For those visiting Nob Hill, the following two maxims hold:

1. Nobody drinks coffee at a cafe, especially early on a Sunday morning when most normal people are bound to enjoy it. (They all have espresso machines at home, if they drink coffee at all. And besides, what sort of madman buys scones or pastries before 10 AM?)

2. Nobody would dare to buy the Sunday New York Times from a corner store or a supermarket. (They all subscribe to it. Only plebian intellectual types will slap down their five bucks with the glorious, grousy, and growling hawker just outside Cala Foods.)

Should you find yourself visiting a friend or a loved one and not wish to commit yourself to an unexpected cardiovascular workout (as I did this morning), please keep these two things in mind upon your next visit.

The landlord has temporarily turned off the hot water until 5PM (and I forgot about it) and I have too many things to do, including tweaking the last ten minutes of the play. Expect a return on Monday. In an effort to provide more pith, I hope to write about the following next week:

• The stunning mediocrity of Anita Diamant and the problems of transposing familiar tales to novel form
• The promised Book Babes followup
• A post on first lit loves inspired by correspondence with the erstwhile Terry Teachout
• Larry Sultan‘s wonderfully smutty photograph expo at MOMA

Ron points to this despicable column from the Book Babes, which not only suggests that journalism and book publishers should hold back in their coverage, but actually states the following:

[D]on’t you think that it’s reasonable for people to expect that depravity won’t be served up with our cornflakes? This expectation has been sorely tested this week. Over and over again, we see the same photos of prison abuse in Iraq. And now, you can even witness the slaughter of an American innocent on the Internet. When does freedom yield to a form of depravity, of witnessing torture and death as if it were normative?

The stunning ignorance and willing denial expressed in this paragraph requires not only a detailed response, but a call to action that will get things changed at Poynter. At the moment, I do not have the time for either. But rest assured, for all who signed Mark’s petition and for all who give a damn about the current journalistic clime, I will be in touch with you in the near future. More to come.

Nabakov’s private papers have been auctioned off for �500,000. Among the items sold were drawings of butterflies, various zoological papers and a crude doodle of a pearl necklace.

Saul Bellow has received an honorary degree from Boston University. Bellow, who is 88 and remarkably virile, plans to perform the macarena the night before accepting the award. Bellow’s son, Adam, has suggested to the BU faculty that, because of literary nepotism, he too has rightfully earned an honorary degree. BU informed Adam Bellow that if he’d stop writing half-engaging books, he might get his one day.