Amsterdam Marathon 2007

Yesterday we were up early and on the train -- I mean the bus, since the train tracks were closed for maintenance -- and then the tram to the Olympic Stadium in Amsterdam (site of the 1928 Olympics) for traca da broon's second running of a marathon. She was nervous, suspicious that she hadn't trained enough over the preceding four months.

The place was wild with health, 20,000 string beans still a little groggy from their pasta freakouts the night before, all milling about, strapping on water-bottle belts, munching Power Bars and sucking Power Gels, stretching, and -- for God's sake -- jogging all over the place. Everyone packed into the stadium, the runners spread all around the track, with the Ethiopians and other first-class strictly running machines all in front, tiny heads seemingly balanced on top of leg muscles.















Somehow I spotted my darling amidst all this humanity.














The gun went off. And it took ten minutes for them all to squeeze out of the stadium, to great fanfare and loud cheering. She passed under the brick entrance and was gone.



Leaving me to kill five hours in Amsterdam. Inspired by all this running, I decided to walk to the Leidseplein, about a four and a half kilometer trek, mostly through Vondel Park. Well, by the halfway point I was limping on my bad knee and whimpering for a tram, but there was none to be had out in "nature."

I was following the course in the opposite direction, and before long who came trotting by but my baby. She looked great! And, seeing me hunched beneath my backpack laden with her clothes, my books, old dirty sticks of gum and the like, asked me how I was. "Oh, fine, fine!" I nearly added, with a whine: "You go on without me!" We waved. She was gone again.

Staggering, hobbling, I finally arrived at an Irish pub on the Leidseplein and found a table. I had really worked up an appetite and ordered the Full Irish Breakfast. As a hefty chunk of Black Pudding dripping in yolk speared to a piece of toast was all headed toward my watering mouth, an old Irish guy at the table directly across from me got up and stumbled over.

"I'm going to be a bit nosy and have a look at your breakfast." I hesitated, then moved my trembling arms away from my plate. "Yeah, yeah, looks okay. What'd they charge you for that?" he inquired. "Nine euros." "Not bad. I make that for myself every day." When I didn't say anything , but only stared at him with what I hoped was impatient indifference, he went back to his table, and I tucked in vigorously.

Then his wife came back from the toilet (yes, you say that enough times and it becomes okay -- no one was bathing in there, believe me). And the man said to her, "Have a look at the boy's breakfast." And she came over to scrutinize. "Now, could you eat all that?" he called. "No, I couldn't," she said -- with almost a sniff of disdain.

They got distracted by rugby on the telly, and I resumed my feed. Then I began reading a manuscript I'm going to be editing, about avatars and Second Life and whatnot. But the lighting was bad, and eventually my back started hurting, and my eyes were swimming and stinging from smoke, and I needed to walk. Right around this time, traca must have been reaching the halfway point -- 13.1 miles into her run.

I headed down the street and strolled into a Smartshop, which still had seven kinds of magic mushrooms lining the display window. The man, working alone in there, gave me a friendly hello, and we had the following exchange in half Dutch, half English.

"So, what's going to happen with the ban?"
"Well, we're eight votes away in the parliament from blocking it, a huge petition is going around, and there's going to be a huge demonstration next Saturday."
"What about these Growboxes?"

"They have psilocybin in them because they are live myceliums, so those will be banned too."
"So, if they do actually ban this stuff, what's next?"
He plunked down a little glass vial in front of me, and a syringe. "This is next. Spores have no drug in them, they will always be legal. Inject the spores into the growing medium, and voila, 30 days or so."
"So the ban will just accomplish moving production into people's houses?"
"Correct. That and LSD will make a big comeback."
He told me about a Web site devoted to reversing the ban (which traca had already found for me), showed me a bunch of other, interesting things -- but I'd had my walk and soon returned to the Irish bar.

Where I noticed something new.

On the back of the little flyer it said, "You think Red Bull gives you wings? This is like a jet-pack." I was sorely tempted, but had work to do and instead ordered my fourth Diet Coke -- which still has coca leaf extract in it, by the way.

Eventually, I simply couldn't read anymore in the dingy light amid so many restless rugby fans, and it was time anyway to return to the stadium and see if she would make it. She hadn't called me on the cell phone, which was a good sign. But I was worried she'd be broken somehow, and how would we get her home?

I took a tram and found a place near the stadium and waited. Many of the people coming by wore faces twisted in horrific grimaces, many were shambling along on God knows what secret energy stores, what final scraps of determination and sheer will, many were crying. But then, right when she said she'd be finishing, here she came, all smiles and waves.

I could hardly believe it. What gets into a person to do such a thing? I was surprised at the lump that had formed in my throat. My mouth was hanging open. I yelled encouragement at her and started snapping photos. After she ran by, I headed for the stadium and basked in the wonder of thousands of exhausted but grinning runners, cheered on to the blasting sounds of Katrina and the Waves' "Walking on Sunshine." I had always thought of that song in terms of LSD slang, but these people appeared not to use that to walk on sunshine. Again, it takes all kinds.

We met at our prearranged spot. She looked wonderful! Was not even out of breath. Said her leg cramped a bit when she bent down once, but that was it.

Ate bananas on the way. Listened to the new Radiohead at the 30K point. She showed me her medal. I was so proud of her I couldn't think of what to say. It was like meeting an alien. "What is it like on your planet?"














Enjoying our first day's benefits of having a dogsitter, we took a tram back to the Leidseplein for a well-earned pint.














And then came back to Haarlem and had what passes here for Mexican food. You're likely to find almost anything in your burrito. Sketchy-looking "salad" items, baby corn, cucumber. With fascination I dug a chunk of steamed celery from mine.

At long last, homeways was rightways -- and we were off to bed, after a long, hard day.

Bookmooch

This seems like a darned good idea.

What shall we do, we who are at war but are asked to pretend we are not?

The Des Moines Register interviews Marvin Bell on the occasion of his 17th poetry collection, "Mars Being Red."

Laurel's book is out

Laurel Snyder, of Jewishy Irishy fame, has published her first book of poems, called The Myth of the Simple Machines.

Haven't read it yet but that's the coolest cover I've seen in a while. Yay for Laurel!

Of course I found this in Holland

And of course I found it growing right outside our doctor's office, here in Haarlem.

This is the famous fly agaric (Amanita muscaria) of fairy tale lore, one of the earliest psychedelics ever used by humans.

First one I ever found, and I have been hunting mushrooms for years now. Really extraordinary to find one of these inside a city's limits.

This species has a long, curious history of intruding itself into human imagery.
















































And even, I wonder, about this from the news today...

Place your bets

Update: Doris Lessing -- whose formal education ended at age 13 and once wrote a book called The Making of the Representative for Planet 8 -- has won the 2007 Nobel Prize for Literature. Somebody could have made a lot of money!

You can bet on the Nobel Prize in Literature (TBA Oct. 15) and the Booker Prize (TBA Oct. 16) online at Ladbroke's. Never heard of many if not most of the nominees. How sad that is.

Nobel current leader is Philip Roth at 5:1. Murakami is fairly strong at 8:1, Joyce Carol Oates a bit further behind at 10:1, and Margaret Atwood and Thomas Pynchon just now rounding the final turn with 20:1 odds each. I think they should pick Pynchon just to see if he shows up.

Booker: Lloyd Jones is sitting pretty at 2:1, with Ian McEwan nipping at his heels with 5:2.

Last year Ladbroke's was correct in predicting Orhan Pamuk's prize.

"I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free ..."

Heated battle over severed leg left in smoker

I am now severely questioning my career choice.

Radiohead's giveaway

Update: I was able to pay 5 pounds by using a different email adress. And let me tell you, after 4 listens, it's their best album. Heard it here first!

As you've probably heard, Radiohead's new album In Rainbows is going to be available for download from the band's Web site Oct 10 -- and apparently from nowhere else. Pre-orders being taken now. A box set is coming in December, also seemingly only available from the Web site. The download costs whatever you feel like paying. I finally managed to get in and enter what economists might call my "rational" or "optimum" price: 0 pounds and 0 pence.

But the more I think about it, the less I like it. Just because Radiohead can afford to do this doesn't mean they should. If the recorded music of the Biggest Most Bestest Band In The World 's value suddenly plummets to zilch, what does that do to the rest of the market? Up and coming bands, mid-career bands ... they have to eat and pay bills. Radiohead seems to think they'll make the money up on touring, but not everyone can do that either.

I worry for working artists when I hear stuff like this. Suppose the richest, most successful writers started printing and selling their books for free? Where would that leave the rest of us?

I wish I could go back and change my price to something reasonable, but it won't let me. Says I can only have one download. Now I am part of the problem.

Congratulations Arda

I know this place is a little heavy on the fiction at times, but for now please congratulate Arda Collins on her New Yorker poem, Not for Chopin.

Questions for Craig Finn, of the Hold Steady

So, I'm interviewing Craig Finn about literary influences in his music. Knowing that I have a treasure trove of literary knowledge (excluding Dunkeys, who I'm still looking at) right here on this little blog, I thought I'd ask if anyone has some good questions. Especially the poets, considering the importance of John Berryman on the latest record.

In related musical news, anyone remember that kid Ezra Furman from Iowa Young Writers Studio (the kid I had to find a rabbi for in Iowa City so he could celebrate the sabbath -- sample exchange between me and rabbi: Rabbi: "Who is this person? I can't have a crazy person in my house." Me: "He's fifteen -- how crazy could he be." Rabbi: "Plenty crazy.")? I was cruising the hype machine for songs and came across two of his. They're actually pretty good.

What ails the short story?

Stephen King takes a crack at this now seemingly perennial question. I totally agree with this part:

In too many cases, that audience happens to consist of other writers and would-be writers who are reading the various literary magazines (and The New Yorker, of course, the holy grail of the young fiction writer) not to be entertained but to get an idea of what sells there. And this kind of reading isn’t real reading, the kind where you just can’t wait to find out what happens next (think “Youth,” by Joseph Conrad, or “Big Blonde,” by Dorothy Parker). It’s more like copping-a-feel reading. There’s something yucky about it.

By the way, anyone still read Stephen King? I believe the latest novel of his I read was The Tommyknockers. I don't remember much about it. I wonder if in more recent years his own writing has gotten an upgrade similar to his literary credibility. I did like his book about writing. I did not like the "death-by-cellphone" excerpt of Cell that I read a few years back in Entertainment Weekly at the Deadwood during a Simpsons commercial break.

Anyone know this story by its vague description?

So, I was at this cocktail party with a local author, and Lumpy started talking about this short story that had to do with the mistakes people have in their memory. I thought the thing was called "Peaches," by a Japanese Writer, but I can't find it anywhere. It was the first or second story in one of the collections I taught at Iowa, and it had to do with a boy and his mother pushing a baby carriage full of what I thought were peaches. Anyone have any idea what I'm talking about, and what collection it was in?

And, by the by, that's me and the baby wolves at our private beach, which hopefully entices one of y'all to come visit (an invitation I meant to put up in June -- honestly, I can't believe the summer is over).

So, if you know the story, help me out. I'm looking at you, Bernard.

Hello, Friends

How nice to check this blog after a long hiatus and see that you're all still here and still being funny.
I'm writing to say hello and I miss you, and also to ask you to help me with two things:
1) I just moved to Philly and know only one person. Do any of you know anyone here who might like to be my friend?
2) I'm teaching a creative writing class, and I've asked them to write a scene of dialogue comprised only of questions. If any of you are bored at work, or bored in general and want to whip up a funny one I could use as an example, I would be very happy and very grateful.

Thank you thank you.

Antoine Wilson reading Wednesday

He will read from The Interloper at Prairie Lights starting at 7 p.m.

The slaughter of 16,000 hyphens

We can apparently blame the Interwebs for the OED's mass killing. "People are not confident about using hyphens anymore, they're not really sure what they are for." And: "The hyphen is seen as messy looking and old-fashioned." There's always been a tendency for two words to "date" -- the hyphen as chaperone -- and then marry, becoming one word. But interesting to me are the words that have "broken up": water-bed is now water bed, and ice-cream is now ice cream.

And it's true, they do seem old-fashioned (oldfashioned? old fashioned?). Consider the Onion headline from 100 years ago: Will the Steam Engine Replace the China-Man?

Let me be the first to say: I for one welcome our new antihyphen overlords.

Upholding tradition

Good to know that Talk Art is alive and well. Wish I were there to go sometimes.

Making Books Cool

And another...

I'm happy to report that Kim & Pete have just brought another boy into the world. Roscoe Bell was born this morning at 8:10am, weighing in at 6lb 10oz. K&P are both tired but well.

Anyone Want To Workshop?

So, after a very long hiatus, a baby, and a dark night of the soul, I really want to get writing again, as I've realized my internal happiness really took a hit when I stopped doing it and concentrated on teaching, making enough money to survive in the Northeast, and changing poopies. While my three main concerns aren't going away any time soon, I was wondering if anyone wanted to start passing around stories over the Net?

And, interestingly enough, I work at Roger Williams University Law School now, and the guy that wrote the article on workshops in the Atlantic teaches in the J-school.

So, let me know, and God Bless Us, Each and Every One.

Find out your actual favorite candidate

at the Candidate Calculator. It's very fast and surprised me. Apparently Mike Gravel is -- by a wide margin -- my dream presidential candidate, as he is among the largest percentage of visitors to that site. Kucinich, Obama, and Hillary are my next best, in that order. Not sure what that says about me, because I think Mike Gravel comes off as a kook. Perhaps I, too, am a kook. A little disturbing that it seems I am voting style over substance, because I am going so far for Obama.

Continuous computer-generated "news poem"

Richard Valentin, former lead singer for the Poster Children, has created an art project called HOURS. Basically his computer scans the major news sites every hour, finds the two most common words, then prints them out on a continuous sheet of paper. A sample 24-hour period:

iraq	bush
iraq	bush
iraq	bush
iraq	korea
iraq	felix
felix	basra
felix	korea
felix	basra
felix	korea
felix	korea
nuclear	felix
nuclear	felix
nuclear	felix
nuclear	iraq
nuclear	iraq
nuclear	iraq
felix	iraq
iraq	nuclear
nuclear	iraq
nuclear	iraq
nuclear	iraq
nuclear	iraq
nuclear	iraq
iraq	nuclear

NYTBR review of Denis Johnson's new novel

Sounds good and big -- 614 pages. When someone reads this, please let us know how it is.

Make your head explode

by reading about how Josh Wolk's head exploded. Click only if you have about 7 minutes and need a laugh. (via Antoine Wilson's Wot-Wot)

Lunch with CEK

CEK has another piece in the New Yorker: "Lunch." The piece is online-only and nonfiction. Sweet!

Breaking News Flash--Exclusive!!

I certainly hate to bump the AK discussion below because it's a good one, but in breaking news... Bats have attacked Charlemagne! Check out this exclusive coverage! Be sure to click the video link!

Please resume discussions below.

Motion to de-canonize Anna Karenina

(That's Tolstoy on the dock, awaiting the verdict. I wanted to do this without spoilers, but I found I could not. If you haven't read it and plan to, stop reading!)

I finished this book a week or so ago. Took me a about a month. The only things I knew about it going in were the things you just know: 1. Anna Karenina has an affair and commits suicide, and 2. It is supposedly, along with War and Peace (which I have not read), one of the greatest novels -- if not the very greatest novel -- ever written.

A little pre-reading Wiki-ing revealed almost ridiculously fulsome praise from the pantheon.

Isaac Babel: "If the world could write by itself, it would write like Tolstoy."
Gustav Flaubert: "What an artist and what a psychologist!"
Virginia Woolf: Tolstoy is "...the greatest of all novelists."
Jame Joyce: "He is never dull, never stupid, never tired, never pedantic, never theatrical."
Anton Chekhov: "...Tolstoy achieves for everyone. What he does serves to justify all the hopes and aspirations invested in literature."
Thomas Mann: "Seldom did art work so much like nature."
Even Nabokov, that snarkily harsh critic, "...placed him above all other Russian fiction writers, even Gogol, and equalled him with Pushkin among Russian writers."

And indeed, the first hundred or so pages were stellar, a real pleasure to bathe in Tolstoy's natural, knife-through-butter style. I was all, Mr. Babel, you nailed it! Mr. Joyce, right on, bro! Mr. Mann, you were, like, so right! This is the way to write, throw out all adornment, make the writer invisible, make the reader see it like a movie, like a documentary without commentary.

Oh, but then... then...! When the plots settle in -- the dual structure of alternately following Anna and following her sister-in-law's husband, Levin -- seven hundred pages slowly plod by without a single surprise. My initial enthusiasm for the beautiful simplicity and naturalism dwindled as I learned, at length and in massive detail, just how Levin's farm was running, just how Princess So-and-So felt about Duke So-and-So. I was treated to I don't know how many aristocratic dinners, I don't know how many gossipy conversations, I don't know how many tearful scenes involving Anna and her husband, and then Anna and her lover, Vronsky. Whereas I once licked my lips when I picked it up, soon I simply cleared my throat and tried to open my eyes wide to pay attention, and eventually I was frowning at the book, and sighing, and impatiently measuring with my fingers the stubborn thickness of the unread part, and the farther I got, the less slack I was willing to give, and by the dreary end I was ready to throw that pathetic fallen woman under the train myself.

Could it be a translation thing? Tolstoy's contemporary, Dickens, is still wickedly funny and brilliant -- is that because I read his very words, with the exact sound and pacing he chose? Would I like AK were I able to read it in Russian? But that is probably not the problem, because I loved Madame Bovary, Crime and Punishment, One Hundred Years of Solitude, etc. etc. Was it the editing, or lack thereof? Certainly the ungainly, sprawling work needed an editor -- but so did Moby-Dick, yet truthfully I was not complaining as I read about the remarkable properties of whale oil because Melville made the darned stuff so interesting.

No, no, with Anna Karenina it was the writing, the novel itself that did not work for me. I'm not sure it even qualifies as successful fiction. Aren't all the pieces supposed to fit together? Aren't I supposed to have needed everything that was in my backpack when, at last, I gained the summit? Shouldn't the two main plots connect somehow, be complementary in theme or something? Sure, Anna is slowly being extricated from a difficult marriage, and Levin is slowly being drawn into one. But -- as my 9-year-old Irish cousin-by-marriage, Paul, said about Babe, after we had praised it -- "Yes, but what was the point of the film?"

What is the point of Anna Karenina? Marriage bad, marriage good, marriage ... hey, can't live with it, can't live without it! Agricultural reform good, agricultural reform bad, agricultural... [here the blogger yawns like a cat]. Peasants joyful and happy, peasants miserable and sad! Reform needed everywhere: in divorce, in society, in farming, in capitalism. All well and good. But does it support a story anymore? What does it say for a book that its plot would be rendered moot if a certain law had been passed? Anna couldn't get a divorce, therefore it's a tragedy? Shouldn't a novel -- let alone one of the greatest novels ever -- work for other reasons, too?

As for the sexy bits, there are none. Still, I can well imagine how brave it was for an aristocrat like Tolstoy to write about such scandalous subject matter back then. I can see how the taboo topic of adultery would have supplied plenty of excitement and energy back then. But I hate to say it: the world has moved on, and it seems to me, from the luxury of today's vantage point, that the book has outlived its usefulness and should be reclassified as propaganda, like Uncle Tom's Cabin, a book that also was heaped with praise and sales for years and years, but which has faded in terms of artistic worth as it becomes clearer and clearer that the characters were little dolls manipulated by Ms. Stowe for her own soapbox purposes -- which were worthy enough, heaven knows, but which were not artistic. Just because there is injustice doesn't mean shoving it into the vehicle of a novel and smacking the horse on the ass is good enough.

Furthermore, the canon can't keep expanding forever, can it? I mean, what do they teach in college fiction courses nowadays? You can only teach so many novels per semester. What is not being read by English majors today? Is Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man in yet, for example? To get fresh blood in there, old blood has to be drained out. I say it's time to apply the leeches to Anna Karenina. There's too much vibrant literature published from, let alone since, the mid-19th Century that is not being read, praised, or discussed.

You may disagree. But while we're at it, what else can be pitchforked out the door? We are now seven years into the 21st Century. Can we clean house yet -- or at least fantasize about it?

But if you're writing Christian romance, you are so set

Some additional reporting on the AP-Ipsos "readers" poll.

Moonbats read more books than wingnuts

The head of the American Association of Publishers says your book's target audience is more liberal than conservative.

But the following is just shameful for all Americans: "22 percent of liberals and moderates said they had not read a book within the past year, compared with 34 percent of conservatives."

(via Drudge)

In praise of Liefmans

My wife says I've got a touch of OCD. Fair enough. It's probably true. Case in point: Liefmans. Liefmans is simply the most delicious, addictive beer I've tasted since 1989, when it was my privilege and pleasure to regularly enjoy Younger's No. 3, in Canterbury, Jolly Olde.



Whereas Y3 was a dark, full, delicious, Scottish bitter -- sadly, it is no longer available, according to my research -- Liefmans is a sublime Belgian kriek (cherry) beer. Before you wrinkle your nose, as I did when our neighbor Marja offered me a taste of hers at t' Kantoor (I have never liked cherry beers), let me hasten to explain how Liefmans is different: First, as a hearty foundation, it enlists St. Louis, a robust, proper Belgian beer.



St. Louis is already more sour than sweet, and in the Liefmans brewing process, sour cherry pits -- the pits only, not the fleshy fruit -- are added to the fermenting mix. Aside from the delightful, fresh, tarty liquid result (Liefmans tastes like a 4-H-fair-prize-winning cherry pie made with half the sugar), it is also satisfying and stimulating to the mind to reflect that the humble seed, craggy and hard as a stone, contains within it not just the potential to develop into a tree that will produce the fruit, but, mysteriously, the taste essence of that fruit as well. Philosopher's Stone, cherry stone -- not just art, not just science, not just art and science ... Liefmans hearkens back to freaking alchemy.



From my first reluctant sip, I became a kind of acolyte of Liefmans, a shy, trembling supplicant. My ardor was amplified when I learned that, like the bloom on the rose, like the fleeting beauty of youth, Liefmans has an ethereal, tenuous existence: a cruelly limited quantity is brewed annually, to be served in August. When full, the three Liefmans casks in Erik the barkeeper's possession held approximately five hundred glasses. His reply to my inquiry regarding his supply's lifespan -- that it would last "four weeks, less if you drink it quickly" -- firmed up my resolve to study Liefmans very carefully and very thoroughly. Since then I've enjoyed at least one Liefmans almost every day. I stroll down the narrow brick and cobblestone streets upon completing work and writing (occasionally before completing them), take a seat at an outdoor table (weather permitting), and find my place in Anna Karenina.



Erik doesn't call it by its name anymore. Rather, he states an ever-decreasing number, an estimate of how many glasses are left in the casks ("Three hundred twenty-one" ... "Two hundred eighty-eight." This is thrilling. The tension inherent in my conflicting desires to both consume it and preserve it, an emotion hunters must feel about ducks and snipe -- to have my Liefmans and drink it, too -- is nearly as exhilarating as the experience of the drink itself. How long will it last now? Last reports are that the second cask is nearly gone. Once the final cask is pierced, the true countdown will begin. But then, do I drink more of it? Or less? What if I don't get the last glass? Or -- perhaps worse -- what if I do? I'll tell you what: it also comes in bottles.

Mr. Bell, paging Mr. Bell

Here is a nice little interview with retired legend Marvin Bell at the Bellingham Herald. I love when local papers do these.

Zomertijd...

...and the livin' is easy.

Last Saturday was the Amsterdam Gay Pride Parade, or as I heard most people call it, the "Gay Parade." These gentlemen were rather boisterous.



Now we understand why they're called floats.



Proudly flying the flag.



We always hit this place when in Amsterdam.



Here's our newest favorite local Haarlem cafe, 't Kantoor.



There is a cat who comes in 't Kantoor every afternoon for his dinner, picks a free stool, and waits patiently to be served.



He knows the rules: "Only two paws on the bar."



We also are served -- most often Liefmans, the tastiest beer I've had yet.



I am working on a whole post about Liefmans...



Yukking it up with our neighbor Louis.



And at the Haarlem Culinaire...



We sampled some tasty fare...



These are "bolletjes" -- "little balls."



Dutch Japanese-style beer -- why not?



Photos by traca de broon

News from the Homefront

From the ever-incisive Press-Citizen: Sam on her experiences at the helm of the Workshop. She offers an interesting observation about what "administration" means in the context of the Workshop.

Time is Money...

...and money is the root of all evil. Does that mean time is the root of all evil?

Actually, I think aphorisms are the root of all evil in our governance-by-bumper-sticker society.

At any rate, I'm in search of information. Does anybody have a sense of how much a senior writer at the New Yorker or the Atlantic or a similar publication is paid for a full-length nonfiction article? (I'm thinking of someone like a Susan Orlean or Larissa MacFarquhar.)

The memoir I've been waiting for

I can't imagine how interesting and entertaining this book will be -- if he ever finishes it. A hopeful sign:

"The range and type of stories was exactly what you would hope to hear," Pietsch says. "The memories and the emotions, people wonder if he remembers anything, but I wish my memory was that good."

Charlemagne's Heir

I'm pleased to report that Charlemagne (Mrs. Charlemagne, actually) has given birth to a first born daughter. Her name is Emmerson James, and she arrives at a healthy 2o inches & 7lb 13oz. Mother, father (who is henceforth to be known as Pappy One-Eye), and daughter are all in great health and looking forward to building a pyramid of diapers, one stinky poo at a time. I'd post pictures, but sadly, there are far too many weirdos on the Intertubes.

Like father, like son

Nice article about Will Conroy, Frank's son, who is a screenwriter. Seems that a movie of Stop-Time is in the works, with Will doing the adaptation.

Me gusta mucho

I got this email that says, in part:

Not a lot of people decide to produce a commercial for a Mexican fruit soda without getting the approval of the brand owner...but we did.

Making commercials is now underground. Can you spot the luminary? I don't even know how to talk about how perfect this is. Greatest commercial of all time or merely one of the greatest commercials of all time? Every shot begs for commentary.

Not even Jane Austen could get published today

Jane Austen freak sent off opening chapters and synopses from Northanger Abbey, Persuasion, and Pride and Prejudice to 18 publishers. Then the rejection letters started coming back -- for all of them. And only one editor spotted the fraud.

Atlantic article on workshops

An article in The Atlantic Monthly on graduate writing programs is available online for subscribers here. But if you subscribe, uh, you already have the article, no? So you don't need it online. Little unclear on the concept ... oh, right: moolah. Too bad for us nonsubscribers.

(Update: subscribers don't get this issue, evidently. So never mind about that.)

Good news is a long interview with the article's author, Edward J. Delaney, is available online. A sample:

Another factor is that with these programs there’s usually a certain lag time before it becomes clear whether its graduates are finding success. Harvard Law School can measure its success by something as simple as the percentage of its graduates who pass the bar exam. Or they can gauge how many of its graduates are getting jobs at the top law firms. But with writing programs, it’s understood that for the most part these writers are going to spend a decade or more after graduation toiling away in obscurity just continuing to work on their craft [Slight comfort in numbers here. -- Ed.] So if a student in a program has some success 10 or 15 years later, is that an adequate measure of the program as it exists now? It’s easier for a program to claim that credit if there’s been a lot of faculty stability. If a student who studied with writer X 15 years ago meets some success and writer X is still working at the same institution, then that would seem to be a more accurate measure.

A snippet of what he says about Iowa specifically, and this is so true...

The people there – as at a lot of the schools that are away from the hustle and bustle of the big city—really focus on building a community. Chris Tilghman at Virginia observed that one of the most difficult things to measure is a program’s sense of community. When the workshop ends, you’ve gotten a certain amount of progress. But does everyone then go to dinner together and continue the discussion that was begun in the workshop? Schools such as Montana and the University of Pittsburgh and Virginia and Iowa really spent a lot of time talking about the community they feel they’ve built; whereas in a larger city, it’s a little more difficult. People tend to go their separate ways. Community is part of what has made Iowa work.

Another interesting factor about Iowa is that it has looser requirements than a lot of other programs. But there’s also a lot of open-ended stuff that goes on constantly. For example, while I was there, Charles Baxter spoke. He did a reading in the evening and then the next morning he did a Q&A. And those events were absolutely jam-packed. From what I gathered, that’s how it always is; the people in The Workshop never want to miss a learning opportunity, even if it’s not a formal class.

The little differences

Vincent: You know what the funniest thing about Europe is?

Jules: What?

Vincent: It's the little differences. I mean they got the same shit over there that they got here, but it's just - it's just there it's a little different.

Jules: Examples?

Vincent: Alright, well you can walk into a movie theater in Amsterdam and buy a beer. And I don't mean just like in no paper cup, I'm talking about a glass of beer. And in Paris, you can buy a beer at McDonald's. And you know what they call a, uh, a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris?

Jules: They don't call it a Quarter Pounder with Cheese?

Vincent: Nah, man, they got the metric system, they wouldn't know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is.

Jules: What do they call it?

Vincent: They call it a Royale with Cheese.

Some more that I've noticed:

* Using English that's just a little bit off. Our favorite orange juice is called CoolBest. The slogan on the carton: "We keep it Cool, you get the Best!"

* Bread starts out crusty and gets softer as it gets stale.

* When you leave a room, even if you don't know anyone and haven't spoken to anyone, such as in a gym locker room, you're supposed to say goodbye, and everyone says goodbye to you. Speaking of gym locker rooms, the door to the men's locker room at our gym opens at an angle that reveals the room to the whole gym. All they had to do was put the door hinges on the other side, but no -- found this out the hard way, looking up as I was drying my body to see everybody working out through the doorway. And one other thing: at the gym's co-ed sauna, you are required to be nude. "No Clothes or Swim Attire Allowed."

* People do things on bikes you wouldn't believe. Multiple dogs, children swinging off baskets or balanced on handlebars, texting on cell phones, lighting cigarettes or joints, carrying three bags of groceries, giving rides to one or even two friends, who sit on the back looking bored -- or stand up on the rear bar. The postmen and police ride bikes. We saw two cops commandeer a couple bikes while chasing a suspect. They later returned the bikes and thanked the owners. Saw a woman pulling a homemade wooden cart behind her bike. In the cart, a toddler and a puppy, hugging each other.

* Different priorities in government. A smoking ban is coming next year, and folks are wondering what will happen in coffeeshops (hash bars). And the government panel said the other day that they are planning on screening the employees off -- not the patrons -- behind smoke-proof glass, with customers free to smoke throughout the shops. The problem? It might discourage people from working there because it would make it difficult for employees who so desire to smoke on the job. They are looking into solutions. You would think I'm kidding. You would be wrong.

* Stores close at 6. All of them, except restaurants. It means you have to plan ahead. It also means you don't have the elderly working nights at round-the-clock product-mausoleums such as rural Wal-Marts (there are of course no Wal-Marts here because of the labor laws). "Everyone should go home to their families at the end of the day," is how one Dutchman put it to me. On Thursdays -- "Shopping Evening" -- stores are open till 9. Sundays, everything (except bars and restaurants) is closed, actually closed. There will be a pharmacy open in every town, that's it. Monday mornings, things open an hour, hour and a half later than usual. For obvious reasons.

* When they talk about the weather, they are supremely confident: "Tomorrow it will be 26 degrees by 3 o'clock." "Next Saturday it will rain in the morning."

* All banking is electronic. No checks, just automatic withdrawal. When a company hasn't set up automatic withdrawal yet -- the water company, for example -- they send you a bill in the mail. You write your bank account number on it, sign it, and drop it back in the mail. No postage needed. All bills come with prepaid envelopes. No ATM fees, no matter which bank's machines you use.

* You buy your rock concert tickets at the post office.

* At the library, there are information booths with stuff for youth, about drugs and teenage pregnancy and so on. But they are not propaganda -- they puncture myths on both sides of the debate. No, LSD does not cause DNA damage. No, despite the anecdotal evidence that abounds, marijuana is actually not linked to long- or short-term memory loss once the effects subside. Not that the Dutch need worry about these things as much as the U.S. does -- both drug use and teenage pregnancy levels are far below U.S. levels. Also at the library, you pay for Internet and borrowing DVDs. Equivalent of four bucks to borrow a DVD.

* You can buy beer at 16 -- not that I've ever seen anyone carded, ever. Our local cafe is always full of high-schoolers who are well-behaved and friendly -- and drinking. They are learning to drink moderately in a social setting, instead of getting shitfaced on their own in secret somewhere and driving home (you can't drive here till 18, and you can't afford it anyway with gas at $6 a gallon). The news item in the states a few weeks back, about the mother facing two years in jail for serving alcohol to her son's 16-year-old friends ... was greeted with dumbfounded uncomprehension by the Dutch people we mentioned it to (it was no doubt happening all over town as we were talking). Ditto the teen in Georgia doing ten years for consensual oral sex with a 15-year-old. Absolutely incomprehensible here.

* Occasionally, a grocery store runs out of something. I mean. actually. runs. out. There is no diet iced tea today. You are to shrug and drink something else. Once there was no milk.

* You are required to get liability insurance, which pays for your lawyer and settlement if someone tries to sue you, for tripping them on the sidewalk or something.

* The default is dogs are welcome in shops, even restaurants. In places where they are not welcome, you will see a "no dogs" sticker, one of which says, "Alas! I cannot come in!" with a picture of a crying dog.

* If a restaurant is doing renovations, they remain open and everyone works around it. You wince at the hammer blows, duck under the ladders, squeeze past the drywaller, belly up beside the thirsty electrician.

* When you sell your house, you take everything with you: appliances, fixtures. We heard of someone who took their wood floors. We still don't have light fixtures because they took them, and I'm afraid to rewire, not knowing the wire colors yet. Need to get on that.

* Cheese comes in three types: Young, Mature, and Old. All are yummy, but Old is the yummiest.

* The Daily Show is not daily. It's a one-hour best of, shown on Sundays -- on CNN (think about that for a second). In case you were wondering, there is no Fox News Channel, at least not from our cable company. We do get Comedy Central -- with "The Office," "South Park," "The Simpsons," and -- strangely -- "Third Rock from the Sun" and "That Seventies Show." We get about 50 channels, with 10 in English. On Dutch local news, they will find a way, even if they have to go out of their way, to show nudity.

* And we spied this at a nearby corner:

Marilynne reviews Annie Dillard

Marilynne Robinson has a review of the new Annie Dillard novel The Maytrees in the Austin American-Statesman (a reprint from the Washington Post -- couldn't quickly find it on the Post site). Calls it a "classic of cosmic realism." Anyone read the Dillard book or plan to?

Reading is fun-damental

It's that time again. What are you reading, loving, loathing? What has blown your hat off lately? My recent list is this:

Lost City Radio: Daniel's book is sweet. Read it and be proud of him.

The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter: An amazing Southern Gothic read from someone obnoxiously young.

The Exquisite: Diverting, but not as substantial as I had hoped.

The Raw Shark Texts: WTF? How was this such a hit last year -- or maybe that was just on this side of the ocean? Overhyped and disappointing.

The Norton Anthology of Short Fiction, 1978, Ed. R. V. Cassill: I'm about 450 pages into 1400, just going in alphabetical order by author. Two priceless gems unearthed so far: "The Egg" by Sherwood Anderson, which is hilarious, and "The Biggest Band" by R. V. Cassill himself, which is hilarious (who knew? Anyone read one of his books?).

The Collected Stories of Richard Yates: Going slow, maybe one a week, don't want it to end

The Assault by Harry Mulisch: Need to brush up on Dutch writers, and this was a hell of a start

Supernatural by Graham Hancock: Because I am a shark, and it is a bucket of chum

The Wapshot Chronicle: Abandoned this for the second time. How it is possible to be bored by and indifferent to something by Cheever, I don't know, but I was, I was, I was

The Possibility of an Island by Michel Houellebecq: I've talked about this before, but it bears repeating -- an honest, bruising book

The Name of the World: About a third the way in and liking it much better than Resuscitation

Poetry: A Pocket Anthology R. S. Gwynn ed.: Strictly a greatest hits collection. My bathroom book, but I'm not making much headway somehow. Too much roughage? And I didn't know Queen Elizabeth wrote, uh, poetry

The Interloper: Will be reviewing this for Please Don't, about which more to come.

P. S. There is a play about Paul Engle in the works.

in mali: a collection

bamako:
the sky yesterday was dirty white and the air felt heavy and physical, like the whoosh of heat on your cheeks when you open a hot oven. except it was constant. in the afternoon the water comes out of the cold tap hot and everyone stays inside. the buildings are squat and square. mangoes the size of your head on every corner; on every corner people sitting on plastic woven deck chairs pouring tea from one pot to another, and back again, chatting and pouring, a tiny charcoal stove burning to the side.


the worst thing you can say to a Malian is, "You are a bean-eater." They do not like farting.


Some favourite words in Bamabara (and their literal meanings)...
aeroplane = "sana kuru" (a flying canoe)
green = "bin kene" (the colour of fresh herbs)
bicycle = "nege so" (iron horse)
a maid/houseworker = barakaden (child worker!)


A note to the US Ambassador to Mali:
the american embassy here is a fortress and no one, citizen or non, is allowed in except on Thursdays. it makes me wonder what the real purpose of such an embassy is? are there oompaloompas in there making long-range chocolate bombs to send into the Sahara?

De griep

...is what the Dutch call the flu (and the "g" sound is to be made as if you're hacking up a lung). I have recently recovered from a flu that lasted two weeks. Every day I woke up and started drinking Citrosan, which is what they call TheraFlu. The brew would take the edge off the aches and pains, but often not even enough to enable reading. I basically writhed on the bed or couch for two weeks. I would be freezing cold, teeth chattering, and then all of a sudden hot and sweaty. The thing went into my ears and eyes, too. I will spare you the details. Anyway, that's why it's been so quiet around here lately.

In other news, here is a picture of some bike carts we got for the dogs. My brother was worried about their "stricken" looks, but they'll get used it, I just feel sure, given how much the suckers cost (more than we got for our car when we left).