The gang at the Globe has issued a new disclaimer in their programs, suggesting that Shakespeare’s work was attributed to somebody else. If it’s Mary Sidney Herbert, the case that Newsweek put forth on June 28 (through Sidney expert Robin Williams) is weak:

“It would explain why Shakespeare wrote love sonnets to a younger man.” Shakespeare didn’t swing both ways? Shakespeare didn’t get inside the head of another character to get at deeper feelings? I think, with the exception of some of his early work and the hideous Coriolanus, you’d be hard-pressed to nail ol’ Bill as a literal-minded writer.

“It would could clarify why the first compilation of Shakespeare’s plays, the First Folio of 1623, was dedicated to the earls of Pembroke and Montgomery (her sons).” Okay, let’s say that you’re a cash-strapped theatre and one of the best-educated women in England happens to float your operation with her husband. Are you going to be grateful? Are you going to, say, acknowledge that person’s family or friends? Are you going to hope that this spirit of generosity will trickle down to the next generation?

“And it would explain Ben Jonson’s First Folio eulogy to the ‘sweet swan of Avon.'” No, sorry. It’s called waxing poetic about a guy’s hometown.

I’m all for these interesting arguments and speculations, but none of this stuff would hold up in a court of law.

Williams, it should be be noted, was the only Sidney advocate at the July authorship conference.

AL Kennedy (with Maud), Tanenhaus, (Complete Review taking piss of same), Andrei Codrescu (with Birnbaum), The Art of Not Writing Books, Robert Ferrigno (no relation to Lou) at Sarah’s, Stephen King and “artistic merit,” China Mieville and economics, Wold Newton, M. Night rips off M. Peterson Haddix, new Pavarotti tell-all, John Strelecky claims world’s fastest book sales, bidding war for Obama book, classic Indian lit into new media, A. Wilson wins Trib lifetime achievement, famed Hardy tryst tower to be moved, leading lit agency enters picture biz, Scot lot fund denies funds to preserve MS (x many), street lit biatch, Gloria Emerson passed away, yet another comics deserve more respect piece, Alex Beam checks out DFW Gourmet piece.

Speak, dear superfriends! Speak! Without your contras here, what is this place but a stunning white effulgence of nothingness? No troops, no slimy colonel speaking on television. Save dirge here, nada nary crazed cornucopia of outbursts (nugget-size, ears to follow) without too much concentration seeing as how the pistol will be squarely fired in twenty mins (how you like that, square peg into circle slot?). 1/3 hour resembling crazed recipe in the cookbook of life. Pomo post, gum (dream? riverworld?) going out of style, or back in if you’re George, Art, or Lee? If some brilliant deity combined Strasberg and Bruce, you’d have kickass martial arts theatre, no?

See, there’s the rub. Crazed associations, ticking clock, twenty minutes of fun (far from Sweet’s 100%, I’m sure), bags and balloons replacing cogent discourse. Bask in the incoherence! Peabs back too. See, sexy mofos all around. One ponders the porn king calling lights! camera! action! only to be greeted with detumescence. How many takes is that, daddy-o? And where’s your SoCal incest hook for the Bush-voting heartland? Crude, unfounded, but proving too true, perhaps thrice. See, we be better than smut!

What’s it all about? That bulge verging upon that sibilant letter, dead enderby. Vidi well, my friends. We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when.

We have only an inkling of what’s going down in the literary world. We thus return this blog to the control of the majestic Superfriends. It should be noted that Bondgirl has something pretty cool whipped up.

One thing we will say is that Before Sunset has one of the greatest cinematic endings we’ve seen in a year (ending entails rug cleared from beneath audience’s feet, followed by moans from audience when “Directed by Richard Linklater” credit is seemingly prematurely displayed, followed shortly after by wild applause over how delightfully mischevious Linklater has been — ergo, the man kicketh ass).

Now that all the conclusions about the decline in reading have been laid out, it’s time to weigh in well after the worthwhile arguments have been exhausted. I’m talking about the Negro problem. Think of the television public-service ad featuring that African-American basketball player (African-American sports figures reading? Never mind that rapist Mike Tyson reading Voltaire in the joint. We have well-hung stereotypes to maintain.) or the one depicting a prominent member of NAMBLA (Caucasian, and thus better) reading to a group of young boys shortly before a tête-a-tête. How can anyone get excited about reading when there are so many personal prejudices to dwell upon? After all, isn’t there a larger question here about giving life imprisonment to the Cacuasian and keeping Tyson on death row?

Now, in the wake of a well-referenced ALA report that you, my dear pale-skinned readers in the burbs, haven’t heard about — there’s a movement by these bleeding hearts to get more people reading. There was recently a Barack Obama speech that actually suggested some “slander” regarding a black kid with a book being considered white. I don’t understand. Are the Negros getting uppity again? Shouldn’t we be telling our lovable black brothers to keep their positions as lovable comedians (whether cute and cuddly like Wayne Brady or populist and provocative like Dave Chappelle), supporting characters who get killed off first in horror movies or who serve as magical sidekicks for aging, toupeed and pancaked Caucasian leads, WASPified secretaries of state told what to do by a unilateral administration, and well-hung sports stars?

We cannot permit the black man to read. Because that would involve them becoming informed citizens! They may actually transform the American power base!

To me, the best way to think about reading is to consider it the exclusive territory of the white man. Let those who live in gated communities have their golden libraries! Really, it works out better that way. Keep the inner cities equipped with rotting schools and dilapidated libraries. We gave them Pruitt-Igoe and it didn’t work! Why aren’t they grateful?

I should point out that when I was at 17, I read The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I mention this because I want you to know that there was a point in my life when I was “down with the kids.” Anyway, I was frightened of the Negros. I was certain that a race war was going on, because one of those black people actually tried to introduce himself to me. It was one of the scariest moments of my life. But like any good (now ex-)liberal, I tried to see it from the black point of view. But my two best friends, who showed up to the homecoming cance dressed in really spectacular white gowns and hoods, didn’t like what I was reading.

Well, I saw the light. And now here I am in Virginia still trying to understand why my fellow Virginian Thomas Jefferson wrote words against slavery.

Where was I going with this? Ah yes. Words are potent. And we should begin burning books at the inauguration should Uncle George win again. It’s the American thing to do.