Dave Cullen: Books

'The Greatest Story Ever Sold'--what a title. and . . .

Wed, 20 Sep 2006 04:53:07 GMT

And the book looks pretty damn good, too, from my quick stab, tonight.

Frank Rich's The Greatest Story Ever Sold: The Decline and Fall of Truth from 9/11 to Katrina came out today, and is already #2 at Amazon, so you're prolly going to be hearing a lot about it.

I checked it out tonight at Denver's great local bookstore Tattered Cover. Really interesting opening, written in Frank's usual fluid style. And I was really glad to read this in the intro:

This book is not intended to be a harangue about George W. Bush or the war in Iraq, though my views will certainly be evident. What it is instead is a critical retracing of the sophisticated steps by which some clever people in the White House, handed an opportunity and a mandate by the shocking events of 9/11, unfurled a brilliantly produced scenario to accomplish a variety of ends . . .

Thank you! As much as our fearless leader irks the hell out of me, I don't really need to spend time on a detailed analysis of how. The man will come and go as a mediocre to horrible president, and I've already lost interest. He's just not an interesting guy. But, the way the media has been co-opted and participates in promoting these preposterous fictions upon us--that's important.

That's exactly what The Daily Show and The Colbert Report are ultimately all about, and that's why they are insanely popular, and brilliant at the same time. (And most of the press still doesn't quite get them--or chuckles along with them, but doesn't get that they are the butt of the joke more than the politicians. Either they don't get it or can't figure out how to change.)

Those shows do it on a daily basis, bit by bit, but so nice to have someone pull the whole picture together.

And what a gutsy move by his publisher to devote 100 pages to a timeline, showing side-by-side what the white house was saying internally, and the alternate reality they were pitching to us. That's worth the price of the book all by itself. (The book says the timeline will be updated continually at his website. It's not live yet, but there's a "coming soon" sign.)

So far, so good. I'll let you know more as I get further.

Meanwhile, he's going to be the guest on Fresh Air on NPR Wednesday.

And here's the PW review:

Starred Review. This blistering j'accuse has vitriol to spare for George Bush—calling him a "spoiled brat" and "blowhard"—and his policies, but its main target is the PR machinery that promoted those policies to the American people. New York Times columnist Rich revisits nearly every Bush administration publicity gambit, including Iraqi WMD claims, Bush's "Mission Accomplished" triumph, the Swift-boating of John Kerry and the writing of fake prowar letters-to-the-editor from soldiers. He uncovers nothing new, but his meticulously researched recap-cum-debunking—complete with appended 80-page time line comparing administration spin to actual events—builds a comprehensive picture of a White House propaganda campaign to bamboozle the public, smear critics, camouflage policy disasters and win the 2002 and 2004 elections through trumped-up security anxieties. Along the way, he pillories a sycophantic media (Bob Woodward gets spanked hard), spineless Democrats and an infotainment culture that happily accommodates the Bush administration's erasure of the line between reality and fiction. Sometimes Rich's critique of Republican politics as cynical image-manipulation goes overboard, as in his "wag the dog" theory of the Iraq war as a Karl Rove electoral maneuver; more often, though, it's on target. The result is a caustic, hard-hitting indictment of the Bush administration, timed to make a splash in the upcoming election campaign. (Sept. 19)

Amazon link here.

Wednesday Update:

Frank was on The Colbert Report last night, and NPR's Fresh Air today (the first 3/4 of the show). Listen to Fresh Air show here.

Comedy Central repeats Colbert endlessly through the next day, and a lot of stations play or replay Fresh Air at night, so you still have time to catch both. He was great on both.

(And if you watch Colbert, tune in two minutes early to see the preview on The Daily Show. Nothing to do with Frank, but it involves Stephen's word-a-day calendar, which I won't give away, but it still has me snickering just remembering.)

Capote

Sun, 06 Nov 2005 06:05:34 GMT

I swore off blogging for a bit to stay focused, but this I need to talk about.

Just saw Capote. Extraordinary. Especially for a writer. What a gift to get such a glimpse at his process. But . . .

Huge but. But what a cynical take on him. I just don't buy it. He got all those people to open up to him by faking empathy? When he was truly just cold blooded, calculating and entirely manipulative? I guess there are con artists that good out there. I just found it way too hard to swallow.

Now I totally buy that he manipulated people. And that he was routinely conflicted: horrified and saddened, while at the same time at work--he could spot great potential for his own gain at the same moment he experienced great sorrow for them.

But this film showed only half of that equation, hence very little internal conflict. He cared only about himself in this version. Monstrous megalomaniac.

I wrote down CYNICAL! on my note paper about 20 minutes into it. Later I replaced it with cruel. Eventually, comical. Mommy Dearest level ludicrous when he whined that they were torturing him by keeping his alleged friend the killer alive.

Maybe he really was as cold blooded as the killers. But I found that aspect of it exceptionally unconvincing.

And just about everything else about the film pitch perfect. Unfortunately, that was the central conceit.

So I still admire it greatly, with one gigantic reservation.

Mark it a deeply flawed masterpiece.

---

Note: I don't fault Philip Seymour Hoffman's acting, by the way, which was stunning. (And everyone else in the film was exceptional, too.) Unless they left the other half on the editing floor it was clearly written that way and directed that way. Not his decision, it would appear.

The best stories on Capote buried here

Tue, 27 Sep 2005 04:48:46 GMT

In honor of--or rather in order to market--the new Capote film, The New York Times is running something called "A Sponsored Archive," with free links to some of its most important pieces published about him over the years.

(Normally, they charge for archive stories.)

Can't wait for the film. In Cold Blood has been in my top five books ever since I read it about five years ago. And I do hope to knock it off its pedestal one day. Eager to see Hollywood's take on the ghastly compromises he made to create it.

(And as a bonus for visiting the site, you might get to see it much earlier. If you live in Denver, just clicking on it will generate an invite to a free preview screening this Thursday. I assume similar previews are set in other cities.

I am still wading through the archives, but the two richest pieces I found so far are A Book in a New Form Earns $2-Million for Truman Capote, published two weeks before the book, and The Story Behind a Nonfiction Novel, an interview by George Plimpton. The intro to the latter:

"In Cold Blood" is remarkable for its objectivity - nowhere, despite his involvement, does the author intrude. In the following interview, done a few weeks ago, Truman Capote, presents his own views on the case, its principals, and in particular he discussed the new literary art form which he calls the nonfiction novel. . .

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Note: Had to break my weekday silence to let you know about the free tix, and cause it's nearly 11 p.m. and I'm done working for the day. So one more in a sec, since I'm here.

Update:

Trailer for Capote. And great story in the Times: Answered Prayers: How 'Capote' Came Together.

Synopsis from RT:

In November, 1959, Truman Capote ( Philip Seymour Hoffman), the author of Breakfast at Tiffany's and a favorite figure in what is soon to be known as the Jet Set, reads an article on a back page of the New York Times. It tells of the murders of four members of a well-known farm family—the Clutters—in Holcomb, Kansas. Similar stories appear in newspapers almost every day, but something about this one catches Capote's eye. It presents an opportunity, he believes, to test his long-held theory that, in the hands of the right writer, non-fiction can be compelling as fiction. What impact have the murders had on that tiny town on the wind-swept plains? With that as his subject—for his purpose, it does not matter if the murderers are never caught—he convinces The New Yorker magazine to give him an assignment and he sets out for Kansas. Accompanying him is a friend from his Alabama childhood: Harper Lee (Catherine Keener), who within a few months will win a Pulitzer Prize and achieve fame of her own as the author of To Kill a Mockingbird.

Though his childlike voice, fey mannerisms and unconventional clothes arouse initial hostility in a part of the country that still thinks of itself as part of the Old West, Capote quickly wins the trust of the locals, most notably Alvin Dewey (Chris Cooper), the Kansas Bureau of Investigation agent who is leading the hunt for the killers. Caught in Las Vegas, the killers—Perry Smith (Clifton Collins Jr.) and Dick Hickock (Mark Pellegrino)—are returned to Kansas, where they are tried, convicted and sentenced to die. Capote visits them in jail. As he gets to know them, he realizes that what he had thought would be a magazine article has grown into a book, a book that could rank with the greatest in modern literature. His subject is now as profound as any an American writer has ever tackled. It is nothing less than the collision of two Americas: the safe, protected country the Clutters knew and the rootless, amoral country inhabited by their killers. Hidden behind Capote's often frivolous façade is a writer of towering ambition. But even he wonders if he can write the book—the great book—he believes destiny has handed him. "Sometimes, when I think how good it could be," he writes a friend, "I can hardly breathe."

NOTICE: See you on the weekends

Mon, 26 Sep 2005 17:17:40 GMT

Hey. You might have noticed I'm rarely here during the week these days.

Yes, by design. Trying to keep my focus entirely on my book during the week. Hence the big one-day bursts on Saturdays and Sundays. So look for me then. (Or on Mondays when you get back to trolling the web at the office, while your boss is away. heeheehee.)

OK, better try that bigger:

LOOK FOR ME MOSTLY ON THE WEEKENDS UNTIL THIS BOOK IS DONE!

Occasionally I may stop by in an evening, if I've had a great day and deserve an indulgence, or maybe once in awhile for a quickie. (Like just now. I figured since I was here to let you know this, I could pound out a quick reaction to the Housewives.)

But hopefully you'll see a lot of self-control.

See you Saturday.

Faulkner rules!

Sun, 25 Sep 2005 17:52:31 GMT

That title feels a bit silly to me now, but I could imagine no other heading when I first envisioned this post two months ago, so I couldn't forgive myself if I committed it now.

Sorry for the delay. So busy.

But I did what Oprah told me this summer, and picked up my beautiful little boxed set of three Faulkners.

Thanks to everyone who wrote in with suggestions on the order to approach them. I decided Oprah's handlers prolly knew what they were doing by leading me into As I Lay Dying out of written sequence, and plunged in there.

Wow.

For about 60 pages, I was annoyed and perplexed. This shit was really confusing, and to what end? Not an insight anywhere in sight, a group of--I'm sorry, but illiterate southern prairiebillies from half a century ago with no original thoughts on their existence, and absolutely no connection whatsoever to my life.

That was embarrassing to admit. Sorry about the bigoted part. Didn't like feeling those things about "dumb southerners," wasn't ready to admit it at the time, but yes, those thoughts were in there, despite having lived a good chunk of my life in the south and finding just as many intelligent people there as I have in the north, east and west (all of which I have lived in.)

Then, somewhere around page 60 I started to get the hang of how to read him--chiefly, that when it suddenly made no sense, that was OK; don't get so damn frazzled that you have to know everything every moment; just read on, and all will be revealed in time, and luckily almost always within a few pages. That ability--and my new-found willingness--to just ride out the confusion and uncertainty actually started to feel exhilarating.

So he stopped being such a royal pain in the ass relatively quickly, but I was still wondering what the payoff was supposed to be.

The exact moment, I don't remember. Really dawned on me gradually. And I'm not even going to try to recount it here. But these people had SO much to enlighten me with. They were uneducated, and a few of them were freaking stupid to boot, but most of them . . . man.

I was just overwhelmed by the insights these people had buried inside them. And the way Faulkner told his story. And the way the story kept twisting and twisting and twisting again. Not the plot, the . . . hmmmmm. Words are failing me. The revelations? Of both style and content, I guess, they way they were woven so intricately and perfectly together.

Every ten pages or so I just gasped, and though, Wow, this alone makes this book extraordinary. And then ten pages later . . .

Faulkner rules!

yet another love/hate relationship

Thu, 15 Sep 2005 20:23:32 GMT

You guys are so great sending me all the emails, but you really should consider putting them into the comments, so everyone can share. (They're a lot more insightful than the comments crap I read on most blogs.)

Bill, who will otherwise remain anonymous since I didn't ask permission just responded, in part, to my message about Faulkner, a ways back, that I am so delinquent in following up on. He writes:

My favorite quote from As I Lay Dying, Addie Bundren says,

"He had a word, too. Love, he called it. But I had been used to words for a long time. I knew that that word was like the others: just a shape to fill a lack; that when the right time came, you wouldn't need a word for that anymore than for pride or fear. Cash did not need to say it to me nor I to him, and I would say, Let Anse use it, if he wants to. So that it was Anse or love; love or Anse: it didn't matter."

You writers have a love/hate relationship with words.....

Hahaha. Never thought about that. Even when I read that passage. Loved the hell out of that passage as well, but never noticed the contradiction. Or at least the paradox.

Then I was about to accuse Bill of forcing the other Bill's demons onto me, when I realized I share that love/hate relationship exactly. Why do I think I responded so strongly to the scene?

Ahhhhhhh. The things we will never see in our own reflection. Thanks for pointing that one out. Now what the hell am I going to do with it?

I have a question for you

Wed, 27 Jul 2005 23:46:37 GMT

I've been on quite the reading binge this summer.

Just goobled up Nicholas and Alexandra, all 571 pages, in eight days. The old dave might have spent six months or a year on that.

I'm still in the middle of The Genius Factory, but I had this urge to sink my teeth into something meatier. So I started Infinite Jest, which is 981 freaking pages before footnotes, which didn't necessarily intimidate me, though I'm 43 pages in and it's depressing the hell out of me.

Could be just that I was depressed early this week. Could be it. Intermittendly loving it and getting dragged down by it. Wasn't sure why for awhile, then I realized how incredibly detached it feels. Distant from its characters. He doesn't seem to really care about them.

Which thought immediately sent me scurring for Chekov, though he seems to have escaped from his post--peeking with his little monocle through the latticework of my bookend just above my writing table. I only have the one book of shorts by him in the house. (Which isn't actually a house, of course.)

But then today I was roaming the bookstore--Tattered Cover, one of Denver's few manmade treasures--and spotted Oprah's summer book selection. Three Faulkner classics, all the wonderful Vintage editions, packaged into a beautiful slipcase. On sale for 22 bucks. How could I refuse?

Especially since, as I will admit here and now, I made it out of not just high school, but grad school, in English, without ever laying eyes on a sentence of his. (Not that he wasn't required. I had this authority problem for awhile. Couldn't read anything assigned. Also became a game to see how high I could score just faking it from class discussions. Not in grad school, of course. But it was too late.)

So here is the question for you:

Where to start?

Three books in the set.

Chronologically (in order of his writing):

The Sound and the Fury
As I Lay Dying
Light in August

Yet Oprah has assigned them in this order:

As I Lay Dying
The Sound and the Fury
Light in August

She just flipped the first two. Because Dying is easier to work your way in, maybe? Not a bad reason, if that's it.

Or should I stick with Infinite Jest awhile?

I really do feel Faulkner calling me, though, which usually indicates the road to proceed. Hopefully I'll manage to get back to Jest. Perhaps to catch my breath with something exceptionally modern, after one or two of these Faulkners.

Ever since I finished The Sheltering Sky--in May, feels like an eternity ago now in reading time--I've been thirsting for another novel that will completely rock my world. Don't seem to appear every day, those worldrockers. (The link in this case is to my blog entry on it, though I was way too lazy and/or intimidated to try to capture any of the rocking.)

Nicholas and Alexandra was one great piece of meat, and wonderful writing, though the author was often an incredible jackass. Got way too close to his material, or something. Just really strange to read 500+ pages of indictment of those two ghastly people--He merely pathetic, she despicable--only to have him jumping in incessantly to apologize for them. What!

That's one book that never should have been written by a hardcore monarchist. (Whether he cops to it or not, he worships the ground royals walk on. Clearly, he feels his/our inferiority deeply.) Almost comical in that regard, but infuritating.

Still, I had a wonderful time with it, screaming back at him in the margins with my little blue pen.

And hey, I guess getting angry at a book is OK. Lot of good there. As long as I can respect it.

OK, so I'm still waiting for my answer. Seriously. Comments, people, or email me. This is a real dilemma for me, and I want to get started on this Faulkner guy like . . . now, actually. So which should it be? Order please, and a reason. Thank you.

Dirt is a magazine you never heard of

Mon, 25 Jul 2005 18:18:45 GMT

Because you don't live in Boulder.

But I used to and I met one of my best friends there, in grad school, which apparently took quite a while to germinate for us.

(Eight?) years later, he has his first novel out, Girls For Breakfast, which you might have seen me shamelessly hawking here.

But the Dirt people--Jennie Dorris, specifically--loved the novel and were nice enough to put him on their cover this week. And they included him on the inside, too--pretty funny interview.

(He also got a great review in Publisher's Weekly recently, by the way, and a string of newspapers pubs around the country, which I've been too lazy to get around to posting.)

hennyway. You'll prolly be wanting a sample from the interview. OK:

d: You mentioned answering phones. Are you talking about doing temp work?
DY: I temped for five and a half years. My specialty was reception work. I would get those one-day-a-week-for-six-months reception jobs. The first year or two, I would befriend people, and everyone thought I was a rock star - I was a cool guy that writes. By the time I was 29, I was the creepy old guy that writes stories at night.

d: A lot of the issues in the book revolve around growing up Korean American. Did the gawking in your hometown of Avon, Conn., continue in white-bread Boulder?
DY: It was old hat by the time I got there - I've always been an 'Asian sighting' wherever I go.
d: Did you enjoy being Boulder's only Asian?
DY: Actually, when I was there my hair was about 30 inches long, and because it's so sunny out there, I used to be tan. So I'd hang out at the Catacombs, and at least once a week some guy would come up and ask me what tribe I was in.
d: And what tribe were you in?
DY: I used to tell everyone that I was an Apache.

d: So you have a novel from Random House and two official interviews under your belt. Is your life completely different?
DY: My life hasn't changed at all. It's a weird thing, my life is no different than it was two years ago. And two years ago I was an abject failure.
d: So, with four rejected novels it must have taken a lot of perseverance to keep on writing. Did you have any mantras to keep you going?
DY: From ages 25 to 30, every birthday and every New Year's Eve, I would say to myself, "This is the year I'm going to write and sell a novel." Every year I thought more and more that I should start wishing for something I could get, like a pizza coupon.

That's pretty much what he's like in person, too. She did a good job of capturing him.

And if you found that even mildly amusing, you're going to really enjoy the tone of the novel.

Hey. If you read the interview, the pix from various stages of his life are pretty funny, but click here, to see the cover for an idea of what he looks like now. Very different. (It's an artist's rendering, but nails him.)

Calling a dufus a dufus

Thu, 14 Jul 2005 01:06:12 GMT

Just watching Matt Tiabbi, author of Spanking the Donkey, interviewd on The Daily Show.

Liked the guy immediately, then he told a little anecdote about his time covering John Kerry's campaign that ended like this: "So I have to give him credit for that, as much of a dufus as he is."

Nice! From that moment on, I was in full swoon.

This from an obvious leftie. The good kind, willing to tell the truth. No BS. The Dems nominated a dufus again. Twice in a row. (What is wrong with you people, by the way?)

Sure, I voted for him, and I'll bet Tiabbi did too, but that doesn't mean we have to pretend the guy had the slightest clue how to relate to (fellow?) human beings.

Ahhhhhh. It's an old story. But he didn't harp on it--as I am; whoops--just rolled off his tongue. Every moment of the interview felt honest.

And when Jon pointed out that journalists come off uglier than the politicians, I knew this guy could see clearly through the crap.

(Please don't tell anybody I often slither through that unspeakable profession ("profession.") Let's just keep that our little secret.)

---

Now then. I'd love to read Tiabbi's book, except for pet peeve #37, gifted writers who also work as reporters but are too lazy to actually write their book and instead just select a bunch of columns for their publisher to slap between two covers.

Come on. I would love to read your book, Matt, but first you have to write a book.

That mini format is lame enough for daily or weekly publications, who the hell wants to read it in a book? The whole point of diving into a book is that you can sink your teeth into something deeper, longer in narrative arc, not just in number of pages. A freaking storyline would be nice. Even a modest attempt.

So maybe I'll check it out at the bookstore, read a couple of the columns, hopefully generate a handful of gleeful smiles. And wait for him to actually write a book.

(Or maybe, just maybe he'll surprise the hell out of me and somehow transcend the form, but hard to see how that's actually possible. Will let you know if I was wrong.)

Meanwhile, looking forward to looking for his byline. He writes for The NY Press, Rolling Stone and The Nation, none of them a regular read for me, but maybe I'll start looking.

The Genius Factory

Wed, 13 Jul 2005 22:27:38 GMT

I'm about 100 pages into The Genius Factory, and totally engrossed.

From the first page--opening in-scene with a slightly wayward kid discovering his deadbeat dad is not really his dad; his dad was a genius and his mom knows he has great potential--I was hooked.

Some of the stuff about eugenics I thought was slightly narrow-minded, but so far, that has been a brief abberation.

Author David Plotz has a great sense of timing and of storytelling. He knows just how long to spend on each subject, and when to circle back. And it's a fascinating subject. (The first and only Nobel Prize Sperm Bank, and the desire by its founders to litter the earth with baby geniuses.)

And the writing: crisp, incisive, a really satisfying read.

I hope he continues pulling it off.

Disclaimer: David was my editor for the two stories I did at Slate, and presumbably will be again next time I write for them. The main upshot of that is that if I really hated it, I may well have kept that information to myself, but I'm not about to write anything here I don't believe.

(And it's not like I need to suck up. He's eager to have me write for them again, any time I've got the right material. So at this point, a suckup wouldn't make any difference. But that's the disclaimer anyway.)

---

So welcome to my new experiment in commenting on books (long) before I finish with them.

I always thought I had to wait, but on that True Story book, I got the idea that it would be cool to let you in on the ups and downs of it as I went along. It did so many things so brilliantly, others just made me shudder. I kept wanting to comment as I went, but was too busy--and sometimes too enraptured to get here. (Though not always. The middle 150 pages was deathly dull. Not the writing, just the material.)

But I knew what I had to say all along, so in my head I already ran through the experiment, and I liked the results, so away we go.

Update:

I'm too lazy to write a synopsis of the book, so here's the Pub Weekly review:

Building on a series of articles he wrote for Slate, Plotz investigates the legacy of the Repository for Germinal Choice, a California sperm bank that was to have been stocked exclusively by Nobel laureates. Very few donors in the institution's 19-year run really had Nobels, and the one publicly acknowledged laureate was William Shockley, a notorious racist. Plotz has fun poking holes in the eugenic vision of the repository's founder, self-made millionaire Robert Graham, and his ambition to collect "the Godiva of sperm."

More captivating, however, is Plotz's recounting of the efforts of the women who visited the repository to discover the identities of their donors. As he gets to know a cluster of families and donors, Plotz reaches insightful conclusions about the unforeseen emotional consequences of artificial insemination. The "reunions" his research helps bring about include the elderly scientist who adopts a grandfatherly role in a young girl's life and a teenager who takes his wife and infant son along to meet his "dad" and finds him sharing a house with Florida drug dealers.

The attempt to breed genius babies may have an aura of surreal humor, but the sensitive narration always reminds us of the real lives affected—and created—through this oddball utopian scheme.

I feel dirty

Tue, 28 Jun 2005 21:51:47 GMT

I just finished True Story: Murder, Memoir and Mea Culpa.

It gives me the shivers.

And I just realized something as I typed in the title. Maybe I don't hate it anymore. Because the first two words are aggressively ironic, though I'm not sure they were intended that way. (The author opens by imploring us of the opposite.)

So much of it was maddeningly boring, but I have to admit it had a powerful payoff. The climax was unexpected (I won't spoil with any specifics), and more revolting than I could have imagined.

Throughout, though, I had a lot of intense distrust of and occasionally disgust for the author--interspersed with intense empathy. But the empathy only made me quiver, because this is the story of a master liar and manipulator, told by an admitted liar and manipulator, and the juxtaposition just made me horribly wary of people like him. What on earth was he thinking?

Maybe I'll feel better about him some day. He's probably a really nice guy, and I really want to believe him and like him--and totally expected to--but after watching how effortlessly and adroitly this murderer could fool everyone around him . . . I'm just not ready to.

Most of all, I just feel sickened by the lying. When you can't believe a person, can't trust them, what do you have? Everything that matters between two people--or between individuals and large groups or institutions like our schools or churches or governments--is based on what we know and believe to be true about them. On truth we take for granted. It's hard enough to know who to get close to, who to spend our time with and develop our feelings for when the truth is laid bare in front of us. When it's not, when a person is full of lies and deceit and deception, when that person shatters our trust in other people . . . That's just the most heinous crime I think they can commit to us. Ugh. Nothing ever ever ever makes me more unsettled than people who shake my ability to trust.

Girls For Breakfast

Fri, 17 Jun 2005 16:23:53 GMT

I think you're going to like this.

It's the first novel from the one (other? heeheehee) great writer from my MA program.

It’s angry and ballistic and ridiculously funny, but man—it will break your heart. Nick Park is Korean Americans and hates himself and his parents for it, but hasn't quite has figured that out yet.

Delacorte is really behind this—lead YA title for summer, I think. It’s a coming of age story, so they slotted it YA, hoping for crossover, positioning Dave as sort of a grittier David Sedaris doing the Asian GOODBYE COLUMBUS.

Oh, it's called Girls For Breakfast. Because Nick has this idea about rescuing himself socially, and it's not always pretty. Or particularly sane. Like when he finally figures out his Asian eyes are a problem, so he starts wearing a baseball cap every day to cover them. Yeah, that's going to throw the other kids off.

He doesn't even realize what he is until he gets in trouble in high school and his parents drag him to a Korean church. The kids there inform him he's a banana. What? Yellow on the outside, white on the inside. Yellow? I'm yellow?

He's kinda baffled and highly disturbed. Eventually draws a line down his forearm with a highlighter to see if it matches. If it ever disappears, he knows he's a goner.

He does all this completely earnestly. He's 12, 14, 18, only gradually figuring it all out. In extremely painful spurts.

And Dave (David Yoo, the author), tells it with a brutal candor that will give you the shudders sometimes. But you'll be cracking up again a few lines later. It's so funny because it's so painfully ludicrous sometimes, yet totally believable, and the narator has no idea

Brace Yourself.

Update:

I got copies for both my nephews who are graduating this month. Will let you know their reactions once I get to Chicago and they actually read it. But I have a feeling this is the present they'll remember.

And I have never posted an ad on my site before, even a quasi ad, but since it's my buddies first novel, and I can't remember how to upload a pic to my site:

Writer heaven

Fri, 17 Jun 2005 16:13:58 GMT

Suddenly it's bookwars at my world.

The good kind. In the middle of five books at once.

Three of my friends released books within two weeks. Never even had two within two years, before. And then there's that True Story book by my old NYT Magazine hero that I can't put down. And I someone got me to pick up Rimbaud, finally, "A Season in Hell," and this Jean Genet book was waiting for me at the bookstore, which I had ordered months ago and never remembered, and they're incredible.

Reading a little of all of them. Can't figure out which one to pick up at any moment.

Writer heaven.

The one I've been meaning to tell you more about though . . .

Maybe I should add a separate entry for that.

Update:

Oh, the three friends' books:

A bit more on them here.

The Fundamentalist-Evangelical Split

Wed, 15 Jun 2005 17:35:38 GMT

No, I'm not talking about some big flare-up this week or this month. The original schism between the two.

If you've always wondered what the two terms mean, Beliefnet is featuring an excerpt from Wendy Murray Zoba's book on Evangelical Christians that lays out the split.

Great little informative read, and gives you a taste of what you'll find in her book. Prolly not the most fascinating subject matter for people outside that particular fold, but gives you an idea of her style.

The journalist, my hero and the murderer

Wed, 15 Jun 2005 06:03:33 GMT

I had to stop reading the cover story Salon just posted after the first page.

Nothing lacking in the material, or Andrew O'Hehir's treatment of it, quite the reverse.

It's past 11, so the bookstores here are closed, but first thing in the morning, I'm hopping on my bike to snag a copy of Michael Finkel's book True Story.

The subhead of the Salon story capsulizes it expertly:

A disgraced New York Times reporter learns his identity has been stolen by an all-American hunk who killed his wife and three children. The result is the most unlikely "True Story" you'll ever read.

And then there's the starred Pub Weekly review:

In 2001, Finkel fabricated portions of an article he wrote for the New York Times Magazine. Caught and fired, he retreated to his Montana home, only to learn that a recently arrested suspected mass murderer had adopted his identity while on the run in Mexico. In this astute and hypnotically absorbing memoir, Finkel recounts his subsequent relationship with the accused, Christian Longo, and recreates not only Longo's crimes and coverups but also his own. In doing so, he offers a startling meditation on truth and deceit and the ease with which we can slip from one to the other. The narrative consists of three expertly interwoven strands. One details the decision by Finkel, under severe pressure, to lie within the Times article—ironic since the piece aimed to debunk falsehoods about rampant slavery in Africa's chocolate trade—and explores the personal consequences (loss of credibility, ensuing despair) of that decision. The second, longer strand traces Longo's life, marked by incessant lying and petty cheating, and the events leading up to the slayings of his wife and children. The third narrative strand covers Finkel's increasingly involved ties to Longo, as the two share confidences (and also lies of omission and commission) via meetings, phone calls and hundreds of pages of letters, leading up to Longo's trial and a final flurry of deceit by which Longo attempts to offload his guilt. Many will compare this mea culpa to those of Jayson Blair and Stephen Glass, but where those disgraced journalists led readers into halls of mirrors, Finkel's creation is all windows. There are, notably, no excuses offered, only explanations, and there's no fuzzy boundary between truth and deceit: a lie is a lie. Because of Finkel's past transgression, it's understandable that some will question if all that's here is true; only Finkel can know for sure, but there's a burning sincerity (and beautifully modulated writing) on every page, sufficient to convince most that this brilliant blend of true-crime and memoir does live up to its bald title.

The key for me was "a burning sincerity (and beautifully modulated writing) on every page."

Which brings me to my strange connection to this man.

I've never met him or spoken to him. But when the scandal broke, I was stunned. He had just recently been christened my hero. Writing hero.

I will confess here that a glorious afternoon in Novemeber 2001 was the day I discovered The New York Times Magazine was not the piece of crap I had always assumed it must be. Here were the two key facts previously at my disposal:

1) Most of the so-called magazines inserted in Sunday newspapers are something of a joke, or at least they were when I was getting started in journalism, and I'd never gone back to see if any of that had changed.

2) As great as the reporting can be in the Times, the writing tends toward the flat, dry and artless.

So I assumed the magazine was even worse.

But then I had a story to sell and my agent assured me the Times magazine under Adam Moss ranked near the top of the heap, so I pitched it to them and they weren't quite ready to bite, but interested. So I went to the Denver library, piled up a stack of recent issues and began the dreadful task of wading through some of the stories.

My dread ended almost immediately. The writing was crisp, lively and engaging. Nearly every story. But one leapt out so far above the others, I photocopied it, tucked it into my bag and cleared a special place for it on my writing desk. From the opening line, I was transported. Every time I felt lost or drained of inspiration, I flipped through it and smiled. And remembered how great it felt to inhale wondrous writing. And every time, I found my voice again, because he reminded me what I was looking for.

He hadn't exactly knocked Nabokov off my pedestal, but he was alive and young, and traveling the world writing exactly the sort of stories I wanted to cover exactly the way I would like to be writing them, for a publication I would love to see them appear in.

The piece was sitting just a few inches from my fingertips as I sat at the computer five months later, April 14, 2002, and typed in nytimes.com to check out Frank Rich's column. The editor's note caught my eye first. The story ''Is Youssouf Malé a Slave?'' had been something of a fraud--a composite character presented as an individual. And Michael Finkel, my new hero, had been fired.

I was mad at him for awhile. For all the obvious reasons, and for depriving me of my hero and of fresh examples to inspire me. Of a career to inspire me, to aspire to. For doing it to himself. He might have become one of the great writers of our day. How could he sabotage himself like that? And why?

I talked to several journo friends about it, and they were equally baffled. I think one of them interviewed him and wrote about it, and remained baffled, though now I can't remember who.

But I was also afraid. That places like the Times magazine would be warier of trusting unproven writers like me. That the public would trust us even less than they did now. And just this odd sense of fear, that somehow I could be someday drawn into the same temptation. When a role model reveals corruption, what does that say about the person who chose him? Just bad luck, probably, but the scary little fears that I was somehow tainted or infected by the association stuck with me more than a year.

I still think about him from time to time. And that no matter what he did or why he did it, he was still an amazing writer. I figured we hadn't heard the last of him. He would probably have to give up journalism, but that would hopefully just force him into a novel, and we might soon be wading through the next Sheltering Sky.

So now this. I actually heard about the story on a plane nearly two weeks ago, but too busy to follow up till I got back to Denver this week. I could have sworn it was written up in the Vanity Fair with Angelina Jolie on the cover, but couldn't find it in there the past two days.

Kinda glad now. Read just enough tonight to know it was time to stop reading and get the book. I'll let you know how it turns out.

Update:

Got the book as planned, engrossed from the first page. He's intercutting two stories at first, and each time he cuts away from one I can hardly bear it. That's good. Very good.

One step up from prostitute

Tue, 14 Jun 2005 06:03:04 GMT

Just read the Booklist review of Wendy Murray Zoba's new book (released today), The Beliefnet Guide to Evangelical Christianity. Check out this opening:

Citing a 2003 poll, Zoba reports common knowledge: "Americans generally" dislike evangelicals "more than any other social sector, except for prostitutes."

Wow. It's amazing how many people think the evangelicals have taken over the country, when they're actually getting trampled into the dirt.

And if you spend any time at all with them, you realize how badly they can feel it. Why do you think some of them behave like cornered animals?

Evangelical christianity--she wrote the book on it

Tue, 14 Jun 2005 02:09:00 GMT

I have three friends with new books out. This has never happened before.

David Plotz, my editor at Slate, has a big new book from Random House, The Genius Factory. More on that soon, as well as on David Yoo's Girls for Breakfast.

But Wendy Murray Zoba, a friend and collegue I got to know covering Columbine was asked by Beliefnet and Doubleday to write The Beliefnet Guide to Evangelical Christianity.

The two are teaming up for a series of books on the various world religions, and at this moment in time, this one and the one on Islam are arguably the most important for most Americans, who are largely unfamiliar with both.

Really cool that they asked her to write it. And she has spent her life working in the field, but still spent ages researching it.

It comes out tomorrow. I have not seen it yet, but here's Publishers Weekly's review (scroll down about one screen to the Editorial Reviews section):

Here we have evangelical Christianity in a nutshell, written by a former Time and Christianity Today journalist who describes herself as an evangelical. Using Beliefnet's characteristically breezy and accessible writing style, Zoba tells the truth about evangelical Christians. They are not all in agreement on political issues such as abortion and homosexuality; they don't all reject the theory of evolution; and while most believe in the inerrancy of the Bible ("when scripture says something, it is telling the truth"), they interpret scripture in a variety of ways. This guide claims that evangelicals share certain core religious values: they believe humans must have a "born again" experience to become Christians, emphasize a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, trust in the reliability of the Bible and "feel obliged to share their faith in Jesus (which they believe saves them from eternal damnation) with other people, in order to save them, too, from eternal damnation." The book works overtime to rescue evangelical Christianity from the notion that it promotes only individual concerns, with Zoba emphasizing the many ways evangelicals are working hard toward social justice and the alleviation of poverty. This guide delivers what it promises—a broad view of evangelicalism designed to help readers be more tolerant and accepting of this branch of Christianity. (June 14)

I have spent quite awhile covering Evangelicals, and while we definitely disagree on some key things--like the alleged sinfulness of my gay existence--I have found much more there than I expected. One of the most misunderstood groups in America. Partly because they are not one monolithic group. And that's a lot of what she tries to unravel.

Supermarket books

Thu, 28 Apr 2005 02:17:34 GMT

Interesting story in the Times about the big surge in supermarkets selling hardcovers (look past the rimshot headline):

Attention, Shoppers: Sale on Fresh Books in Aisle 3

At first I was mildly depressed, because you know the focus in going to be on bestsellers.

But it's also getting books to people where they live. I've seen very few industries or companies profit by acting snooty and demanding customers come to them, buy in the environment the sellers want.

If this is bringing books to people who normally don't buy them--or buy them often--then you're expanding the market. Same argument as with Oprah. The important thing is getting people reading, buying books, making it part of their life. They'll get tired of the shallow ones eventually--the more complex people who were going to anyway--get hungry for more depth and scout around till they find it. Just get them in the freaking door.

I think people who want more choices and diversity will go looking for it. And no physical bookstore can match Amazon and the onlines for that.

I was also pleasantly surprised how big these displays were getting. Not just the mini revolving racks anymore, these can be big sections of the store, with browsing areas and chairs to read and so forth.. It says "Kroger book departments can carry up to 2,800 titles." There's a great picture of one that looks like a section of a bookstore.

Now I know the emphasis is on bestellers, and the Grishams will get the big displays, but they do in the bookstores, too. And 2,800 mostly-new titles, that's room for a moderately big list.

Out of all the books published? God no, tiny list. Out of the books a lot of grocery store patrons have ever lied eyes on? Huge.

I may rue these words, but I think it's a positive sign.

I think the industry drags its heals almost as bad as the Catholic Church. They need to get their butts moving on making books relevant again, getting them out into the world, into peoples' lives.

Oprah was a big step and lots of them gave her nothing but grief. This is a good step too, I'll wager.

Enjoying Slate more for the fat pills

Tue, 26 Apr 2005 17:12:52 GMT

Though Slate is known mainly as a political mag, and almost equally now for culture, I consistently find some of my widest smiles generated by their informational pieces: specifically the Explainer feature, occasionally Medical Examiner, and doubtless a few other incarnations where I've been oblivious to the labels.

Not because they are better than the culture/politics pieces, which are usually quite good and sometimes quite extraordinary. (*One little disclaimer below, but first a quick note on my favorite political piece of the year--in any magazine:

The Pope Didn't End Communism--which not only convinced me of its thesis against all odds, but provided an alternative so powerful it actually shifted my worldview. The best piece written during the entire popewatch, because it went so far beyond anything related to mere popes. And delivered it through a story so gripping and so personal I expect to be retelling it into my 80s.

Yes, Slate can do that stuff exceptionally well. But so does the Times Magazine, so does Salon, and in a different vein so do Harpers and The Atlantic. But none of those add in the unexpected little pleasures of the Explainer and its variations. Slate seems to have that field all to itself. And I never would have expected it, but I perk up every time I see the little entries for them. Truly puts a lot of smiles on my face.

Odd how nobody has thought to steal it yet.

All to itself within the confines of my little world, anyway. I'm sure that if I subscribed to Discover and JAMA, this stuff would all seem redundant and exceptionally shallow. But I don't, and why the hell would I want to? I did enjoy Discover for two or three months back in my 20s, but I quickly discovered I didn't have nearly the time nor energy nor justification in my life for that many plump servings of science.

Slate's Explainer stuff provides just the right dosage, often with just-in-time delivery: like an assortment of interesting aspects of how to select a pope last month--personal favorite: Is the Conclave held in Latin?--or last year, How Do You Pronounce "Abu Ghraib"? (Though the last one just drove me nuts, because no full-time journalist on the planet seemed to have stumbled upon it, or bothered to investigate independently.)

During Big News! interludes they shuck the timeliness, focus on enticing peculiarities.This week included: Does the FBI Have Your Fingerprints?, Who Counts the World's Icebergs?, How Much For That Monkey?

Hennyway. My point? Great piece posted late-late last night called, Someday, There Will Be a Fat Pill. (What the hell are they doing posting stories at 1:32 a.m. PT, by the way? And since they're not really based out of Redmond anymore, it most likely really went up at 4:32 a.m. ET. Yikes.)

So the fat-pill piece. Really interesting read. Incredibly broad, complex subject, whittled down expertly, delivered clearly yet concisely. And a damn good page-scroller, assuming you're into that sort of thing.

---

* But my conscience tugs. (Once a Catholic . . .) It seems a bit disingenuous to heap such praise onto Slate's wonderful culture work--which is actually rivaling Salon these days, sometimes even surpassing it--without finally unloading about the lone perplexing exception. What's with the idiotic and sophomoric TV critic they seem to have plucked out of some high school newspaper? And I don't mean sophomoric in a good way. Don't think South Park; picture Summer from The OC reviewing The Valley. That would be season-one Summer, before Mr. Schwartz wizened her up several notches, to make her a plausible, pleasurable, legitimate foil for Seth.

But they do make up for her with the always trenchant and perceptive David Edelstein on fillums.

Speaking of Seths, how can I get out of here without praising my other perpetual fave, the always delightful (TV) ad report card, where Seth Stevenson rips open the latest abominations and unexpected surprise in the most pervasive art form of our time. (Sorry, but they are. Shitty, but still pervasive.)

For me, Seth provokes the same underlying response as The Daily Show: ahhhhhhhh.

Just when I'm sure my soul is about to explode from the latest outrage, Jon or Seth or Stephen Colbert step up to the mic with a little smirk and reassure me I'm still not the one going crazy. No, nobody is actually swallowing this crap. Well, a few people maybe, but the elated audience response persuades me there are a hell of a lot more gaggers out there than just Jon, Stephen, Seth and me.

Thanks.

People who know better . . .

Fri, 22 Apr 2005 01:47:20 GMT

. . . than me.

I mentioned Sarah Vowell's book last week, how excited I was to hear it was out, too giddy to wait to actually read it to share my enthusiasm.

And the verdict is . . .

Still out. God. Who the hell did you think you were talking to? I just started The Sheltering Sky a few weeks ago, in a strange fit of self-torture when I was feeling on the verge of clinical depression, and now that I've dragged myself through 60 pages of it I'm determined to see it through.

Not that it's a dull piece of crap, not by a long shot, I just have a really hard time spending time with people who are miserable. I read very sloly, because I love to savor the experience, and it's really hard to savor misery.

So I don't pick it up very often, and if I start anything else now, no way in hell will I ever return, and I really meant to read this while I lived in the Middle East, but I was truly on the cusp of insanity then, with good reason, and just knew better than throwing gasoline on that fire.

So why the hell am I speaking up then, with nothing to say?

A couple of my favorite readers have weighed in on Sarah, and as usual, they have something really insightful to say. I want to share Gail's comments with the whole group:

Here is my totally half-cocked opinion about Sarah Vowell - she's better when Ira Glass is editing her. He tightens her up in places where its really needed, and keeps her voice pure. Unlike David Sedaris, where he's great on This American Life, but then you read the same essay in one of his books, and its even better - its clear that stuff had to get chopped for time constraints. I did like Hold The Cannoli, but I can't get through Partly Cloudy Patriot.

Interesting. I know a lot of writers like that. Me, for instance, sometimes. Don't they have editors at Viking though? Sounds like maybe she needs a new one. Or just needs to avoid hiring Gail as her publicist.

Now I'm really intrigued. Will definitely skip over those and head for the new one conceived as a complete work, but not until I can get those damn characters out of the Sahara. (And they're not even in the Sahara yet. But they will be.)

In the continuing tradition of things I'm still unqualified to talk about, but kinda too giddy not to . . .

Sat, 16 Apr 2005 18:54:58 GMT

Heeheehee. You've been warned.

OK, Sarah Vowell.

Technically, I'm highly qualified to talk about her, just not any of the print work I'm about to plunge into here. ("in to"? I'm just never sure when I'm supposed to uncombine those words, though I know it makes me shudder now and then when someone combines them in a clearly preposterous fashion, which is of course, constantly.)

You would think I would have learned from the Colors Insulting to Nature incident. The title still makes me snicker. Shot right up onto my all-time top ten list. (At least a notch or two above Eyes Wide Shut, even counting the sentimental value of my good friend David Yoo calling me all apoplectic from the bathroom one afternoon to announce yet again that he had crafted the greatest title ever for his latest novel. I sighed, waited for the lame attempt and was stunned to find myself stunned. Wow. That's an incredible title. I want it. Sadly, he called an hour later to inform me he had just come across it splayed across a magazine ad. In a magazine he had been flipping through just minutes prior to his toilet epiphany. Yeah. Ahead of that.)

So top ten title ever, plus I have relished every word Cintra Wilson has ever published in Salon, so how could I fail to fall in love with this book. Though I did worry ever so slightly about whether her razor-tongue style would grow a little wearisome over two to three hundred pages.

But I blabbed about it here anyway.

Not much, and I did inform you that I had yet to read it, but I did share my premature enthusiasm publicly. It grew wearisome in about three sentences, to annoying to go within three pages. Not the style, so much, as the fascination with it, at the expense of the lead characters, who were already so preposterous in that amount of time I didn't see any way I could ever believe them.

Shit. And now I've just reviewed a book publicly based on three pages. Crap. Who knows. Maybe it gets way better. All I know is, I'm unlikely to continue, so I still love Cintra but I'm hoping she can at least start out better the next time.

Meanwhile, I have yet to read a single sentence of one of Sarah Vowell's books.

So I'm not endorsing them, but I sure can't wait to plunge into one. Because I smile every time I hear her nasal twang open a piece on This American Life, because she has never ever disappointed me there once.

Amazing storyteller. Nakedly candid, unexpectedly insightful, wickedly funny. Try to beat that combo. (Hmmmmm. Same combo as my friend David's upcoming book Girls For Breakfast actually, but more on that down the road a bit. And have I mentioned how much I hate calling him David? Between you and me, his name is Dave, but you know, we're supposed to be all literary when we publish, so David is on the book cover, so I'm supposed to call him that any time I mention him out in public, but I feel like such a liar, so now I've confessed once and will forever hold my peace. Or try to, of course.)

I can't believe I never hunted down her work before. The main problem was I had never managed to even track down her name. Guess I didn't try very hard. But she was on Fresh Air last night on the drive in from the airport, and I managed to scribble it down without driving off the freeway. (Merely onto the shoulder, briefly.)

Seems I'm a bit behind here. She's got at least four of them. And Goddammit, she's pumping out about one every two years. God, I hate people like that. And plus she wrote for Salon before I did, and appears to have published as much in one year as I did through the course of my entire relationship with them. While working for This American Life. And pumping out all those books. Is that really necessary?

And they're all freaking great. (Again, extrapolating from just the . . . Life pieces, since I've yet to actually read a word of her in print.) But I'm assuming.

Hennyway, she's got a new one out, called Assassination Vacation, and I'm highly pleased to see that it's apparently a single work of art and not just a collection of essays, because while I don't begrudge for a moment any hardworking, underpaid writer milking the packaged-up product for a hell of a lot more money than they ever earned from the radio bits or the magazine pieces, not to mention that only-from-a-book literary prestige even some of their untalented friends continue to hold over them, but please don't make me actually read the blasted thing.

If I want to listen to a great This American Life piece, I'll listen to it on the radio. Preferably in does of three to four pieces at a time, which coincidentially enough is just the way they serve it up each week on that show. I'm sure I would enjoy it more than the horror of reading a hundred of Maureen Dowd's supposedly witty in some circles newspaper columns back to back--or any string of shallow, outdated op-ed columns back to back, but why would I want to waste any of my time on that, when there is actually great art out there created specifically for the long read I hunger to immerse myself into?

So I'm hoping Assassination Vacation makes me happy and inspired and a little bit restless that I still haven't pumped out anything that good, but by God I'm going to.

I'll let you know.

Metaphor abuse

Wed, 06 Apr 2005 19:41:14 GMT

Watching Charlie Rose over lunch.

Just put my finger on what chafes me so badly about Thomas Friedman. (OK, one of many gross things he does, but a biggie.)

The metaphors. Tom, enough! One metaphor to explain another. Then hammers the same one over and over: "It's like pouring cement down your oil well." And always delivered with his patented smugness.

Particularly irksome from him, because they're such a manifestation of the characteristic I knew bugged the crap out of me, his incredibly pedantic condescension.

Putting everything in terms the little people can understand.

And completely missing the mark in the process. Concrete in my oil well? Lexus and an olive tree? These are touchstones in my daily life I can relate to?

Sure, I can run through the mental process of envisioning that concrete down the oil well, but I have to run through the mental process. And all I get is a mental response, the exact same effect he produced with the explanation pre-metaphor.

I got it Tom, when you explained how China attacking Taiwan could lead to companies like Dell pulling production out of The People's Republic. A good metaphor could have transformed that purely rational conclusion into an emotional response. It could have made it resonate by mapping it onto a profound experience I had already had, transferred the gravity and power of that experience onto the principle he was attempting to illustrate.

Instead, I was left cold with an oil/cement scenario further removed from my experience than the example he was trying to breath life into.

Huh. That's it. I am pretty familiar with wars already. Lived through several. Studied hundreds more. Felt the shudder when the bombing starts, vividly aware the world was about to change, mystified about how. Lived through the consequences.

The original scenario he assumed I couldn't quite comprehend was pretty real. It's the metaphor he picked to explain it that baffles me. (Carefully selected and repeated and repeated; you can bet it's in the book as many times as he repeated it on the show.) Is that something they actually do when it's time to close up a well forever, or was it supposed to serves as an example of a crazy thing one would never do?

The idea that this would resonate with my personal experience . . . Is ludicrous enough to convince me this poor sap has no idea that that's what metaphors are for.

Don't get me wrong. The guy seems to have a great mind for understanding how certain foreign entanglements work. (At least he has when I can bear to read or listen to him.) If only he could figure out how to communicate them.

Or quit trying so hard?

Frank Rich nearly gets his due

Tue, 05 Apr 2005 07:53:59 GMT

The Pulitzers.

Often maddening in their choices, and yet the distinction still carries a lot of clout for some reason.

So for all the frustration they cause, I might as well point out when they sort-of recognize someone really worthy.

Frank Rich did not get one of the little (medals?) this year, but he was named as a finalist for the criticism award:

Also nominated as finalists in this category were: Frank Rich of The New York Times for boldly exploring the influence of popular culture on American politics and society, and Carlin Romano of The Chronicle of Higher Education for bringing new vitality to the classic essay across a formidable array of topics.

"Boldly exploring . . ." That's a pretty good capsulization. I'm not sure anyone's ever done a column quite like this before, at least anywhere near this prominently. If you haven't checked him out since he switched from the op-ed page back to Sunday Arts, it's really something.

The clash of art and politics. When he first started it (two years ago already?) I thought he could never keep it up week to week. Where would he possibly get enough material?

The fact that the column never feels like it's scratching for material is a revelation in itself. Who know those worlds were interacting so intensely.

It's what George Magazine aspired to be but never came close to realizing.

Frank does. Week after week. Wonderfully.

---

(I've got a permanent link to his latest columns on the right side of this blog, if you ever want to get to it easily. It's the first entry under "More Great Sites," right under the blogroll.)

If ever there were a worse job to date someone you worked with

Fri, 01 Apr 2005 22:33:33 GMT

I took a little break from the popewatch this afternoon--(whole fresh range of emotions battering me on that front; more on that later)--for something a little lighter.

Survivor.

Man. Don't know how many times I've said this, but this show sure has seen a resurgence this season.

Burnett desperately needed to shake up the game somehow, and he didn't but somehow it managed to shake itself up. Never been anything quite like this.

Can two people call themselves a tribe without laughing? Haven't they turned into a couple? And what will they do if the merge is delayed and they lose again? Vote both each other off and just dispense with themselves? (Yes, I know the answer, but it tickles me to picture their "council.") Can you imagine one person showing up for the challenges after that?

But the merge normally occurs with ten remaining, so we're likely to be spared that sight.

This was the first time I was actually rooting for the threesome in the immunity challenge. As much as I wanted to see this play out all the further, I just didn't have the heart to wish it on them. But there it was.

It wasn't till the immunity challenge that the contrast just got so damn . . . tragic. (Not tragegy on the level of a pope dying, mind you, but in the context of this little world they have been isolated into . . .)

Like watching the damn Third World, over there. Starvation, dwindling population, burning their old shelther in a desperate last-ditch attempt for food . . . Failing at that attempt . . .

(I realize the Third World is suffering from the reverse problem on population, but the image of them wasting visibly away to nothing cried out as such a stark metaphor for the feeling of dwindling resources and dwindling hope in parts of the Third World.)

Of all moments for Bobby Jon to mention being afraid of the sharks. His look as Tom when on to tell of facing off one of the suckers, hacking him to death and feeding the little guy to his tribe, an actual tribe of eight people--priceless.

That face of Bobby Jon's is just so expressive. Can't tell you how much I enjoy watching it.

And listening to his candor. Heartbrakingly honest, sometimes. Like when he got all excited about how well they had done their SOS. We worked real hard on it. I'm sure the other team did, too, though. Could have outworked us on it. Or outthought us, that's how it usually goes.

It sure did. But the look of realization on his face, that no matter how strong his spirit is--and he is a freaking little tarzan--they'll outmanuever him every time and all his strength means nothing.

And then the immunity challenge. He is so out of his league.

Why did they send him up on the stand to lead it? The trouble is, they didn't have any smart people left on their team. I'm not saying anyone there is stupid, they probably cast most people of above average intelligence, but none of the three are particularly gifted in their brain matter.

But he was pretty pathetic scratching his head solving that puzzle they had spent the entire morning with.

And just to prove it wasn't a fluke, he pulled just about the stupidest move of the game by admitting to Stephanie that he was completely bullshitting her about their alliance. What? If you're going to make a firm alliance, then break it--or consider breaking it--one vote later, for God's sake, you need to keep that little double-cross to yourself.

How can someone not know this? Backstabbing is typically not conducted in the front. For a reason.

If Ibrahim wasn't just as thick as he was, he would have jumped at Steph's offer and BJ would be out of there. But it was a lose-lose for him, regardless. Ib was to dense and too trusting to go for it--hmmmmmm, he's playing both of us, I wonder if I should trust him--but what makes him think Steph ever will? Presumably they're about to merge and he's going to need any help he can get from her--oh, and he's still planning to "go to the end with her" somehow--why would he think for a minute she would trust him. He just demonstrated that his word to her meant nothing.

Not a clue how to play this game.

But he sure is endearing to watch.

Meanwhile, the real game hasn't even gotten started yet. The smartypants team has barely had a chance to play out anything yet.

But that cute guy Greg and his girlfriend sure have painted monumental targets on their own backs. The only thing more puzzling is how they can possibly be in such denial about it.

Aside from it going without saying, they lie there with six other people staring at them incessantly, watching every move, and then walk off together and agree it's probably a "non-issue."

On what Survivor planet?

They're just too much. And these people really are smart, or at least Greg is. What's his excuse?

So the actual game is finally ready to get underway in the next couple weeks, but I find it unlikely those machinations will live up to what we've witnessed so far. This show is like a deep rich novel with a great suspenseful plot. The plot can keep you flipping through the pages to see what happens, next, but it's always the amazing characters and the unlikely developments along the way that make it worth the ride.

Soon Bobby Jon will be gone, and there will be a tiny little hole in my life each week where I used to watch all those exhuberant, ecstatic and increasingly tortured expressions play out all over his angelic little face.

No matter how unendurable the Oscarcast . . .

Tue, 01 Mar 2005 06:55:06 GMT

Cintra Wilson always makes the 3+ hours worth it, just to fully appreciate her always hysterically trenchant recap in Salon..

A few choice morsels:

This was the Oscars that raised the question: Does Jay-Z own the accounting firm PricewaterhouseCooper? Because that's the only explanation I could come up with for that joyless, airless, tense, inhuman ordeal of a Beyoncé concert.

The neurotic, sphincter-clenched pacing, which was perhaps some accountant's idea of how to keep things moving, made the whole thing indigestible: kind of a cross between "The Chronicles of Riddick" and microwavable White Castle burgers. The crucial human element was scuttled for the sake of some talentless vision of speediness . . .

These are wartime Oscars, and they looked it: cheap, tense and cobbled together from graphics rations donated by the E! Channel. No frills, no batteries, no butter, no seat fillers and no entertainment -- just repeated overdoses of Beyoncé, who looked like a chandelier made out of Audrey Hepburns.

Heeheehee. Ahhhhhhh, to write like that. And every one of those sentiments, nails it.

I wish to God I had spoken up about the pacing. I was so glad to have it not drag on forever I felt a little guilty about my annoyance that the whole thing felt so rushed.

Here's the deal. Some things take a long time. And yes, all the technical awards for people I've never heard of for achievements I can't really appreciate bore me, though it would be kind of revolting to push them aside. Instead they pushed them aside into second-class status without really saving more than a handful of seconds here and there. They just made the whole seem cheap and rushed.

Rushed in so many ways, all the wrong ones. As Joe said in the comments of an earlier post:

. . . as the triumph of Million Dollar Baby shows, Oscar voters love emotion and emotional stories. And there's nothing quite as emotional and heart-tugging as a familiar film clip that knocks your emotional socks off. That opening montage by Chuck Workman and the ongoing film clips thruout the telecast were so fucking over-produced and over-lapped and over-stimualting, that all you could do was hope to figure out from whence which film the clip came; there was no time for the clip to hit your emotional senses. And since these clips are often the emotional high-points of the show, i really, really missed them.

Couldn't agree more.

It's the extended clips that usually get me. The irony is that Chris Rock (inadvertantly?) pointed out the ensuing problem in his dull opening monologue. He said this is the only awards show where you don't get anything we're awarding: no music like the grammys, etc. "There will be no acting her tonight."

Yeah, that was the problem. There usually is. Not live on stage--that's a whole different animal and these aren't the Tonys--acting on film. We normally get a healthy dose of that, and it's what makes the show come alive, reminds us why this all matters to us so much.

Because on those two or three or four glorious occasions each year when we we walk into that theatre hoping for some decent entertainment, and step out two hours later with our pupils dialated, our mouths gaping and our minds reeling . . . Well, it makes us want to stand up and hand an award to those wonderfully gifted people who can make these magical moments in our lives--which illuminate the magic in our lives--an award.

They trimmed all that away to save time for the puzzling annual "entertainment"--mostly miserable versions of five typically medicore almost always sappy lovesongs, typically the most embarassing awards of the evening.

There was no acting there tonight.

Maybe someone should have read that monologue and reconsidered.

But at least we have Cintra.

Somebody give that woman an award.

Update:

I hadn't read the whole Cintra piece when I wrote that. Later, I got to this killer bit on the techie awards:

Wayne Brave proposed that all the little, non-famous, art-and technical-award people should get half-size, mini-Oscars. I felt this would aptly illustrate the eye-rolling derision and exasperated loathing the Academy felt for the people who won these awards this year. Oscar could not bring himself to let these dirty little crew people onstage, perhaps out of some Howard Hughes-like phobia that non-celebrity is contagious. Blanchett and Scarlett Johansson presented the Lesser Awards on various handicap ramps in the auditorium; a subtle semiotic way for the Academy and PricewaterhouseCooper to say, to makeup artists and sound editors, Crawl back to Culver City and fuck yourselves for sucking precious camera time away from Renée.

Yet Another Freaking Update:

Just discovered that since I checked in with her last, Cintra published her second book and first novel. Title: Colors Insulting to Nature. That made me howl. Twenty minutes later, and I'm still snickering.

And who could resist this description from the Amazon review: "The object of Wilson's loathing is the "ego-porn" Hollywood . . ."

Ahhhhhh. Can't wait to read it. Hope the girl can sustain it for 368 pages. Ready to dive in and see.