[Long rambling rant omitted.]

Taking a break. Will return later. Don’t know when.

[Also: March 20 is National Clitoris Day. If in San Francisco, why not check out Sia Amma’s show at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts? Proceeds go to women in Sierra Leone who are victims of gential mutilation.]

Those crazed tartan-wearing journalists are at it again. The link between terrorism and fiction certainly deserves to be addressed, but there are better ways to go about it than this:

The one fictional insight into terrorism everyone knows or at least everyone claims as authority is Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent. It’s not Conrad’s subtlest book but sadly just one line has been lifted from it and waved about as if it were a profound truth: “The terrorist and the policeman both come from the same basket”. Taken out of context, it’s one of the most dangerous ideas ever to travel from a novelist’s mind and into the collective (semi) consciousness. Even allowing for the oddity of “basket”, which might be Conrad’s Polish-English idiom faltering when he meant “nest” or “cradle”, or might be his shrewd economist’s mind recognising that ideologies can be shopped for, even allowing for all of that, it’s a dangerous idea to take as your text.

Yo, Bagpipes! Conrad learned his English when he was 21 by reading the London Times and Shakespare. And he was 50 when he wrote those words. I’m pretty sure he knew what he was writing when he wrote down “basket.”

(via Moorish Girl)

The people who have been “outed” as me aren’t me, nor are they you, BdJ, Free to Be, You and Me, Edward Champion, or Dr. Mabuse. Furthermore, these people have attracted attention that is neither wanted by you nor unwanted by me, or anywhere within the twain. For those who wanted the attention, or who mistakenly believed they were loved, or for those who believed that they were “outed,” or for those who are convinced that they have a book deal, are you mad? There are only a few people who should really care and who can be loved, or who believe that this is a big deal, or who hope to stroke BdJ’s leg on the mantle.

To the critics “working” in anonymity, who have not yet been “outed” or who secretly hope to be “outed.” You have too much time on your hands, and it is quite possible you want to believe that you have “outed” yourselves. Failing that, there’s the red lipstick, the graveside bukkake, the book deal, and of course the fact that your “outing” isn’t necessarily wanted or unwanted by those who have “outed” or who are “working” to be wanted.

I quote a cynical stalker: Please. Give me strength. My life is empty. I want to fuck people for money too. To them I say, there’s a Frederick’s of Hollywood at your local mall. Whip out your credit card and begone! We need more whores in Bakersfield.

This is rubbish that has been “outed” and is not “working” and far too meta for my taste. I want to write to those who’ve been fucked (i.e., not “outed” and “working”) at least three times, preferably through their own charm and initiative. Let us return to lots of fucking, “outing,” and other things that are “working,” so that everyone can more or less be wanted, shall we?

Failing that, a public viewing of Paul Verhoeven’s Business is Business (1973) will do.

Amazon reviews, blurbs, and now Lit Idol is tainted.

“I cheated,” Losada admitted. “I voted four times.” There were some empty chairs in the room, and each chair had a voting machine. She scooped up a few extra and voted again. “I was very concerned that the best writer win. I only had four votes. I suspect he would have won anyway.”

(via Publisher’s Lunch)

More on Tanenhaus. What Literary Saloon said.