In lieu of content here today, we direct you to the following places:
- At the LBC site, this week’s it’s Edward Falco week. There’s a podcast interview, as well as the beginnings of a weeklong transcript of beer-fueled discussion with Scott, who quite rightly comes across as more coherent than me.
- And speaking of the LBC, David Milofsky has written an article for the Denver Post. Both Mark and the tireless Dan Wickett get some nice airtime.
- I finished Perlman’s Seven Types of Ambiguity, along with several other books last week. Hope to get to the next 75 Books post soon.
- Even though she lived a long and productive life, I’m still a bit stunned by Betty Friedan’s death, particularly with how metaphorical it is in light of current events, and hopefully I’ll have something coherent to say on the subject later. But in the meantime, check out Bad Feminist. I’m sure more will weigh in throughout the course of the day.
- Tom Baker as disembodied cell phone conduit? WTF? (via Phil)
- You want quirky pairups? The NYTBR may be inept on this score, but the Washington Post has paired George R.R. Martin with Stephen King’s Cell. (via Sarah)
- Brian Sawyer on bookbinding.
- “You don’t even know how to spell Delany, bitch.” The “Rick James, bitch” for speculative fiction fans? You make the call.
- Tayari Jones has posted 175 words of her new book.
- Support Pete.
- David Foster Wallace — is he a cunt?
- The Super Bowl and its commercials? Let me put it to you this way. The cheeseball Patrick Swayze TV movie I had on mute last night while finishing up the podcasts was more enthralling.
- More later.
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. (
Thanks for the plug, Ed!
Also, I’m interested to hear what you think about Perlman’s book. It’s on my bookshelf, or it will be when my wife is done with it.
Brian
Was it Point Break?
I am an
F.
B.
I.
Agent!
Also, I’d like to request a podcast with Camille Paglia while she’s in Berkeley on Wed (pushing Break Blow Burn)
Ed, thanks for the St. Baldrick’s shout-out. I’ll name a felled lock in your honor.