refer to Past as "Dark"

NIXON: "I remember in the dark days of the Hiss case..."
ALBOM: "The last three weeks have been the darkest yet most enlightening of my professional life. The dark part is obvious."

STEP SIX: Respond with Subtle Libertarian Ethical Statement

NIXON: "Every penny of it was used to pay for political expenses that I did not think should be charged to the taxpayers of the United States."
ALBOM: "Besides, in 20 years of doing this column, I have never written for those people."

No Religious Nuts Left Behind

Laila notes that Michael Standaert's book-length examination of the Left Behind series will be published by the good folks at Soft Skull.

No Guts, No Brownies

It was too hot to handle for Tanenhaus, but Maud has the goods on a Chris Lehmann essay on Houghton-Mifflin's "best of" collections.

We haven't performed our Tanenhaus Brownie Watch yet, but since we've discovered that Tanenhaus isn't interested in critical essays that offer clear arguments and bare a few teeth, we apply a Brownie Bitchslap Factor of -.5 points towards the next test.

Wasserman's Fire Put Out By His Own Water?

Steve Wasserman has resigned from the Los Angeles Times. Wasserman edited the weekly book review section.

The Times staff was informed on Friday. Apparently, Wasserman was upset about not being able to flex his independence and issued an ultimatum. He was particularly concerned with the scrutiny being applied by top brass. His last day is reported to be May 13.

But the question here, given Wasserman's temperament, is whether this was a fait accompli, albeit a slow one. What's amazing is that Wasserman has remained something of an outspoken rabble-rouser over the years and yet until Mark started holding Wasserman's feet to the fire on a weekly basis, I don't think any of us outside of Los Angeles really had a sense of how little of Wasserman's fire ended up on the Times' pages. If it really was an internecine battle that Wasserman couldn't win, then the big question was why Wasserman stayed on board like some masochist? And the bigger question is whether Wasserman's replacement will be able to have a less tempestuous relationship with the managing editors.

Is the Los Angeles Times' book section a lost cause? The time has come for Mr. Sarvas weigh in on this question.

RELATED LINKS:

• The Elegant Variation: Home of the LATBR Thumbnail.
• 1996 interview with Wasserman during happier times: just before he landed the LATBR gig.
• Wasserman two years in: facing criticism from many sides.
• Wasserman on the LATBR bestsellers list.

(lead via Sarah)

Quickies

• The Seoul International Forum of Literature begins this week. Among the dignitaries attending are Kenzaburo Oe, Orhan Pamuk and Margaret Drabble.
• A local movie theatre in Australia seats just 22 people and is well in the running for the world's smallest cinema. If I had to be an usher, I wouldn't mind cleaning the minor mess. If I had to be a movie theatre manager, I'd welcome the easy challenge of selling out a show. But if I had to be a moviegoer here, I'd hope there was enough legroom.
• The Shusters, a new comic book award handed out to Canadians, were handed out on Saturday. There's just one problem: it's not too difficult to be a Canadian under the rules. Joe Matt, for example, is Canadian because he lived there for 12 years. Next thing we know, anyone who's ever ordered spaghetti at Mrs. Vanellis will be considered one of Canada's own.
• Carson McCullers is still being appreciated in Ohio Georgia. [EDITOR'S NOTE: Gag removed, as idiot editor mixed up Ohio with Georgia. Thanks, Matt!]
• I'm all for free expression, but I have to ask: Video games have literary value? If there's a metaphor in getting repeatedly fragged by a fifteen year old, I'd like to know. Better arguments, folks.
• Can a name shape a child's destiny? Why, yes. Just ask anyone with a twenty syllable first name.

Coachella

I'm operating on about eight hours of sleep over the past seventy-two. The Brownie Watch will have to wait. What I can offer right now is a brief rundown of Coachella on Sunday.

It was an insane plan by just about any assessment. But sometimes when the cosmos are aligned (the concert I was planning on seeing Sunday night got canceled, as did my book club on Saturday afternoon, and by some miracle, we obtained tickets for Coachella), you have to roll with the unexpected pulse of life.

The plan was this: Fly down to see my sister and company, see my good buddy's band on Satuday night, get home at some unknown twilight hour and then head to Coachella the next morning. What we didn't count on was getting back at 12:30 AM, which left me catching about three and a half hours of sleep, boarding a plane at an ungodly hour on Monday morning (which involved an unexpectedly long security line and sprinting to the other end of the airport with a heavy book-laden bag to catch my fight a mere three minutes before takeoff), and then getting back in the City just in time for the day job. On time, natch.

I highly recommend this mode of life to anyone. In hindsight, I'm now pondering how I was able to rationalize such a precarious schedule. But it was the music, dammit. I'm now firmly convinced that I will do almost anything for art.

Right now, there are fantastic aches in my body from dancing like a twenty-two year old for around twelve hours. But it was worth it. And I'd do it again in a second. You'll find me camping at Coachella next year.

I managed to get in about ten bands while I was there. I was unable to take any notes because the security goons confiscated my pen (and yet didn't confiscate the card game I brought for us, go figure). So I'm relying entirely on memory.

Shout Out Louds: I'm convinced that Swedish rock these days is among the purest pop music being produced. And the Shout Out Louds demonstrated that they were every bit an adorable band live. I've loved this guys ever since I heard their EP. And yet they never seem to tour Northern California -- that whole Atlantic Ocean thing probably being something of an obstacle for them. Of course, the one time they did make it to San Francisco, I was foolish enough to miss them at Slim's. But no matter. Imagine a Smiths/Replacements sort of sound headed by a quavering vocalist with a deliberately loose command of English (and, no, Pop Matters, you're missing the point inviting comparisons to Robert Smith; it's the sunny uncertainty that's endearing) and a xylophonist puncutating the rocking beat. The Shout Out Louds were plagued by tuning problems and they were a bit nervous, but that didn't stop them from putting on an energetic show. They're a tight band who clearly love what they're doing. Plus, wearing suspenders on stage is always a good thing in my book.

There may be a certain kitsch factor that the Shout Out Louds are employing as a crutch. But I don't see how anyone with a heart can resist "My Friend and the Ink on His Fingers," which concerns a guy concerned about the potentially poisonous ink on his fellow friend's fingers.

Donavon Frankenreiter: Having heard some of Frankenreiter's chillout tunes in advance, I was expecting an unfortunate Josh Rouse sort of band. But while I didn't get to see much Frankenreiter (the sun was too nice and the ground too comfortable), I can definitely say that his band offered a decidedly 1970s groove and that the drummer, in particular, knew how to bang out a solo. The best part of Frankereiter's set was the last twenty minutes, where Frankenreiter decided to groove continuously in a way that too many indie pop bands are afraid of -- which is to say, with a relaxed improvisational feel and carefree gusto. These were guys to fire up a joint to. And many folks did. My aforementioned buddy (the drummer for Deep Haze) was transfixed as these guys played. I can offer no better review. Joe Sleep Deficit says check 'em out.

Matthew Dear: At this point, we decided that a little electronica and dancing were in order (or rather I clandestinely suggested Matthew Dear as an option). Dear's stuff is house-based, but with an emphasis on crisp high-pitched synths and unapologetic noise. It isn't entirely revolutionary. (And, indeed, I would suspect that Dear came a little late to the electronica scene than he should have.) But it represented yet another subgenre of electronica that I couldn't categorize and had me dancing like a clueless suburban white boy.

M.I.A.: Take trip-hop beats and merge them with a capella reggae. And you get some remote sense of who M.I.A. is all about. Frankly, I could have heard these ladies sing for hours. The way they end their "Hellos" and clip their vowels and then transmute these into some exotic banshee cry from Madagascar had me absolutely hypnotized. This is not your MoKenStef girly girl crap, dig? Must buy album.

The Futureheads: I only caught about four songs, largely because the gang wanted to see Tegan and Sara (the Canadian answer to Sixpence None the Richer, though not as one-note). They were tight, but came across as an engaging Franz Ferdinand knockoff, though without the quirk. "Meantime," in particular, was a rollicking track. But their efforts to get the audiene involved with a game fell flat. I much preferred Dogs Die in Hot Cars, who I saw a few weeks ago at the Great American Music Hall. The lesson to be learned here is that if you're going to ape the current trend, at least have a dangerous sense of humor.

Tegan and Sara: I thought this was a Doctor Who tribute band. But it was yet another folky duo. To their credit, they weren't as treacly as I thought they'd be. And they were fighting the glare of the setting sun. Their gossipy stage banter and adenoid voices had me wondering if I was at a sock hop. What I can say is that they're better than Sixpene None the Richer, but not as good as No Doubt.

The Arcade Fire: Fuck me, these guys are great live. Band members constantly change instruments. Percussionists climb the rafters and bang their sticks on metal. Band members are chased through emotionally poignant songs, to remind some of the stiffs that humor hasn't escaped them. And you'd be hard-pressed to argue that any set ending with the bassist attacked by a cloak, lying seemingly dead on the stage at song's end, is a bad thing.

The Arcade Fire was accompanied by two violinists who made "Crown of Love" sound bigger than I expected it to be live. They played "Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)" at about time and a half the tempo. I said it last year and I'll say it this year: these guys are the next Radiohead and an extremely exciting band to watch. If they show up in your town, see them while they still play mid-sized venues. And if the Aracade Fire is too "mellow" to be classified as indie pop, then fuck you, fuck you sir very much. You can have your crappy, moribund Fiery Furances live act any night of the week. What counts these days is a band that is good in the studio and live. And it doesn't matter how "comfortable" or "mellow" the music is. Besides, they've only put out one album and they're Canadian. Which probably explains things.

New Order: I can say without a doubt that Coachella is the last big show that New Order is likely to play. Let's say you're a has-been 1980s band and you want to make a comeback. Do you (a) embrace the old material for a few songs, winning the audience into your favor so that you can unleash the new stuff on them or (b) mope around on stage like a bitter old man and complain about video cameras "getting my tits off" when you're in front of about 30,000 people waiting for Nine Inch Nails?

Well, if I were New Order, I'd choose (a). If you're a band trying to make a comeback and you haven't had a hit in at least ten years, then my feeling is that you sure as hell better resort to canon if you hope to keep the aging remains of your fan base.

But if you're an idiot like singer Bernard Summer, you choose (b) and blow your shot. You perform lifelessly and have an utterly bitter expression on your face when you have to perform "Blue Monday" for the umpteenth time.

I wish I can say I felt sorry for New Order. The only member of the group who put something into his show was the bassist. Was it Peter Hook? If so, that would explain a lot.

But it was clear that New Order was there expecting to be loved. And they made a tragic mistake putting all the new material up front. The songs were crap and it was only when the old stuff played that they received staggering applause. It was as automatic a reaction as the autopilot these has-beens were riding on. The funny thing was that New Order didn't really want their fame enough to have it.

Nine Inch Nails: See previous entry. See Trent live. Pretty much the same set, except he performed the title track from With Teeth this time around, helping me in large part to better appreciate the song.

[UPDATE: Word on the street is that Tito has video of the Arcade Fire.]

Sorry for the Silence

Back from Coachella. Sleep deprived, relaxed, NYTBR unread. More later.