A few people have been pointing out to me during the past two weeks that I’ve been too nice. A sweetheart, in fact. Just the other day, a friend of mine threatened to disown me when I dared to buy her lunch. “What the hell are you doing, Ed?” she said. “Only kind and extraordinary people do that sort of thing.”

Not only have I had email volleys that have been pleasant, thoughtful and without incident, but the tone and demeanor of these communiques have been too kind and considerate. The cheery level of conversation and socializing has kept me swapping book recommendations and shooting the breeze over literature with equally kind and keen people.

I was getting a little worried about all this. So, tonight, I went to an attitude specialist. Even he had to confess that I was being just too damn friendly to people. The cause of this sudden joy and commiseration, and the reason why I was spending all this time thinking about other people, apparently had something to do with breathing in too much oxygen. A combination of preternaturally beautiful California weather and extra lung capacity garnered from a post-bronchitis state.

Well, frankly, I was astonished by this news. I didn’t realize that there was a limit to being nice. And I certainly didn’t realize that it had anything to do with oxygen. But the attitude specialist, a gaunt thirtysomething man with bushy hair fond of Hawaiian print shirts, showed me his “Attitude Specialist Certificate.” When I saw that the certificate had been notarized by the proprietor of the corner delicatessen (with the notary associated with “the state of Freedonia”), well I was immediately convinced of his qualifications.

So to anyone I’ve cheered up, to anyone I’ve given inspiration to, and to anyone who cried on my shoulder, I apologize. I blame the oxygen. The simple truth is that I’ve been far too nice lately. I promise to be a mean bastard from now on and to call you names. I’ll make your children cry, I’ll steal your wallets, and I’ll be sure to cop a feel from your spouses. The last thing the world needs is more kindness. So I’m going to try and scourge myself up until further notice.

This probably means I won’t be posting anything here until Monday.

Really, I’m going to hunt this demon down, this hideous beast that’s too kind to be cruel, and I’m going to put this scarabic fucker back into my soul.

And I’m going to breathe less oxygen. If I can modify my life so that my blood pressure will go up, then I guarantee that you will reap the benefits of my cruelty.

Maybe I can take some lessons from Jack Shafer, who clearly needs a hug from Denton.

Tim Robbins has written a play called Embedded. In These Times has an excerpt. And it demonstrates what happens when a well-intentioned writer goes crazy with the preaching:

Dick I’d like to call this meeting of the Office of Special Plans to order.

Gondola Here, here.

Dick War in Gomorrah progress report.

Gondola War in Gomorrah progress report.

Dick Rum Rum, how does it look?

Rum Rum We are currently sufficiently deployed, locked and loaded, cocked and ready, chompin’ at the bit, poised for engagement, steady ready Freddy.

Dick Excellent. How’s the coalition building?

Rum Rum Slow, but good news. Luxembourg is in. As to the rest of them—Germany, France, Russia—I say, fuck ‘em.

Pearly White Double fuck France.

Well, double fuck me.

Tim Robbins has written and directed some compelling movies. Bob Roberts is pointed in its comic targets, Dead Man Walking is gripping as hell, and the finale of Cradle Will Rock is really something special. But there’s a reason why Stolen Kisses stands the test of time, and Woodstock (also made around 1968) doesn’t. And I’m not sure that Tim Robbins knows it.

Here’s a few hints, Tim: All Quiet on the Western Front, Paths of Glory, Grand Illusion.

(via Greencine)

The Son of Kingsley doesn’t have a U.S. publisher. To my mind, Martin Amis has made several mistakes. Here’s how he can make a comeback.

1. He needs to lose the 1970s high-collar shirts.
2. He needs to realize that a bad boy image is more applicable to Russell Crowe than a guy who’s starting to look like Keith Richards.
3. He needs to understand that an author’s hubris is deflated when the books turned out are dreadful. Talk the talk when you can walk the walk, Marty.
4. As near as I can figure it, Marty can make a last-ditch effort by playing the sympathy angle along the lines of Time’s Arrow.
5. He needs to buy someone off at the Booker Committee.
6. He needs to know that most people scorn privileged sons of great literary figures, regardless of their talent.

(First scouted at Moorish Girl, who I hope is recovering from her terrible flu.)

Since it appears that Poynter will continue publishing the Book Babes, inspired by Ron, I’ve begun a Book Babes Watch. Hopefully, drawing attention to the aspects that most of us have found infuriating will help Margo and Ellen improve their work, or Poynter to make the right decision.

This week, the big surprise is Ellen’s honesty with regard to criticism: “What’s a reviewer to do? Well, maybe the right answer is: Do NOT defend the status quo. We may be so inside the Book Beltway that we’re part of the problem instead of the solution. We write too much about marginal books that enhance book publishing’s precious image, and too little about the form and substance of fiction that catches the popular imagination. This becomes a problem for publishers of any size.”

Well, hell, Ellen, this is what we’ve been saying all along! I’d like to think that the floodgate of comments which greeted last week’s column may have helped Ellen to start asking some solid questions. But I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and suggest that it was the close proximity of other book critics that initiate this brainstorm. I will note that mentioning Richard Flanagan’s underrated Gould’s Book of Fish is sexy by just about any standard, and a good way to live up to the “book babe” label. And in trying to determine the critic’s role in relation to the reader and the publishing industry (specifically how wide the swath is), Ellen has helped start a potential upturn in future columns.

Unfortunately, after Ellen posed an interesting Charles Taylor quote to Margo, Margo responded with yet another tired popular/literary dichotomy. Worse still, Margo fails completely to address Ellen’s issue. In light of the regime change over at the NYTBR, it’s criminal to ignore the importance of what a critic should cover or to speculate upon recent developments. Do coverage decisions enhance or alter what may influence a reading public (or the uninformed dullards like Stuart Applebaum, who base their tastes on reviews without reading the books)? Margo never addresses this and concludes that the publishing industry is one happy umbrella in which everybody is passionate about books and, presumably, all the wild animals dance together.

Margo also fails to understand the “industry” part of “publishing industry.” As unpredictable as the publishing industry is, some people go into the biz to make a profit. It is extremely naive to believe that a publisher isn’t hoping for that breakout hit like The Time Traveler’s Wife or Cold Mountain, and that they are publishing books merely out of their kindness of their purty li’l hearts.

Ellen responds to this and, rather smartly, returns to the Taylor quote unaddressed by Margo. Plus, she uses “jump the shark” and points out the hypocrisy regarding The Da Vinci Code

CONCLUSION:

Much as Comrades Mark and Ron (among others) have noted, it is the opinion of this Court that the Book Babes are improving, but that ultimately Ellen is the more thoughtful of the two. She also seems to listen. This Court urges the 32-member jury to modify its petition and Dump Only One of the Book Babes. The concept of a dialogue between two bookish ladies is a good one, but a proper dialogue involves two people offering their take on topics, and Margo can’t even understand the concept of call and response.