A number of sexy people tried to telephone me tonight. Their voices careened into daring Kappa curves, crossing into other dimensions. When I heard their susurrations, I thought at first that I was somehow drunk and calling a 1-900 number and paying for someone to purr. But no — these were real people with real salutations. They wanted to say hi.

There were problems — the foremost of them being dead batteries. Yes, it was possible to live in the 21st century with two phones that sputtered out dying calls and responses. Both at the same time. It was a bit like the hot dog and bun contretemps, where both supplies extinguished simultaneously. Or one was useless without the other because the hot dogs were gone and there were still a few buns left. Technology allowed these buns to flourish, but no one had done the basic math.

Because of this basic design fallacy, which spread into every known R&D conduit and the accompanying documentation, you could believe late in the week that the phones would somehow last forever. Fly off into the night! Be cordless and free! You don’t need wires or plugs or cables that curl around your legs and strap you into a spaghetti nightmare. Be liberated!

But no one had thought to program these stunning tools with accountability.

The modern age was supposed to empower us. In fact, I have some hazy memory of a Duracell commercial promising sizable staying power — more stamina than a virgin ready to burst on prom night. But it was all a grand lie. And since the technology was so convenient, we bought in.

So to the fab folks who crooned, many thanks, delights, and my apologies. Some of us are ill-equipped. Or perhaps it’s a matter of demanding basic workarounds from our benefactors.

The duo takes on Christian publishing — a veritable subject, though, in light of the various discussions on the Left Behind books and the upcoming Easter one, a slightly dated one. Unfortunately, the Book Babes come across as quite ignorant on the subject they’re writing about. Ellen declares that “The market for books with Christian themes has been a continuing motif in publishing for the past 10 years.” Well, that’s the understatement of the century. I could make a crack here about The Pilgrim’s Progress or the Gutenberg Bible, but instead I’ll just openly wonder about Ellen’s long-term memory. Has she not heard of Lloyd Douglas?

I also have grave doubts about The Da Vinci Code selling solely on its religious content (which Ellen herself even confesses). This was, after all, a book that Laura Bush deigned to read, published outside the Christian book industry. Likely, it was the dumbed down Umberto Eco style that captured reader interest. But did The Da Vinci Code generate the kind of born again fervor that The Passion did? Did pastors and preachers demand that their congregation buy and read The Da Vinci Code the same way that they played into Mel’s hands? Absolutely not. So why bother to include it? And beyond this, what do movies have to do with the “religious book market?”

Beyond this, there’s no mention of Jesus Christ Superstar or The Life of Brian or Nikos Kazantzakis’ The Last Temptation of Christ or Jim Crace’s Quarantine. And that deserves a Special Badge of Honor for Cultural Blindness alone. If Jesus is appearing everywhere in art, it might also be helpful to mention the more subversive examples.

Ellen comes across as equally obtuse: “The millennium, 9/11, and the war in Iraq have all fueled people’s interest in books about prophecy and the afterlife.” Hey, Ellen, have you been paying attention to the raving fundamentalism going down this year? The gay marriage debate and the partial birth abortion bans? The National Park Service thing? Wake up, sister! They may have a teensy bit to do with this as well. And what’s with the “divide between liberal Christians and conservative Christians” horseshit? Next time you’re in San Francisco, I’ll be happy to sing “Ebony and Ivory” with you at The Mint. Are you coming out as a Christian or something? If so, these personal revelations have nothing to do with the state of the religious book market.

But it’s Margo who offers sui generis in the reading miscomprehension department: “Often, people who are bothered with the idea of faith — like Christopher Hitchens, they think themselves too smart to be hooked on the opiate of the masses — are fascinated by its citified cousins, philosophy and ethics.” Perhaps because they’re trying to understand it? Even so, if the Hitchens reference is meant as a disapproving flourish towards his takedown of The Passion, then Margo has missed the point of Hitchens’ essay completely. Not once in his essay did Hitchens call religion the “opiate of the masses.” He was referring to the film’s anti-Semitism.

Having failed to establish The Da Vinci Code as a centerpiece in the publishing industry, Margo then returns to it, offering an oblique reference to it as a thematic token of our culture, without offering a single example for her argument.

So what we get, as usual, is false rhetoric, empty unfocused arguments, and an inability to tie the article into previous takes on the subject.

Poynter, why are you encouraging this tautological thinking? The Book Babes have to go.

Yesterday afternoon, Alan Kaufman held a rally to protest the explusion of a student and the dismissal of a teacher. 100 students and several authors delivered speeches. There are still no answers or explanations from Sallie Huntting.

Mr. Birnbaum has noted here and on his blog that, in the great New Yorker fiction debate, Jim Harrison’s “Father Daughter” has been overlooked. Now that I’ve finally read the story, with its existential themes and its subtle use of details and language, I’m inclined to agree.

Why was it forgotten? Well, speaking for myself, my stack of New Yorkers is half-read, with the articles perused in an very idiosynchratic manner. I read everything after the fiction section and the whole of Talk of the Town. And then, time permitting, I launch into all the articles or, alternately, the ones I have time to read. This system allows me to leaf through the offerings several times and gives me several opportunities to read it all. Plus, it’s a great way to cure a hangover.

But more often than not, I don’t give the New Yorker‘s fiction a chance, unless a “familiar author” has written a story or it’s a special fiction issue (in which case, I read everything). As previously noted, it has a lot to do with the New Yorker‘s emphasis on bourgeois concerns, utterly foreign or overly niggling problems to drive narrative, about as relevant to the average person’s life as Cheez Whiz is to the gouda connoisseur. In fact, it was something of a shock to read Jim Harrison’s story, with its scope extending across race, class and generation. Because that’s the kind of thing I’d expect somewhere else.

So, yes, I plead guilty. But, as I noted before, I rely on other magazines for my short fiction. Even though this is entirely unfair to Jim Harrison. But then it’s also possible to make a case for enthusiasm: What reader wouldn’t swoon at a new offering from Z.Z. Packer or T.C. Boyle?

I suspect that the real perpetrator here is the New Yorker itself. If the New Yorker were to offer two or three stories per issue (as they did back in the day), then the emphasis would be on fiction, as opposed to the singular literary superstar who, through talent, pluck and East Coast connections, managed to score a week under the eiderdown. When I look at the fiction section, I get the uncomfortable sense that peacocks somewhere are extending their feathers. To me, that’s not what fiction should be about, even though that’s the way the publishing industry works.

[NEWSFLASH: This just in. Jim Harrison has tragic results for bookish romantics.]

There’s some good stuff hitting the ‘sphere.

First off, Jimmy Beck takes down New Yorker fiction editor Deborah Treisman — specifically, over the insufferable Ann Beattie story now hitting mailboxes. Now the New Yorker still publishes good fiction (that last T.C. Boyle story comes immediately to mind), but if you need a hard dose of the Genuine Article, the latest Ploughshares (featuring a hearty offering of young writers handpicked by others) and a subscription to the always reliable ZYZZYVA or The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction might be a start. It would be foolish to declare that the New Yorker has jumped the shark. But I would love — just love — for the New Yorker to publish something gritty, something that would reduce us all to tears, if only to subvert the de rigueur digression of McSweeney’s and the overall obsession with upscale Caucasians living in upstate New York complaining about things that a few rounds of therapy couldn’t cure. Why not commission Edward Jones (now the proud winner of the Pulitzer) or Colson Whitehead or Dorothy Allison or someone like Kathy Acker or anyone, goddam anyone, to write about the seamy side of life? At the very least, it might leave a few Caucasians clutching their claret with greater alacrity. But then that’s what fiction is about, isn’t it? Leave in the umlauts for words like “reentry” and spell “role” in that funky way. That’s why we love the New Yorker. And besides, that isn’t the issue. Treisman needs to understand that it’s the 21st century.

Then there’s Laila looking into the Zoo Press deal. I’ve received no callbacks from Azevedo either. But I’ll keep trying. On the Atlantic front, I’ve been playing telephone tag with a very nice lady in the advertising department. Don’t know if I’ll get any answers, but I’ll keep you folks posted.

The illustrious Mark Sarvas remains in New York, but he has, to my considerable astonishment, checked in here when he should be doing other things. Do visit The Elegant Variation and keep Scott Handy some company. He’s doing a fine yeoman’s job at guest blogging this week.

Sam promises to offer a series this week devoted to narrative elements.

There are two big questions at About Last Night: (1) Who’s feeding Terry the Rockstars? and (2) Where the sam hill is OGIC?

And Dan Green (recent winner of the FOG Index contest) has been on a roll too. He takes on literary contest scams, reviewer biases and (bravely) James Wood.

And visit the good folks on the left while you’re at it.

All good stuff. Joe Bob says check it out.