décision difficile

I've got a tough decision coming up this evening, friends. The Stranger breaks down my options in their typically pithful fashion:

Bernard-Henri Lévy
7:30 pm
Free
The fantastical French thinker is back with Left in Dark Times: A Stand Against the New Barbarism.

Chuck Klosterman
7:30 pm
Free
The inexplicably popular essayist reads from his new novel, Downtown Owl.

So I'm sure you see the predicament I'm in. If I go see the frenchman, people will think I'm elitist and, worse still, leftist. If I attend the midwesterner's reading, sure, it will help create the illusion that I'm a populist and bereft of a single controversial opinion outside the realm of Saved by the Bell, but I might emerge dumber for it. My father was telling me about how he enjoyed hearing the frenchman on NPR yesterday morning. He sounded envious when I mentioned that I might go see him read this evening. But I think I've already got the Jewish europhile vote in the bag. The midwesterner broadens my reach into the halfhearted hipster crowd. Decisions, decisions.

It is important to note that the frenchman's reading will be taking place at the University Book Store, while the midwesterner will be at Elliott Bay Book Company. These locations are on opposite ends of the city, therefore I won't have the opportunity to utilize that beloved sitcom scenario where the protagonist attends two book readings at the same time to simultaneously curry favor with disparate literary crowds.

But seriously, I'm going to see the french dude and I am trés enthousiaste.

Cultural Amnesia

Yesterday, a cool, cloudy day that called an end to summer in Seattle, was as surreal a Thursday as I have had in some time.

I attended a staff meeting with 23,000 of my closest friends. It was hosted by Rainn Wilson, who began the proceedings by blasting giant plumes of fire from six stanchions on either of the crowd. It was a moment of forced exuberance for the meeting's attendants, exuberance that could not be sustained once the flames settled and the speakers' smoke-blowing began.

We were privy to the world premier of a new ad campaign—more than a year in the making, apparently. The moment Mr. Wilson donned a Seattle Mariners ballcap and jersey and began karaokeing and dancing to Young M.C.'s hiphop classic Bust a Move, a number of thoughts raced through my head, the most interesting of which was, "How the fuck did I get here?" As the procession of speakers continued, this feeling only grew more prominent. It was no doubt a feeling similar to what a certain senator from the Nutmeg State was confronted with a few moments into Rudolph Guilliani insane blatherings at the RNC.

Morally dissonant, perhaps, but all in all, the affair was not nearly as cultish as I had feared. I opted not to take home the complementary red scarf.

Anyway, books, books, books! I bought one at Elliott Bay on the way home from Safeco. It began as a bathroom stop (the ungodly lines for the gentlemen's restroom at the stadium made it abundantly clear how skewed the male-to-female ratio was at this gatherings) but I lingered for a while and eventually exited with Clive James' Cultural Amnesia. Until just moments ago it was lost on me that this title could be read as a diagnosis of those whose company I just left.

Kidding aside, this is a very special book, friends. James, an Australian author, poet, critic and television personality spends 800+ pages on scholarly riffing on fascinating figures from the 20th century. The essays are organized in alphabetical order by subject, from Stalin-era Russian poet Anna Akhmatova to Austrain writer Stefan Zweig, with the likes of Coco Chanel, Mao Zedong, Duke Ellington and Marcel Proust in between. To label book a collection of "biographical essays" does it a tremendous disservice, makes it sound too simple, too dull. The essays focus less on the lives and ideas of the individual than on the larger themes of the century. Each essay's subject provides James a launchpad for discussing, well, whatever he wants. For example, the essay on homeless, womanizing Austrian poet Richard Altenburg ruminates on theories of love and lust in the 20th century; the essay on Louis Armstrong becomes as much about white jazz cornetist Bix Beiderbecke and the role race played in jazz music. Magnificent stuff and trick is really in the way that he succeeds in making all these essays so interconnected, these lives so interdependent.

I read from James' book as I waited to hear a reading by Paul Auster at Seattle Public Library. Paul Auster detective or Paul Auster the writer? There wasn't a Q&A session so I wasn't ablle to ask. He read from his new book, Man in the Dark. The man is great reader and he's got some gravitas to him. The book didn't seem terribly interesting, but both Auster and the fellow who introduced him admitted that they were not really capable of describing it. However, there were some passages that Auster read on the role of inanimate objects in film (specifically in the Grand Illusion, The Bicyle Thief, The World of Apu and Tokyo Story) that was some of the finest writing on film I've encountered. He description of the watch in Tokyo Story was so moving (and the way he read it so tener) that Ozu himself would have been moved. Seriously, I might buy the book just for those passages.

Oh Man

Hi Guys!
It's been a long, long time, hasn't it?
Well, now that I actually have access to the internet at fairly regular intervals, I figured I might re-enter this conversation.
Because here in Bulgaria, I have a LOT of time and I spend most of it reading and eating really good yogurt.
But anyway, being surrounded by Cyrillic and constantly hearing about the country's 'glory days' under Communism, I wanted to do something Russian. So I gave Tolstoy a go and read Anna Karenina. I'm assuming most people have, as I'm pretty behind the curve in terms of my eastern lit. But this book admittedly did not thrill me. In fact, the only real climax came from half-glancing at the last page and throwing it into the corner, 'finished,' three months after I started it. It's one of the few books I've EVER read in which I came away without liking a single character. And especially if Tolstoy represents himself with that Levin dude do I cringe at the thought of reading another Russian classic.
But I am open to suggestions! As I said, I have the hours to put away an entire library.
And mostly I just wanted to say hi to you guys. Miss you!

McSweeney's 25; Haiku review

"The Ape Man," Alexander MacBride

Exchanged at birth death

Polar leaders - one evil?

Steel away - tree rage

Reviewing the Reviewer Review

No, I'm not actually reviewing, just...sending you along. To this article from Salon on Mr. James Wood, a figure I really know nothing about, yet somehow recognize. When I read that name, somehow I already know what he is, osmosis having done its job and brain-burrowed that knowledge over time.

Well, the book sounds lovely, and I think I will have to seek it out, for it's something that I need. That's been my problem always in talking about writing. And not just talkin aloud - my internal dialogue stammers too. Maybe this manual of sorts could help me breathe deep and relax my shoulders; it feels so good to really let them fall. And read.

So a preface to my next fiction adventure, perhaps. Now, though, it's non-fiction's turn with my attention. Dreams from My Father has been a calm delight so far, about 61 pages in. I hope to proceed quickly and move on to the manifesto. Hopeful projections from this point portend that The Audacity of Hope will be thoughtfully devastating.

Next time I'll buy it

"In the year 2021 a multinational fleet—experimenting with untested weapons technology—pitched through time, crash-landing in 1942. The world is thrown into chaos as Roosevelt, Hitler, Churchill, Tojo, and Stalin scramble to adapt to new, high-tech killing tools, and twenty-first-century ways of war."

That, my friends, is what I read just now in the grocery store checkout line when I picked up a copy of Final Impact, The Axis of Time Trilogy, Book 3. I didn't buy it, worried that perhaps I needed to first read books 1 and 2 to get the full impact(!), but I now regret it. One Amazon reviewer calls the book "Fair but unrealistic." To which I say, What could possibly be more realistic than a multinational fleet—experimenting with untested weapons technology—crash-landing in 1942?

Bros. K glass half...Russian

Ok, no it's fully Russian. Man oh man this book is Russian! I know this because I'm still reading it. No, I have not given up. This post is not really substantial, I just wanted to announce that it is March 6th and I am halfway done, and I feel pretty good about that. Thing is long.

Ok one thought: people were super dramatic before they had TV to watch.

George W. Bush Presidential Library

More here.

Nazi Literature in the Americas

The Washington Post reviews the latest Roberto Bolaño book to be translated to English:

The book purports to be a biographical dictionary gathering 30 brief accounts of poets, novelists and editors (all fictional) who espouse fascist or extremely right-wing political views. While several meet violent ends, most are simply deluded sentimentalists and frustrated litterateurs. They come from all the Latin American countries, but at least a half-dozen are citizens of these United States, including the fanatical preacher Rory Long, the poet and football player Jim O'Bannon, the science fiction writer J.M.S. Hill and the founder of the Aryan Brotherhood, Thomas R. Murchison, alias The Texan.

Millieu

I know Tony Millionaire from his Illustrations of The Believer, the McSweeney's lit mag beloved by the 'Loop. Apparently he writes full-on comics as well. Jesse Thorn (best known for his work on our comments boards) interviews this wealthy gent on his radio program, The Sound of Young America (syntax for radio programs...anyone?). I haven't listened yet, but I would wager it's an interesting interview. Tune your radio dial to "Internet."

Ah, Millhauser! There's someone I should read

The parody biography is my genre of choice. I picked up Edwin Mullhouse at the library several months ago but quickly put it back. I shall have to pick it up again .... and read it before I put it back. Here the Times reviews Millhauser's latest short story collection and closes with the following assessment of Mullhouse:

Millhauser began his unusual voyage in 1972 with the parody biography “Edwin Mullhouse: The Life and Death of an American Writer 1943-1954,” supposedly written by Mullhouse’s precocious contemporary Jeffrey Cartwright. All the themes Millhauser would work in later years can be found in that first book: the unstable self, the knife’s-edge difference between reality and dreams, the power of hysterical young people. The way Millhauser conveyed a suburban world where the quiet slippage of the self was a greater threat than violence hardly fit that era. His characters didn’t turn on or tune in. They lived under the indifferent Connecticut sky, moored to reality by their thoughts and their books.

Titlepage.tv is here!

About this episode: We "travel" across the world with some of the country's best novelists. This episode features fiction that takes us to the Lower East Side of New York, a midwestern college campus, the bustling stock exchange of Shanghai, and the neon streets of Las Vegas.

50 states of literature

Two recent additions to the Spectator's 50 books for 50 states project.

Alaska:
Nancy Lord’s short stories, collected in The Man Who Swam With Beavers, despite spanning years, locations, and all sorts of protagonists (both human and animal), are connected by their basis in Eskimo folktales and their evocation, both figurative and literal, of the Alaskan wilderness.

Arizona:
Barbara Kingsolver, of The Poisonwood Bible fame, wrote The Bean Trees about finding salvation in an ostensibly barren situation—appropriately, this low-key debut novel is set in Arizona.

Cormac was so fucking happy

I must admit, I shed a tear when I saw him giving that standing ovation. And I'm not even all up in his oeuvre like that. But there's something really beautiful about a reclusive dude showing up at the Oscars and mugging it up a bit. Bravo, Cormac.

HarperCollins, where authenticty goes to die

Liars suck. But worse than liars are soulless, disingenuous, obfuscating dipshits. For more on soulless, disingenuous, obfuscating dipshits, please read the following paragraph:

Susan Katz, publisher of HarperCollins Children’s Books, said she was not concerned about a possible backlash against corporate sponsorship in books aimed at such a young audience. “If you look at Web sites, general media or television, corporate sponsorship or some sort of advertising is totally embedded in the world that tweens live in,” Ms. Katz said. “It gives us another opportunity for authenticity.”

Ah, authenticity! That's a great buzzword for the decline of human civilization! If we're gonna go down, we might as well go down authentically, mouthes open, happy to accept the marketing medicine that the corporate powers are generous enough to spoon feed us. Yum!

NO! Marketing is by definition the very opposite of authentic. This is so sad. Please, give the kids a book and allow them to escape the treacherous world of corporate oligarchy for a moment. Do not actively try to completely engulf our youth in the trafficking of material opiates. We are living in a distopia, friends. Capitalism has won. Humans have lost. Honestly, we didn't even put up a fight. I blame Susan Katz

Full Times article here.

The Elementary Particles

The Elementary Particles is a tale of two French half brothers who have only a glancing relationship with one another. Bruno Clément is a sometimes schoolteacher and full-time sex addict, Michel Djerzinski is a hermitic molecular biologist who changes the course of human existence. Somewhat less successfully, The Elementary Particles is an indictment of human society, probing topics such as the decay of civilization, the decline of religion, and the rise of consumerism and materialism. The novel packs quite a punch but is ultimately frustrating and uneven. I reject much of what Houellebecq espouses but I can understand why many find him brilliant.

Michiko Kakutani did not enjoy this book. In fact, it sounds like she hated it, "As a piece of writing, The Elementary Particles feels like a bad, self-conscious pastiche of Camus, Foucault and Bret Easton Ellis. And as a philosophical tract, it evinces a fiercely nihilistic, anti-humanistic vision built upon gross generalizations and ridiculously phony logic. It is a deeply repugnant read."

I can’t really disagree with that. Nor, however, can I disagree with Paul Gent's assessment in the Sunday Telegraph, "Again and again Houellebecq digs below our platitudes to expose the raw and uncomfortable feelings we are often afraid to admit to ourselves. His bitterness is that of the disappointed idealist. You may remain convinced that Houellebecq is wrong in his relentlessly bleak assessment of society and human nature. But the novel makes you re-examine your beliefs, which is the kind of bracing challenge that literature is for. This is a brave and rather magnificent book."

It is a repugnant read. Houellebecq's nihilism is unpleasant, his characters are miserable human beings, and the multitude of pornographic passages can be off-putting. But there's a boldness here that is to be admired to go along with pleasing rations of humor. Houellebecq is not someone I would like to have tea with but sharing 264 pages with him was more than tolerable. The epilogue, detailing the extreme step taken to save humanity from its downfall, is bleak yet oddly beautiful. So, too, is the rest of the novel.

Pseudonym surprise

There's this fellow by the name of Robert McChesney. He's a communications professor at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and has authored a number of books on the political economy of media. I read a few of these books in college, including Rich Media, Poor Democracy: Communication Politics in Dubious Times. More recently McChesney edited a fascinating book called The Future of Media. He's also the founder of Free Press and a personal hero of mine.

There's this fellow that goes by the name of Elrod Enchilada who writes about the Boston Celtics for Real GM.

Turns out Mr. McChesney and Mr. Enchilada are the same damn person! Maybe I was supposed to know this already. I did not. Consider my mind blown.

Here are McChesney's articles for The Nation.

Here's a clip of McChesney discussing the press's failure to cover the lead up to the invasion of Iraq.

Here's part one of a five part video on hypercommercialism in Hollywood that features McChesney and my Comm 101 professor, Susan Douglas.

Pornography on the autobus

Picture a bus packed with white collar workers tapping away on their laptops, getting a head start on the workday. Then picture me, wedged betwixt two such laptop tappers, doing my best to conceal the pornographic text of Michel Houellebecq's Elementary Particles.

I knew the book had "caused an uproar in France" and I gleaned from the back cover that one of the characters was a "raucously promiscuous hedonist." Even so, I could not have been less prepared for the events that begin in a jacuzzi, continue with discussion of Krause's corpuscles, and conclude with talk of saggy labia. I'm enjoying the book, but gawd damn it makes for uncomfortable bus reading. The wandering eyes of strangers, they make me nervous. To say nothing of the potential for embarrassment when I rise to exit the bus...

The Society for the Promotion of Good Grammar

They have a blog!

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