- [insert author name]‘s [latest book from author] has hit bookstores. It’s criminally underated, and [reviewer who writes somewhat intelligently or has interesting take] has an interesting take on why it’s worth your time.
- Last night, I had a [vaguely personal moment in which I don't reveal too much of myself to readers, because, based on some of the comments here, I think a few of you are keeping extremely close track of my personal life -- for what reason I have no idea]. And it reminded me of [article which probably has nothing to do with moment in question].
- [Person with no real ideas trying to attract attention] is attacking litblogs again! And [first blogger to get upset, because offering you all this content for free can sometimes be a thankless task] has taken him to task. Meanwhile, [more level-headed litblogger who recognizes that this person just wants attention] offers a contrarian take.
- [Wacky news story]. Hey, how about that! [Insert hastily formed witticism in which I apply an overly literal reading to form an incongruous association.]
- [A paragraph of polemical bluster, with at least one ad hominem remark or, failing that, a metaphor that grabs your attention.]
- Sam Tanenhaus has [well, he could have done anything really, if only he actually contacted me directly instead of asking other people about who I am].
- [Sex joke.]
- [Something terrible committed by McSweeney's or an obscure literary quarterly.]
- And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention [A friend or acquaintance who has done something interesting, must keep this near the end to avoid favoritism]‘s thoughtful project, which should blow the lid on [incongruous reference here because I'm overworked and I need more coffee so that I can stay awake, until such moment as I will be able to properly collapse].
And just to be clear on how formulaic this blog is and how much of a tool I am, Random House sends me a $600 weekly paycheck, Penguin arranges for my Fairmont penthouse suite on the weekends, keeping it well-stocked with champagne, caviar and two prostitutes (because I like things exotic, I prefer to fuck midgets and black women), and Soft Skull keeps the Colombian marching power flowing 24/7.
It’s great being a corporate pawn. It’s great willingly catering to the mainstream. Literature? You think I really give a crap? In fact, I’m getting a blow job right now as I write this post. Life doesn’t get any better.
I don’t think you can find anyone more venal in our society than litbloggers.
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
“I don’t think you can find anyone more venal in our society than litbloggers.”
The Bush Administration.
[Hopefully pithy comment congratulating you on your best post ever actually designed to drive traffic toward my own temporarily floundering site.]
I don’t normally make political statements on this blog, but [long, boring rant against Bush Administration that changes nobody's mind]
Hey, Soft Skull never offered me any cocaine. Cheap fuckers!
[Tacit or direct agreement with assessment of crimes against humanity committed by McSweeney's, which outs me as Director of Shrill Jealous Haterism of the Vitriol Condemnation Affiliate]
by using brackest in your post have you considered that no trees were used in this comment? my thoughts of dinosaurs being reincarnate to use their petroleum jelly, and coal to power this e-commerce burdens me. come to my reading.
Levi posts something that makes no sense.
[slightly jokey comment meant to deflate possible flame wars or otherwise make semi-vapid, not-exactly-ironic statements.]
C’mon man you are like Timex “takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’” and by lickin’ I don’t mean er well you know.
[Fart joke].