H.R. 3920: To allow Congress to reverse the judgments of the United States Supreme Court.

The collective hubris and the wholesale lack of regard for the U.S. Constitution angers me beyond words. I’m now fully convinced that nobody on Congress knows how to count. (There are three branches of government, not two. Three!)

(via MeFi)

[3-18-04 UPDATE: The grandiloquent Crabwalk was mistakenly referred to in this post as “Crabtree.” This was, of course, unpardonable. I only note that, at the time I had posted this entry, I had just come back from lunch, where I had walked past Lotta’s Fountain, a majestic landmark that almost nobody notices. I wasn’t really cognizant of the walking. It was wandering, really. I was also reading Eric Kraft, and Kraft kept referring to sea life in unusual situations, with quirky characters and delightful comic situations to boot. I had also been thinking about eucalyptus trees — no tree in particular. But put two and two together, and you begin to see the many factors that allowed me to screw up this post. I leave “Crabtree” in this post for the record, but this preface should make it abundantly clear that it was Crabwalk, and nothing but the Crabwalk. The sin remains unchanged, and I permit Josh Benton to flog me at some future unspecified date. Preferably with an audience to laugh and point.]

The Post‘s book coverage continues to impress me. And not just because of Jonathan Yardley’s retro recommendations, or the fact that they’ve grown wise to the lit blogging community covering books. This review of The Bronte Myth, for example, is written by “Dana Stevens,” the cheeky pseudonym of Liz Penn (and I suspect that “Penn,” by way of its sound, is a pen name, rather than a real one). But it’s also a cheeky reference to the subjects of the bio. The Bronte sisters, as we all know, took the Bell name because, as women, they felt they wouldn’t be taken seriously as novelists.

But according to Crabtree, it looks like Dana Stevens is someone just having fun, for the same reasons that Donald Westlake’s Richard Stark persona allowed him to write additional novels in a gritter style. Sometimes, the circumstances are not so insouciant, as was the case for screenwriters who submitted their scripts through other people during the dark days of McCarthyism (a situation captured well in Martin Ritt’s excellent film, The Front).

I just don’t understand why anyone would be offended by it. An author has his or her own reasons for maintaining a pseudonym and, if it harms no one, then what is there to get upset about? Part of the fun is respecting an author’s right to pen something in whatever style or name he chooses. Ultimately though, regardless of an author’s name or alias, it’s the work that matters most of all.

(via JC)

I’d be sadly remiss if I neglected to mention the Orange longlist, which has been covered in full on several other blogs. Not only can these ladies write, but (and this has been kept on the q.t.) they can also eat more oranges in a single sitting than Andrew Sean Greer or Mark Hadon at their most robust.

Almost all of the nominees are sui generis, and nearly all of give me some kind of tingly feeling. With the exception of Anne Tyler, an appearance tantamount to John Wayne winning an Oscar for True Grit.

The Flood Bowl: “Dear E, Thank you for your email. I’m sorry to say that I found your response disappointing. I specifically asked you to suggest time and dates to meet. Your response did not answer my question, and, in fact, ultimately made more work for me. Again, I’m sorry, but thank you for your time, but you won’t be right for this position. Best, R.” (via Maud)