After much writing, revising, and a particularly nasty stomach ache (which may have had something to do with my recent dietary transition to more substantial viands), I went through my back issues of The New Yorker, a stack so severely vertiginous that it threatened to ransack me in the night shortly after transmuting into a carnivorous, vengeful, buckram-bound collected periodical requiring all attentions.

I discovered an exceptionally well-written profile of Lyle Lovett. The profile was written by Alec Wilkinson. At the age of 24, Wilkinson was fortunate enough to befriend the late William Maxwell. (In fact, Wilkinson wrote a memoir about this entitled My Mentor: A Young Man’s Friendship with William Maxwell. Here’s an excerpt.)

I’m not much of a Lovett fan, but Wilkinson is such an incredible, omnivorous observer that I found myself completely submerged into the story. Here’s Wilkinson describing nearly every nicety within Lovett’s house:

The house is furnished sparely. In the parlor, the principal adornments are two saddles, each in a corner on a sawhorse. A plaque on the kitchen wall that says “Beware of Bull” commemorates an encounter Lovett and his uncle Calvin had two years ago with a bull in the pasture behind the house. They had delivered a check to a bulldozer operator who was digging a ditch. Walking back across the field, they discussed a pecan tree that had no leaves when it should have and whether it had to come out. The bull walked slowly toward them. Lovett had found the bull in the pasture as a day-old calf. The calf had followed him as he walked through the herd looking for its mother, and when no cow acknowledged it Lovett decided to raise it on a bottle. Once the bull turned two, Lovett stayed out of its way, since it was playful and was big enough to hurt someone without meaning to. Klein, who is sixty-nine, has worked with cattle all his life, so Lovett felt, as the bull approached, that if there was any reason to be worried Klein would tell him. “Usually, you throw a hat down on the ground or slap your leg,” Klein says, “and a bull will stop long enough for you to leave.”

I won’t dare reveal what happened to Klein, Lovett, and the bull. You’ll have to read the whole thing yourself. But this is the kind of descriptive detail segueing into gripping tale that is the mark of a top-notch writer. Wilkinson certainly picked up a lot from Maxwell. And I was so impressed by his prose that I’m going to try and track down everything the man’s ever written. Anybody interested in creative nonfiction needs to check this guy out.

“What is more, in all three cases, the more demanding the form of [church] involvement — actual attendance as compared to formal membership, for example — the greater the decline. In effect, the classic institution of American civic life, both religious and secular, have been ‘hollowed out.’ Seen from without, the institutional edifice appears virtually intact — little decline in professions of faith, formal membership down just a bit, and so on. When examined more closely, however, it seems clear that decay has consumed the load-bearing beams of our civic infrastructure.” — Robert Putnam, Bowling Alone

Why isn’t there a church for atheists and agnostics? Here we are living in a nation that purports to celebrate the freedom of religion, and yet those who decide to abstain from religion altogether are denied a public place of worship (or, rather, non-worship). We all know that churches actually front as places to meet people (provided, of course, that any given church, as most are, is open to newcomers). And yet while churches have become “tolerant” in opening up their doors to all walks of life, the church concept has failed to take a cue from Flannery O’Connor and whip up a Church Without Christ.

Where are the Churches Without Religion? True, Universal Unitarians come close. But I’m talking about a public hall that isn’t hell-bent on serving up insufferable hymns and slack Sunday morning service. A place that ultimately functions as a nexus point for decent people, without the required commitment to a deity.

Then again, who am I to generalize on the subject? Perhaps there is some comparative basis here. Likewise, the nature of social networks within these inner halls are ripe for examination.

These ruminations stem from some major thinking over the last several weeks on the subject and another long-term project that will replace Miguel Cohen’s Sunday rantings with something more observed and interesting. The idea, to give credit where credit is due, came from my sister. More to come.

Okay, I’m breaking the embargo again and then I shall again deactivate the Internet and return to the hard and happy world of revision.

Here in San Francisco, Spanganga Theater is putting on live recreations of Twilight Zone episodes. They’ll be performing two every weekend. (It started this week.) Upcoming productions include the paranoid Shatner romp “Nightmare on 20,000 Feet” and another great episode involving moral deterioration, “The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street.” SF Weekly has more. Each episode is being staged by a different director and slate of actors. And there are multiple Rod Serlings. This looks like a lot of fun.

Not only can Maud be found in this Sunday’s Post, but as Ron notes, the Times has gone ga-ga over Vollman, albeit mammoth nonfiction Vollman. (And, on the whole, this Sunday looks as if it has considerably more fiction coverage than the last three weeks.) Is there hope for the NYTBR? Has Keller been listening? I’m positive that the gang over at the Saloon will have a tally and a summation of this interesting new development.