Wet, because that’s exactly what it is outside. Not nearly as bad as Sri Lanka, but still resolute weather for this town. The other wet involves some paint applied to a few things over the weekend. But you’ll have to wait for that. Anyway, here we go:

• First off, I’d like to make a case for the literary merits of Million Dollar Baby. Not only does its visuals harken back to the great boxer noir The Set-Up (complete with its slogan-laden signs), but Eastwood manages to get in some references to Yeats and Gaelic, as well as a nice pun (“IRA’S ROADSIDE DINER” is the name of the place that Eastwood considers dumping his savings into, but not a single critic got this). The one great visual I can’t get out of my head involves an homage to Jack London’s “A Piece of Steak.” The camera sneaks past Hilary Swank’s back in a dingy, green-walled apartment immersed in shadows, and we see Swank gnawing on a half-eaten piece of steak she swiped from her waitressing job. Truly one of the most haunting and visceral images I’ve seen on cinema this year. And a great film to boot.
• The Aviator turned out to be a surprise too, probably Scorsese’s best film since the unfairly neglected Kundun (and, yes, I dug Bringing Out the Dead as much as the next guy, but it’s more interesting to see Scorsese work outside the “New York as hell” box). Of course, that didn’t concern most of the fockers who wanted to see Ben Stiller and Robert “Where’s my career now?” De Niro (ironically, once Scorsese’s right-hand man) revive their tired comic schtick. Never mind that. Some people I’ve talked to absolutely hated The Aviator, the chief beefs being historical liberties and an unexpected optimism. Well, what else do you folks expect from a biopic? The important thing was that the film captured the essence of the man and that Scorsese pulled off something of a miracle getting a performance out of Leonardo and keeping his juju together under Harvey Weinstein’s iron fist. I suspect The Aviator will be one of those overlooked gems like Tucker where its idealism will be more appreciated ten years from now. Plus, giving Scorsese the keys to the castle allowed for some extremely exciting flight sequences. Cate Blanchett as Hepburn, Alan Alda as sleazy Senator Brewster, fantastic sequences of exploding photograph bulbs. Joe Bob says check it out.
• Moving onto literary news. If you missed Tanenhaus’ latest stunt and need a good laugh, read Walter Kirn’s bizarre cover essay declaring the end of elite rule by wit, apparently through (wait for this) the New Yorker cartoon. Huh? I’ve never been a big fan of the New Yorker‘s cartoons, but I’ve always respect their quiet wit in the same way that I can’t resist Charles Schultz (though you won’t see me reaching for either as a therapeutic solution, a la Franzen). Tanenhaus remains hopelessly up in the air over such foolish statements as, “The seduction of America’s elites by the vices of humanism and skepticism can only be blamed on the New Yorker cartoon, an agent of corruption more insidious than LSD or the electric guitar.” Yep, the NYTBR actually published that. If that’s meant as wit, it fails miserably for its lack of specifics. If that’s meant to be daring, then it’s no more provocative than Madonna after her conversion to Kabbalah. If that’s meant in earnest, then the NYTBR is truly in trouble. I’m curious what James Wolcott thinks about this, but I fear that there may be a conflict of interest.
• What happens to the literary geniuses you don’t hear about? They become vagrants.
• The California Literary Review checks out Paul Auster.
• Several fantastic people, including one Maud Newton, name their favorite books at Newsday.
• The Globe rolls out the red carpet for Louis Auchincloss.
• And I’d also like to suggest that if you ever get the chance to do it, it’s an extremely strange expeirence to read Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet and David Peace’s Red Riding Quartet at the same time. Both are fantastic in their own different ways, but I think I’ve got enough literary deviance to last through the winter.
• Wishing you a belated merry Xmas.

If you’re still feeling generous, you may want to consider donating to the Sri Lanka Red Cross. Truly a horrible Xmas for many.

Carrie recently pointed to this Meghan O’Rourke essay. O’Rourke suggested that Munro’s purported realism “is more of O. Henry in Munro than her admirers tend to admit.” Taken together with Lev Grossman’s recent suggestion that Michael Chabon’s editorial duties for his latest McSweeney’s “thrilling tale” compilation are “the promiscuous atmosphere of one of those speakeasies where socialites slum with gangsters in an effort to mutually increase everybody’s street cred,” it seems to me that the fight for fantastic fiction’s respectability is far from over. In fact, it’s extended across some interesting fault lines.

A genre writer is considered declasse, but in these days when postmodernism is considered dead as bright young things are busting their humps trying to find a playful yet acceptable substitute, a literary hybrid is apparently much worse. O’Rourke goes on to suggest that Munro has manipulated her readers because, heavens to Betsy, in O’Rourke’s judgment, the timing is off when she has two characters fail to meet. O’Rourke implies that this is a willful act of cruelty on Munro’s part and that, as such, the story she cites is built “of the tinder of contrivance.”

But what is contrivance exactly? Is it missed opportunities? Is it a character failing to meet some pivotal individual at the right time? Isn’t fiction supposed to be about the emotional impetus of its characters, as guided by language and reasonable plotting? Setting aside the odious example of Dickens’ Little Nell, it’s interesting that O’Rourke is vague about why “cruelty” is such a bad thing in fiction. If O’Rourke’s point here hangs upon whether Alice Munro is a firm Chekhovian realist or not or whether her fiction is “a bag of tricks,” then I’ve got news for her. Fiction has always involved machinations. But why should genre or style matter if emotional verisimilitude is firmly in place?

In fact, if we consider a number of Golden Age science fiction short stories, I would argue that what we remember is not the machinations, but the human impulse that bristles from the tales. Alfred Bester’s “Hobson’s Choice” is remembered not for the apocalyptic setup, but for its chilly ending about alienation and displacement. Ray Bradbury’s “A Sound of Thunder” is remembered for a safari tourist stepping upon a butterfly and the stunning consequences. Harlan Ellison’s “Jefty is Five” is remembered for its depiction of youth and mortality, not the gimmick of a boy perpetually aged five.

I suppose the O. Henry comparison vexed me because I’ve been rereading Richard Matheson’s stories of late. Matheson, who I’ve often referred to as “the Ray Bradbury everyone always forgets about,” was one of a handful of speculative fiction storytellers who inspired me as a very young reader. What I’ve found years later is that, much like the examples cited above, the genre conventions ultimately didn’t matter. Sure, the stories are fantastic in structure, often carried out through vaguely described future worlds. Even the science is considerably loopy at times. But that isn’t the issue. Because Matheson’s characters are ensnared by jobs, families, their own paranoia, or their own inability to take control. And each Matheson tale involves a character trying to escape, whether it’s Mann from “Duel” or the frequently used Professor Wade. It’s the human impulse that commands our interest. If, however, the human impulse isn’t believable (say, for example, Tom Wolfe’s wholly implausible depiction of college life in I Am Charlotte Simmons), then this behavioral discrepancy will mow down a story more fatally than a Panzer tank.

If genre fiction offers a more fantastic approach to get at the human condition and we can accept it, why then should Munro or Chabon be penalized because their tales fall outside the box? Why is literary fusion considered a dirty concept in the 21st century? If fiction exists to make us feel, then, if a story does the job keeping us from seeing the lie, has not the task been fulfilled?

(Okay. Enough. Hiatus! Hiatus!)

I’m almost ashamed to confess it, but the Missed Connections section on Craig’s List fascinates me. What are these people thinking? Why are they spending all of their time regretting a mistake? If it’s a matter of following up with someone, why are they resorting to a bulletin board that only a handful of people will read?

With these questions in mind, I briefly emerge from my candy-baking, holiday-themed hiatus to give the gift that keeps on giving: questionable advice.

Dan Dan the Mexi Man: Have you considered calling the Academy of Art and asking if Dan works there? Failing that, are you aware that there are other Dans in the universe? It might also help if you stop referring to some stranger as “the Mexi Man.” Outside of WB sitcoms, that doesn’t really win points with people.

Danced with you at 1015: Sorry, sweetheart. Roberto ain’t coming back anytime soon. People go to dance clubs for two reasons. Dancing is one and I’ll let you do the math on the other. Chances are that if Roberto was really interested in you, he’d have taken you home or asked for your number. How much vodka did you have, darling?

Rita from Queens: It’s always possible that Rita might call back. But here’s the way it works. When a girl calls, if you don’t call back within a reasonable time, she moves onto the next prospect. May I suggest that you go to your cell phone dealer and obtain a cell phone that you can operate. Failing that, spend at least six hours becoming infinitely familiar with your voicemail system so that this doesn’t happen again.

To the bush lover whose jaw I broke: Two words: anger management.

Beautiful JWF on the BART: Go up and talk to her, you putz! And be prepared for the possibility of failure. Also, discretion is the name of the game. The last thing a woman needs on public transportation is a stranger’s desperate eyes searing into her soul. Is she reading a book? Does she have a nice overcoat? Make small talk instead of living with fear.

My girlfriend and I…: The place is “Missed Connections,” which involves people, not highly specific beer bottles.

PHX – SFO flight: Ask him for coffee next time. Look, nothing makes a man’s job easier than when you boldly suggest a date. It takes a lot of the weight from our backs. After all, we’re the ones constantly putting ourselves on the line here. Live dangerously. Start a trend. For the future of gender equality, ask him out if you’re interested! They did it on Sex and the City all the time, right?

Jo, 500 Club? Start drinking.

Nemo?: The San Francisco DJ scene isn’t nearly as large as it seems. With a name like that, it would be very easy to track the guy down if you hung out at raves and clubs and asked around. Of course, it’s also possible that Nemo was a one-night pseudonym, in which case you might be SOL. If you’re into DJs as prospective lovers, perhaps you should hook up with Skratchy Seal’s girlfriend and get some tips.

Were you checking out my package?: Perhaps purchasing a penis pump might confirm your hypothesis.

Squat and Gobble: The number is 415-487-0551. Play it safe. You may come across as socipathic, assuming he’s interested.

Now, back to the hiatus. Really.

Like Mark and Maud, we’ve completely obliterated Amazon as a purchasing option. No gifts or random packages sent from there anymore, thank you very much. You won’t even find our wishlist. Those kind and remarkable people lurking behind the scenes will have to stay the course until we get our obscure objects of literary desire tranposed and listed onto safer pastures. Rest assured, we don’t take Amazon’s PAC funding lightly and, as previous actions have demonstrated, we’re adamantly sociopathic in our boycotts. This week’s dartboard cutout? Why, Jeff Bezos, of course!

We do, however, think that the inestimable Mark Sarvas is overdoing it with his Time subscription legerdemain. The magazine is, without a doubt, useless. When you factor in their neurologically inert coverage of current events (witness such prima facie pronouncements as “The poisoning has already given him martyrlike status among his supporters, but it also raises questions about whether his health will allow him to serve with sustained vigor,” and the moronic machinations become apparent) and the fact that a mere four (four!) of their Persons of the Year have been women, it’s really a no-brainer. The magazine was established by Briton Hadden and Henry Luce to reduce the information of our times to jejune gardyloo processed by dullards. Or to cite Luce directly, “Of necessity, we made the discovery that it is easier to turn poets into business journalists than to turn bookkeepers into writers.”

Birnbaum might drop-kick our asses for riding the adjective with two Js, but in Time‘s case, it’s readily apparent that no other modifier cuts the mustard in quite the same way.

(Furthermore, it would be criminal for us not to reveal how much we loved the Man of the Year moment in The Big Lebowski, whereby slacker Jeff L glimpses himself in a mirror styled along the Time yearly hard line. It’s one of the film’s most overlooked gags.)

We now return you to our regularly scheduled hiatus.