Reasons for the Internet (Besides porn and lolcats)

This is a website that turns novels and whatnot into Powerpoint presentations, so you can act like you're doing something useful at work while you read them. The particularly cool part is that they actually insert graphs and stock photos to add to the realism. Check it out.

Genius.

Ready... aim...

This story of an uncontacted Amazonian tribe being photographed is fascinating. But traca and I were talking last night about the fact that in the first round of media stories, most (not the one linked there) didn't mention the glaring facts that 1) the plane likely scared the living bejesus out of these people, and 2) they are aiming their weapons at the photographer. "It must have been like their War of the Worlds," T said.

There are more isolated tribes in the world than I would have thought, including the Sentinelese in the Indian Ocean, who have killed people who were trying to contact them and were once left a pig to see if they would eat it -- they shot and buried it instead. They also buried a doll that was left for them. The Indian government has decided to leave them alone.

Amazing public space animation

MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.

New stuff at plz

A bunch of great new content (again including some goaty varietals) over at please-dont.com along with our new design.

Find us on facebook if you want to be cool!

go poets!

Jon Thirkield wins big! Go team! Go poets!

Here's the link.

(i think), and here's what that link says, among other things:

Born and raised in New York City, Jonathan Thirkield graduated from Wesleyan University and the University of Iowa's Writers' Workshop where he was a Truman Capote Fellow.

In 2008, his collection The Waker's Corridor was selected by Linda Bierds for the Walt Whitman Award, presented by the Academy of American Poets.

His poems have appeared in WebConjunctions, New American Writing, Colorado Review, 1913: a journal of forms, American Letters & Commentary, Verse, and other journals.

So, congrats Jon, on winning the Whitman award!

Adjuncts Policing the Gates?

Just in time for all those end-of-the-semester grade disputes, a pseudonymous intro comp/lit adjunct assesses the state of adult education. Too many people are too unprepared to get a college degree:

Our textbook boils effective writing down to a series of steps. It devotes pages and pages to the composition of a compare-and-contrast essay, with lots of examples and tips and checklists. “Develop a plan of organization and stick to it,” the text chirrups not so helpfully. Of course any student who can, does, and does so automatically, without the textbook’s directive. For others, this seems an impossible task. Over the course of 15 weeks, some of my best writers improve a little. Sometimes my worst writers improve too, though they rarely, if ever, approach base-level competence.

How I envy professors in other disciplines! How appealing seems the straightforwardness of their task! These are the properties of a cell membrane, kid. Memorize ’em, and be ready to spit ’em back at me. The biology teacher also enjoys the psychic ease of grading multiple-choice tests. Answers are right or wrong. The grades cannot be questioned. Quantifying the value of a piece of writing, however, is intensely subjective, and English teachers are burdened with discretion. (My students seem to believe that my discretion is limitless. Some of them come to me at the conclusion of a course and matter-of-factly ask that I change a failing grade because they need to graduate this semester or because they worked really hard in the class or because they need to pass in order to receive tuition reimbursement from their employer.)

. . .

There seems, as is often the case in colleges, to be a huge gulf between academia and reality. No one is thinking about the larger implications, let alone the morality, of admitting so many students to classes they cannot possibly pass. The colleges and the students and I are bobbing up and down in a great wave of societal forces—social optimism on a large scale, the sense of college as both a universal right and a need, financial necessity on the part of the colleges and the students alike, the desire to maintain high academic standards while admitting marginal students—that have coalesced into a mini-tsunami of difficulty. No one has drawn up the flowchart and seen that, although more-widespread college admission is a bonanza for the colleges and nice for the students and makes the entire United States of America feel rather pleased with itself, there is one point of irreconcilable conflict in the system, and that is the moment when the adjunct instructor, who by the nature of his job teaches the worst students, must ink the F on that first writing assignment.

. . .

For I, who teach these low-level, must-pass, no-multiple-choice-test classes, am the one who ultimately delivers the news to those unfit for college: that they lack the most-basic skills and have no sense of the volume of work required; that they are in some cases barely literate; that they are so bereft of schemata, so dispossessed of contexts in which to place newly acquired knowledge, that every bit of information simply raises more questions. They are not ready for high school, some of them, much less for college.

The essay is good and any former or current college comp instructor will be entertained. Someone feels their pain. Professor X diagnoses the problem but steers things neatly away from offering any solutions: admit fewer students or better prepare them? Both? More vocational colleges? How do we de-romanticize the very American notion that everyone should get a 4-year liberal arts degree? Should we? Is Professor X the problem, is he just not good enough at his job?

Thoughts? End-of-term grading complaints? Anybody tell you that you've ruined his or her life? That's always fun.

In Defense of Rabbit

Maybe I'm wrong or exaggerating or misremembering, but I recall Updike having a bad reputation around the halls of the Dey House. Not from the older crowd. Frank admired him more than once. Ethan, too, methinks. But I remember, specifically, complaints about Updike's ubiquitous and forgettable appearances in the New Yorker. Those I won't defend. Really, I'm not interested in defending anything but the Rabbit tetralogy, which I recently finished.

I say this despite many, many annoyances: some the protagonists's fault and some the author's fault and some indistinguishable. I'm thinking of the casual misogyny, the tiresome wife-swapping, the indulgent exposition, etc. Furthermore, none of Rabbit's worlds--in his twenties, thirties, forties, or fifties--are mine. Still, the guy can write. Sentence by sentence, scene by scene, he's both in control and surprising. His use of the third person present tense is a worthwhile study. The four novels blend together a bit, though not in a bad way. The second, Rabbit Redux, strikes me as a singularly brilliant novel. I'd recommend it to anyone. It manages to be introspective without being condescending or boring, socially conscious without being trite or placating. Buy it for a penny on Amazon marketplace.

I'm curious what others think of the series, if not necessarily Updike.

I'm going to bed

But if you've ever driven through Gary I think you'll agree that it's a poignant place for an election to come down. From the highway, my eye is always drawn to this old, Federalist dome. Maybe it's city hall, I don't know. It just peaks up above the side of the ramped highway--right up against the road--and it's caked in solidified exhaust. Whatever purpose and glory it once had, continues to have, is now secondary to the Skyway. But it's a beautiful building seen from an improbable angle.

In case you were thinking about buying me a gift:

As some of you know, I got a drumset for this Christmas. This is what I would like for next year (I especially like the production value of this ad -- you'd think this guy could afford to look even partially professional -- but he has more cymbals than Neal Peart, which the camera drifts away to show you). I also like that this is his way of "giving back to the community" -- in today's slumping economy, endless war, and batshit real estate market, we need "The Nookie" now more than ever.

Another one I didn't make up

From IvyGate:

The D reported yesterday on lecturer Priya Venkatesan (also undergrad '90 and a Med School researcher) who, in a series of strangely passive-aggressive group emails, announced a plan to sue her students for workplace harassment based on "intolerance of ideas." The emails—reported first in Dartlog and forwarded to a zillion email lists within seconds—also contain info on Venkatesan's upcoming Academy X rip-off where she plans to "name names." Venkatesan tapped into the email list from her Winter 2008 Writing 5 class:


Date: Sat, 26 Apr 2008 20:56:35
From: Priya Venkatesan
Subject: WRIT.005.17.18-WI08: Possible lawsuit

Dear former class members of Science, Technology and Society:

I tried to send an email through my server but got undelivered messages. I regret to inform you that I am pursuing a lawsuit in which I am accusing some of you (whom shall go unmentioned in this email) of violating Title VII of anti-federal discrimination laws.

The feeling that I am getting from the outside world is that Dartmouth is considered a bigoted place, so this may not be news and I may be successful in this lawsuit. I am also writing a book detailing my eperiences as your instructor, which will "name names" so to speak. I have all of your evaluation and these will be reproduced in the book.

Have a nice day.

The phrase "anti-federal discrimination laws" made me think she was emailing drunk; follow-up messages and press statements indicate that Venkatesan is, in fact, serious.

Few of Venkatesan's students deny disliking her; they just say it had nothing to do with race, gender, or any other federally-protected characteristic. Rather, the lecturer embodied that special brand of neurotic pedagogical tyranny that includes making rules against questions, refusing to interact with students, and, according to the D,

cancelation of class for a week after the class applauded a student who contradicted Venkatesan’s opinions about post-modernism


Spontaneous applause during a class on literary criticism? Obviously, there is something very wrong with this picture, so outrageously shocking as to shake Venkatesan to her very core: In a class at an Ivy League university, students were paying attention. Worse: They were engaged, and they cared.

"I was horrified," Venkatesan said. "My responsibility is not to stifle them, but when they clapped at his comment, I thought that crossed the line ... I was facing intolerance of ideas and intolerance of freedom of expression." ...She canceled class because the incident caused her "intellectual and emotional distress," she said.

Then again, being outsmarted by a room full of eighteen-year-olds must be pretty humiliating. A kinder choice would have been emitting a spontaneous snore or two, then preoccupying themselves with a more innocuous form of disrespect, like text messaging during class or ostentatious yawning.

Possibly awesome turn of logic: If the students' crime was "intolerance of ideas," and the idea in question was post-modernism, does that mean post-modernism is Venkatesan's religion? In which case academia has finally curled so far inward as to truly out-po-mo itself. "Where everything is possible and almost nothing is certain," indeed!


After the jump: More emails from Venkatesan and Dartmouth authorities, and a sample of Venkatesan's evaluations.


The objects of Ventakesan's suit received two more emails, both of which were also sent to "editor@dartmoth.com," probably a mixed-up attempt to get a hold of the D, whose editors occupy "editor@thedartmouth.com." It is still unknown how Venkatesan chose these students; student evaluations are, in theory, anonymous.

From: Priya Venkatesan
Sent: Friday, April 25, 2008
Subject: Class Action Suit

Dear Student:
As a courtesy, you are being notified that you are being named in a potential class action suit that is being brought against Dartmouth College, which is being accused of violating federal anti-discrimination laws. Please do not respond to this email because it will be potentially used against you in a court of law.

Priya Venkatesan, PhD

From: Priya Venkatesan
Sent: Friday, April 25, 2008
Subject: Class Action Suit

Dear Student:

Please disregard the previous email sent by Priya Venkatesan. This is to officially inform you that you are being accused of violating Title VII pertaining to federal anti-discrimination laws, by the plaintiff, Priya Venkatesan. You are being specifically accused of, but not limited to, harassment. Please do not respond to this email as it will be used against you in a court of law.

Priya Venkatesan, PhD

Shortly thereafter, members of Venkatesan's writing course received support from freshmen dean Gail Zimmerman:


Dear Students,

It has come to my attention that many of you have been receiving emails from Prof. Priya Venkatesan as a former student in one of her Writ 5 courses. I understand that these emails have been rather distressing for you.

So that you can be informed of how the College is proceeding in response to these and to understand your own concerns, I and Tom Cormen, Director of the Writing Program, will meet with you today, Sunday, April 27 at 12:30 p.m. in Parkhurst Hall, Room 9B (located in the basement of Parkhurst). Robert Donin from legal counsel will also be joining us.

If you are unable to make this meeting, I am happy to meet with you at a later time.

Regards,
Dean Zimmerman
**********************
Gail M. Zimmerman, Ed. D.
Dean of First-Year Students
Dartmouth College


The content of the above meeting is as yet unknown, though we assume it went something like this: "Don't worry, kids. Though the word 'class' is in both 'class-action' and 'class list,' your teacher can't actually sue you for being smarter than she is. We'll just sic that well-oiled machine of right-wing Dartian blowhards on her, and this whole thing will resolve itself."

Speaking of right-wing Dartians, Venkatesan wrote in to Dartlog to explain she is "not bitter at all about teaching evaluations," because she is not a teacher at all, but a research-minded lab rat now employed at some "undisclosed" institution that is even better than Dartmouth, so she doesn't even need you guys anyway, so there! Let us pray to the gods of tabloid fodder that this "undisclosed" employer doesn't actually exist, and Venkatesan is in truth living in a Super 8 Motel outside of Hanover, biding her time until this book deal comes through. Which would probably make the deal even sweeter, as fake memoirs from delusional paranoiacs are all the rage of late.

Was she really so bad? Let's shake the tip jar and see what falls out...

Venkatesan taught two sections of Writing 5, a course mandatory for all Dartmouth students who don't make some cutoff point on the SATs. Her Writing 5 course was apparently offered in two terms - Fall and Winter - and was something to do with science. My friend in the Fall07 course told me she was a ridiculous teacher - she assigned a bunch of readings about postmodernism, but three weeks into the term, nobody in the class could explain what postmodernism was.

Yeah, but who can explain what postmodernism is? Casualty of the field, really.

Last we checked, Venkatesan's course had fourteen reviews on the Dartmouth Student Assembly's student evaluations website, under the following titles:

Worst teacher I have ever had - Written by a 2011

Interesting - Written by a 2011

WORST PROFESSOR EVER DO NOT TAKE THIS CLASS - Written by a 2011

save yourself now - Written by a 2011

a tad ridiculous - Written by a 2011

Interesting Material but Prof. is hard to follow - Written by a 2011

Terrible class, terrible prof - Written by a 2011

Interesting Material, Bad Prof. - Written by a 2011

If she teaches here... - Written by a 2011

WORST CLASS EVER - Written by a 2011

interesting topic, boring prof - Written by a 2011

Do NOT take this course - Written by a 2011

HORRIBLE - Written by a 2011

insecurity, ego, and more - Written by a 2011
Excerpts from the above evals:

Professor Venkatesan refuses to answer questions, does not respond to questions, and lectures by reading off her notes in front of her. She did not make me a better writer, she did not explain the concepts well, but she did manage to make my life a living hell.

She offered no help in class or in office hours for papers. When handed a hard copy she read the paper, said it was great, but then gave terrible grades to many students. Later on she began refusing to grade papers and gave the reason that judging by our peer editing abilities we didn't need her help on papers. She missed/cancelled 5 or 6 classes and as a result the syllabus was squished into 3 weeks and she changed the final project about 4 times. A TERRIBLE CLASS.

In terms of who will be most damaged by this ordeal, Venkatesan's students are mostly out of the question, since wisecracking a flustered professor isn't illegal, nor are negative course evals. (Though, yeah, it must suck to have a profession that requires listening to our gripes, and we extend honest apologies to every teacher who has been forced to deal with us.) No, the real race-to-the-bottom will be between Venkatesan and Dartmouth's writing program: Is she the villain, for dealing with her inability to teach by sending smugly gloating emails about "naming names" and civil law? Or is Dartmouth, for hiring this litigious trainwreck in the first place, and inflicting her on innocent freshmen?

Of Reverend Wright and Bosnian Bullets

Allen Gurganus on "Housekeeping"

A blog post in today's New York Times online.

When the Book Review asked writers and editors to name the greatest novel of our last quarter century, I felt flummoxed proposing one book that good. Which of Philip Roth’s novels might we call his best? Hadn’t Walker Percy and Flannery O’Connor been dead too long to qualify? Then I thought of “Housekeeping.”

I had read this slender volume more times than any other work by a still-living writer. For me, just reading the first chapter was like taking a strong multivitamin. It reminded me why I am a slow writer myself, why I care so immensely about craft and all that a single page of human work can offer.

Things that Make Me Smile

As I know some of you are reality-show afficianados, I thought I would relate this, so you can root for this fine young fellow.


Pete was one of my best friends growing up. I used to say (quite often), that if I wasn't me, or Prince, I would have wanted to be Pete -- he was the most talented actor I ever knew (he went to NYU's Tisch School, but quit because "he wasn't learning anything actually useful to the world," his elbow appears in Dazed and Confused); the drummer of our high school band (The Flaming Faggots -- a punk band named after a Shakespearean reference to piss off the meatheads and scandalize The Man -- we thought we were pretty clever); a guy who basically introduced himself to my future wife by asking her, in all earnest seriousness, about a woman's feelings on giving blowjobs; a guy who every time I saw him while I was in law school seemed to be wearing some clothes he'd borrowed from me in high school; a guy who looked up into the clouds (apparently believing God was talking to him) when Kerry tried to stop him on the street; the guy who got to hang out with the Replacements and got quoted in the Houston Chronicle for the beer bottle I took to the head (thrown by Paul Westerberg); a guy who torched his final history paper and never graduated college because he felt he hadn't really learned enough to deserve it, then showed up at my apartment with a bottle of bourbon and a James Taylor record on vinyl; etc., etc. I'm actually looking at a picture I have of him in my office, staring down from a tree at me, on a camping trip we took out to Pedernales State Park. I realize you can never really do someone you've loved justice in trying to quickly describe why you loved him or her, because it just starts sounding canned no matter what you do. Especially with those who died young (as Pete did, killed by a drunk driver while planting trees in Washington State).


So, when Pete died, my friends and I set up a scholarship fund at our old high school (putting my recently acquired law degree to good use). I got an email the other day from an old friend, sending me a link to the first scholarship winner from years ago, Nick, photo above, description below, who is now on "Step It Up and Dance on Bravo."


"At the age of four, Nick was so inspired by Kevin Bacon's performance in Footloose, he knew right then that he wanted to be a dancer. His mother, an author/librarian, and father, a painter/graphic artist, both supported his love for dance and instilled a strong work ethic and sense of determination. A Houston, Texas native and graduate of Oklahoma City University, Nick now resides in Los Angeles as a technically trained professional dancer and actor. He has appeared in several music videos including: Jessica Simpson's "Boots," My Chemical Romance's "Helena," Finger Eleven's "Paralyzer," and Duran Duran's "Falling Down." Nick can also be seen in a variety of roles on television, film and stage, most recently appearing as Theodore's dance double in the Alvin & The Chipmunks movie. Described by his friends as energetic, funny, charismatic, and always looking for trouble – this single (and straight) dancer may just spice things up with the girls in the house."

So, root for the boy. Pete would have loved this -- especially the chipmunk dance double and "straight" part.

Like LiveAid, but way better

Periodically, I think I should do something to help my fellow man. I've been blessed in many ways (devastatingly handsome, 16-inch pythons, a fine pelt of body hair that keeps me as warm as Chewbacca in Han's loving arms on a long Kessel run, ability to play many Van Halen songs on the banjo), and sometimes I think I should help the less fortunate. But what to do? What will play to my strengths? What could I do better than others? What has God put me on earth to do?

And then I see this, and my questions are answered:

http://www.pornfortheblind.org/

I didn't make this up, but it is genius

Fixing Mommy: A Book Explains Plastic Surgery to Children

Stephanie Kaster said her body is a temple -- one that needs to be redecorated every so often: In recent years, the 39-year-old mother of three has undergone liposuction and a breast reduction. "I tell my kids, 'Bob the Builder fixes buildings, and there is a doctor that fixes parts of mommy,'" Ms. Kaster said, referring in a single breath to an animated character of children's television and to her Upper East Side plastic surgeon.

But the next time she fields a question from her 6-year-old daughter about surgical scars or the like, Ms. Kaster, who lives in Midtown, need only open a book: A Bal Harbour, Fla., plastic surgeon has written "My Beautiful Mommy" (Big Tent Books, $19.95), which explains cosmetic surgery to school-age children. The story focuses on a teddy bear-clutching little girl whose mother is about to go in for a nose job and a tummy tuck. In the book, the mother tells her child: "You see, as I got older, my body stretched and I couldn't fit into my clothes anymore. Dr. Michael is going to fix that and make me feel better."

Dr. Michael is the book's author, Michael Salzhauer, a plastic surgeon who said the majority of his patients are young mothers coming in for a series of procedures -- a tummy tuck and a breast lift, among them -- that he calls "the mommy makeover." He said the book isn't meant to glamorize plastic surgery, but to allay children's fears about their parent's hospitalization and postoperative recovery. "Kids tend to associate a doctor's visit with being sick," Dr. Salzhauer, a father of four, said. "They come in with this puzzled look on their face and ask questions like, 'Is mommy dying?'"

A Park Avenue plastic surgeon, Paul Lorenc, said his patients today are much younger than they were when he started his practice 19 years ago. Early on, most of them were in their mid-to-late 60s; these days, they tend to be in their 30s and 40s, he said.
Of the 11.7 million people (mostly women) who went in for a cosmetic procedures last year, about 70% percent were under 50, according to the American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery. As a result of the demographics, Dr. Lorenc said he sees a lot of mothers who want to know how to discuss plastic surgery with their children. Dr. Lorenc encourages parents to talk about how the operations will impact their appearance immediately after the operation and long-term -- giving more specifics to older children and fewer details to younger ones. "If the child is 14, 15, or 16, you can give a very rational answer," he said. "If they're 3, 4, or 5, it's unhealthy to say, 'Mommy has excess skin because I delivered you and your brother and sister, and now I need a tummy tuck.'"

Barnes & Noble Buys Prairie Lights

Kidding, kidding. But there are some ownership changes in the works.

Also, for non-IC residents who haven't heard the news: the Iowa legislature passed an indoor smoking ban which becomes effective July 1st. I'm trying hard to envision the Foxhead with fresh air. It's difficult.

New Campaign Song

Formerly local boys and girls make good

The first novel by '05er Sugi (or, as I like to call her, VV Ganeshananthan) is out! It's called Love Marriage. Buy it! And check out her book tour dates.

'04er Katherine is now a senior editor at HarvardBusiness.org.

And '04er Sam has a segment on this week's This American Life. It'll air Friday, 4/18; Saturday, 4/19; and/or Sunday, 4/20, depending on your local NPR affiliate's schedule. For a full station guide, go here.

Read, listen, and learn!

The Karate Chimp

I think the li'l feller is holding back. I have heard a chimp could tear your arm off if he wanted to. More of Charlie's antics here.

The Free Market of Ideas: Now With Subsidies!

It's important that the ruling class know why they're so much better than poor people, after all.

I'm kind of amazed that the schools took these deals. Should I be?

Do it for the Poets!

I think I better keep the author of this email anonymous...

Dear Friends,

Many of you have probably heard that Dean is leaving Iowa for Austin. As I understand it, this is coming about not because he's hustling for more money, but simply because Iowa is refusing to up him to full-time after he's put in years with the Workshop, and he's tired (after 8 books and a Pulitzer nomination) of cobbling together a career from part-time gigs.

I don't know what your experience was with Dean. For me, he came along when I was hugely confused about my work and my life, and he helped me open up, and calm down, and get energized about poetry again.

Even if you didn't have a transformative experience with him as a teacher, it seems plain that the Workshop could get to be a pretty somber place in his absence. That's not to mention the fact that he's done a fuck of a lot for the Workshop as an institution and the people who make it up. (Remember those handwritten, publication-worthy lectures every seminar?) And that's not to mention the fact that he's one of the best-known contemporary American poets, and a big draw for prospective students.

If Dean ever helped you in any way, or if you have some connection to the Workshop and feel that it would be a stronger program with him than without him, please take ten minutes to write the following people a paragraph or two asking that they please reconsider their position and offer him a full-time job. (Dean, by the way, had nothing to do with this email, and doesn't know I'm writing it. Let's keep it that way.)

Connie Brothers, Program Associate

Lan Samantha Chang, Director of the Workshop

Linda Maxson, Dean of the College of Liberal Arts & Sciences

Lola Lopes, Provost

Forward this to anyone I missed.

Yo Quiero

I think I've said it before- it's not really baseball season until they play at Fenway. So once again: happy baseball, folks.

On the taco: I missed it when this happened in October, but I think the point stands: cross-promotion is the new stand-in for cultural ceremony. He stoleth the base and so we scarfeth the tacos.

The upside? Free tacos. The downside: a schizophrenic and petty discourse. It's not just the tacos, of course. It's the practice of journalism as it is so depressingly evoked by this image.

Because the only way you're going to get that many mics shoved in John Yoo's face is with photo shop.

(Note to photoshoppers-please leave in the reporter under the table. She's my favorite part.)

Fishy, no?

Soldiers’ Remains Secretly Exhumed in New Mexico

By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

Published: April 9, 2008

Working in secret, federal archaeologists have dug up the remains of dozens of soldiers and children near a Civil War-era fort in south-central New Mexico after an informant tipped them off about widespread grave looting. The exhumations, conducted from August to October, removed 67 skeletons from the desert soil around Fort Craig — 39 men, 2 women and 26 children, according to two federal archaeologists who helped with the dig. They also found scores of empty graves and determined that 20 had been looted. The government kept its exhumation of the unmarked cemetery near the historic fort out of the public’s eye for months to prevent more thefts. The investigation began with a tip about an amateur historian who had displayed the mummified remains of a black soldier, draped in a Civil War-era uniform, in his house. Investigators say the historian, Dee Brecheisen, may have been a prolific looter who spotted historical sites from his plane. Mr. Brecheisen died in 2004, and although it was not clear whether the looting continued after his death, the authorities exhumed the unprotected site to prevent future thefts. The remains are being studied by Bureau of Reclamation scientists, who are piecing together information on their identities. They will be reburied at other national cemeteries.

Today's youth want to be like HGF, Derrcules, and me

Philosophy (as a college major) skyrockets in popularity.

Poking the toxic beehive in gnome shorts

I went to a Bikram yoga class in Amsterdam yesterday at the invitation of a new acquaintance. This is the "hot yoga" -- 105F, 40% humidity -- literally wrings out toxins while you're in ludicrous, excruciating postures. With plenty of toxins to spare, I thought I'd put the technique to the test.

I arrived, signed up, went to the dressing room ... and found I had forgotten my shorts. (If this were a live story, here is where T would mention how I once went solo camping, brought my three-foot pet cactus, forgot the tent.) Men are to wear shorts -- women, leotards. I brought a towel, a shirt, change of underwear, shampoo, water, my iPod, a book -- everything but the thing I actually needed. Armchair psychiatrists, read into that what you will.

Back at the counter, with a cheerful shrug, I explained the fact that I am an idiot. "So, I guess maybe next time--"

"Oh, I think we might have a pair." The instructor, a sturdy blonde Dutchwoman with staring blue eyes, dragged boxes out of lost and found. I went through them. No shorts.

"I'll just go naked."

"Okay! Why not?" She seemed serious.

"Well, actually I can think of a few reasons."

"Wait," she said. She disappeared and came back with what looked like a black handkerchief. On closer inspection, it turned out to be shorts that might fit a gnome. I held them up, wincing toward her.

"They stretch," she affirmed.

Indeed they did. But at what cost? I regarded my reflection with hair-raising dismay. Was I smuggling hacky sacks? And given my build, which conceals all evidence of my skeleton, the gnome shorts appeared as a sort of mid-body tourniquet.

But it seemed I had committed, and my new pal had arrived, the Bikramites were gathering, and it was time to start. The studio was a large room containing 20-25 people. Blowers in the wall blasted hot air, and I was dripping sweat before I had even arranged my mat and laid the towel over it. Immediately the instructor began the breathing exercises, which involve interlacing the fingers and stretching them as high and as far backwards over your head as possible and trying to look at the wall behind you, while standing on tiptoe. Of course the notion of breathing in such a position is preposterous. And I had not exercised, besides riding my bike, for three months. By the end of the breathing exercises, I was speculating on the chances of a heart attack.

But I kept on, trudging dutifully through approximations of the 26 postures (skipping the ones that could worsen my damaged knee), some of which tangled my limbs into impossible pretzels, and all the while the drip drip drip of sweat, the pounding of my heart, the hot pumping of my blood into outpost regions that had not seen it since the Clinton Administration. My vision went dark, and dark also was the feeling of the toxins being roused in their lairs. I turned off my mind. I became a dying lizard writhing in scorched desert sand. "Ninety minutes is the length of a movie" is the one thought I had to keep beating back down into the murky depths of what was left of my sputtering consciousness.

But it did end. And a line formed for two dozen glowing red people to use three showers. I returned the soaked gnome shorts to the instructor, who told me I did a good job. "Many beginners flee the room before the halfway point." Staggering outside, I blinked at the pitiless sun, and scanned right and left. Okay, a street. I remember those. They are long and you can go two directions on them. Concentrate. Pick one direction and go. I waddled off like a hypnotized penguin.

At home, the headache began before I'd even climbed the stairs. Wretchedly recalling that we were out of ibuprofen, I collapsed and slept like a corpse for two hours. I woke disoriented and cranky, my sleep-wrinkled face scowling at T when she asked how it had gone. I felt like I had been hit by a semi. The headache persisted.

I don't think it rid me of toxins. I think it merely stirred them up, hassled them out of their hiding places to rampage through my body every bit as grumpily as I shambled into the Irish pub later that night. I needed to placate them, to soothe their anger by replenishing their ranks -- before they could do real damage. Thanks to Arthur Guinness and the product of his extraordinary vision, it seems I succeeded at least in that. I woke up today at the crack of ten-thirty feeling, more or less, normal. I don't know if I'm going back. I need to finish the job, but am I up to it? If you strike at the king, you had better kill him. Merely dredging up the toxins to go wilding through my kundalini was like catching a wolf by the ears: You don't dare let go.

FOX News -- My lover, my lady

Woman Asks to Have Wrinkles Removed, Wakes Up With Bigger Breasts

Black holes and strangelets and monopoles, oh my

Will the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) destroy the earth when it comes online this summer? The odds that the new super duper fancy really crazy powerful particle collider, built beneath the border of France and Switzerland, will create mini-black holes that could combine, burrow to the center of the earth, gain mass, and be all over the planet like Elvis on a chili burger are not zero. Chances that the LHC will generate an artificial supernova, or create weird new forms of matter that could turn us all into those forms of matter are not zero. There is some small chance those things will happen. How small? Depends on whom you ask.

A lawsuit in US District Court now seeks to forestall scientists from starting up the thing until the potential cosmically catastrophic dangers are "reassessed," and a Web site is now devoted to expressing concerns which, while remote, would be the end of you and me and everything we ever knew if they turn out to have been justified.

Whether or not science is about to accidentally grab hold of some dangerous live wiring inside reality that could fry us all to a crisp, what's amazing to me is the fact that at some point, someone will make the assessment that the risk is worth it. There will be a meeting. And heads will nod, and then they will adjourn the meeting and bring their coffees back to their desks. Similar concerns about unlikely but dire consequences were raised about the Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider in New York back in the late 90s. They weighed the potential conclusion of life on earth, and then in the end, they went for it anyway. And they will go for it this time, too. Isn't that just so, quintessentially, like, us? And each time will make the next time easier!

It's now proven to be within human nature to voluntarily risk our very existence in order to, among other things, find something called the Higgs Boson particle. Therefore, extending the non-zero chance to infinity, isn't that just another way of saying that it's now a matter of time before some experiment does, in fact, unleash bad, bad things we don't understand, can't control, and didn't predict well enough? And that will be all she wrote.

They are now saying June will be the grand opening. Actual full-power collisions are scheduled to begin in August.

Oh well! Hey listen, you guys have a great day!!!

Man Faces Charges for Having Sex With Picnic Table

FOX News!!!!!!!!!

"Ohio police have arrested a man who was caught on tape allegedly having sex with a picnic table.

Art Price Jr., 40, of Bellevue, Ohio, was arrested after a neighbor videotaped him engaged sexually with the metal table, according to a report on FOX19.com.

Price was seen on four separate occasions, always between 10:30 a.m. and noon, having sex with the picnic table, Bellevue Police Capt. Matt Johnson told the TV station.

"The first video we had, he was completely nude," Johnson said, noting the table in question had a hole in the middle intended to hold an umbrella.

Price, a married father of three school-age kids, faces felony counts of public indecency because his house is near an elementary school, according to the report."

The Commish

Anybody else catch Bush in the box last night during the Nationals/Braves opener? The poignant truth hit me hard in the gut: he should have just been MLB commissioner. He seemed to feel it too; staying longer than he needed to and speaking wistfully, casually. Really, he was more likable than he's been ever since, you know, he got into the business of demeaning our democracy.

I read too much into it, I know. But seeing him from this angle-- not a new one, an old one--I felt empathy for the guy. He talked about his first game at the Polo Grounds, about eating hot dogs at Arlington with the family. Morgan asked him if he might consider buying a team again. "I think I'll just be a fan," the president replied.



His first pitch was about 7 feet above the plate. Wide to boot. Throughout his appearance, the president was playful but insistent: he had thrown a strike.

Oddest Book Title Award

LONDON — Good advice? Maybe. Oddest book title of 2007 — that's official.

"If You Want Closure in Your Relationship, Start With Your Legs" has won the Diagram Prize for the oddest title of the year, The Bookseller magazine announced Friday. Big Boom, the apparently pseudonymous author, calls it a "self-help book, written by a man for the benefit of women."

It's a book, he writes, that is "raw, honest and about you," distilling "the sweat off my back, the wrinkles in my forehead from anger and thinking all the time."

The title triumphed in a public vote over runner-up "I Was Tortured by the Pygmy Love Queen" and the third-place finisher, "Cheese Problems Solved."

"The winner, 'If You Want Closure,' makes redundant an entire genre of self-help tomes," said Joel Rickett, deputy editor of The Bookseller. "So effective is the title that you don't even need to read the book itself."

The title joins a pantheon of past winners, including "Weeds in a Changing World" (1999), "The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories" (2003); "Bombproof Your Horse" (2004); and "The Stray Shopping Carts of Eastern North America: A Guide to Field Identification" (2006).

Ha Ha!

A 1995 study found that 'poets died younger than fiction writers, non-fiction writers, and people in the theatre.' A 1997 study "found that Japanese writers were more likely to die young than other eminent Japanese." Kaufman used a statistical tool called Tukey's Honestly Significant Difference test "to determine which differences were significant in each culture, by gender, and overall." The numbers tell the story. A poet's life, on average, is about a year shorter than that of a playwright, four years shorter than a novelist's life, and five-and-six-tenths years less than that of a non-fiction specialist. Kaufman's study ends, as do the lives of many poets, on a sad note.

He writes: "The fact that a Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton may die young does not necessarily mean an introduction to poetry class should carry a warning that poems may be hazardous to one's health. Yet this study may reinforce the idea of poets being surrounded by an aura of doom, even compared with others who may pick up a pen and paper for other purposes. It is hoped that the data presented here will help poets and mental-health professionals find ways to lessen what appears to be a sometimes negative impact of writing poetry on mortality and mental health."

Take that, Hoks!

McCain's daughter has a blog

Here is the blog. And here's where I found it.

FOX News Does it Again!

Real Headline:

"Man Claims to Speak 'Australian' After Allegedly Being Raped by Wombat"

from The War Journals of Hillary Clinton, Vol. 1

Oh boy, is this ever rich. The purest kind of forehead smacking, why-didn't-I-think-of-that stuff I've read in a while. Well played, tBone at Balloon Juice, whoe'er ye may be (is it our t-bone?!)...

There was a grunt and a clatter of equipment as Sinbad threw himself down at my side. Sweat glistened on his bare arms, and I could see tendons contracting and relaxing as he squeezed off bursts from his M14. The motion was hypnotic, like a snake about to strike. Perhaps, when all this was over-

No. Concentrate. Focus on the mission. Survive.

A shout from my left drew my head around. Sheryl Crow, guitar still strapped to her back, had taken cover behind a haphazard pile of decaying corpses. Her hair, once lustrous, now lank and greasy, was held back from her eyes by a dirty red headband. Her slim nostrils flared in the dirt-smeared oval of her face, seeking air free of the funeral taint shrouding the airfield. Still, I saw a fierce exultation in her expression that I knew mirrored my own.

Her lithe, nimble fingers stroked the top of an M67 frag grenade, strumming a chord of impending doom. With one quick, economical movement, she plucked the pin free and sent the deadly payload sailing toward the ridge concealing our enemies. My eyes traced the arc, willing it to fly true, to rain death on-

"There!" Sinbad shouted. "The convoy!"

Read the rest...

Update: It seems someone reposted this piece last night at DailyKOS and it was promoted to front page. Unclear if it was the original author. If it wasn't, you know you're good when people flat out steal your stuff!

Does anyone protest at WBC funerals?

Everyone's favorite jackasses, the Westboro Baptist Church (aka GodHatesFags.com), have announced their intention to protest the Sueppels' funeral.

NEWS RELEASE

Thank God for six people dead in suspicious circumstances (5 by "an active shooter") in Iowa City, Iowa!God sent the shooter.In punishment for Iowa's sins, and in retaliatory vengeance for Iowa having persecuted WBC. Dt.31:19.WBC to picket their funerals.Yes. WBC will picket their funerals in religious protest and warning; to wit: "Be not deceived; God is not mocked; for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." Gal. 6:7. God Hates Fags! & Fag-Enablers. Ergo, God hates Iowa; and these 6 people died for Iowa's sins.Furthermore, the evil State of Iowa has persecuted WBC for preaching the truth to Iowa, and has thereby "sown the wind, and is reaping the whirlwind." Hos. 8:7. This message is to be preached in respectful, lawful proximity to their funerals - in full compliance with all laws.Beware of Iowa - Land of the Sodomite damned.

Tragedy in the IC

This morning, at about 6:45, I heard lots of sirens. I didn't think much of it, since Iowa City has a high sirens-to-actual-emergencies ratio, but it turned out to be something bad. A guy who was recently indicted for embezzling hundreds of thousands of dollars from Hills Bank to support his cocaine habit shot and killed his wife and four kids. He was then on the loose for a spell, giving the University of Iowa a chance to test out its HawkAlert system for something other than weather, before he rammed his minivan into a signpost on 80 and died in the flames.

Everyone at Core Fitness and the East Side Java House this morning was very upset - apparently, the wife was a regular at both spots.

Thank you, FOX News, for making my morning a little brighter

"Woman Goes for Leg Operation, Gets New Anus Instead."

All praise FOX!

Robot so lifelike it's creepy

Statement from Provost on MFA Theses

Here's a statement from the interim provost, Lola Lopes, on the MFA situation.

Statement from the Provost Concerning MFA Theses

In recent days a number of people have been upset about what they believed was a plan by our library to publish the creative thesis work of students in our writing programs on the internet without their permission. Let me say as simply and clearly as I can, there is no such plan nor will there be. I regret sincerely that we did not convey this message when students and faculty first voiced their concerns.

For some time now our library, like most major academic research libraries, has been exploring ways to make its collections more accessible by digitizing some materials. As part of that process, there has been discussion about the possibility of making graduate student dissertations and theses available in electronic format. But any such process must be preceded by developing policies and procedures that allow authors to decide whether and when to allow distribution.

On Monday, March 17, I will begin pulling together a working group with representatives from the Graduate College, University Libraries, our several writing programs, and all other constituencies who wish to be part of the process. Under the leadership of Carl Seashore in 1922, Iowa became the first university in the United States to award MFA degrees based on creative projects. Although this has been a rocky start, I like to think that Iowa will again lead the way by developing policies and procedures that safeguard intellectual property rights while preserving materials for the use of scholars in generations to come.

Mmmm ... toadstool ice cream pops

Yum! Nothin' says "tasty treat" like an Amanita muscaria ice cream bar! T brought these home the other day.

The text translates as



Autumn Bars

Fall treat with delicious vanilla
ice cream, crackling candies, and crispy
cacao fantasy on top

They weren't bad. The list of ingredients, thank God, did not include ibotenic acid or muscimol. I did read carefully before eating. I wouldn't put anything past the Dutch -- especially since I found one of these growing here last October.

Thesis uproar makes it into the Daily Iowan

Thesis Policy Sparks Uproar

One interesting thing to note again is the apparent disconnect between the Graduate College and the librarians about scanning theses.

Short version --
GC: yes.
Librarians: no.
GC: the librarians must have misunderstood our edict.

Update: It's also in today's Press-Citizen. The dispute between the GC and the librarians is raised here as well.

So, I'm guessing no Farsi ...

This is a line from one of the "model's" pages at The Emperor's Club:

She also "speaks six of the world's leading languages fluently."

Theses and Google Print

Many of you likely received this email from Kembrew McLeod via Thisbe, but if not, here you go. If you would like to oppose this project (which does sound rather dodgy) email him ASAP at kembrew at kembrew dot com.

Short version: graduating MFA students must sign a release form in order to graduate - this form says that their theses will be posted in full online.

(Apologies for the formatting - I deleted a couple of other people's names in case they didn't want them out on the global interwebs)

---

Thisbe,

Apparently, the U of Iowa has entered into a deal whereby MFA writing theses will be placed online, in full, as content fodder for Google's ad-driven Print project. You know my positions on copyright and open flows of information, but this policy -- which requires students to sign off on this if they want to graduate -- seems really misguided.

There is a meeting about the policy this Friday, March 14, and I'm trying to gather opinions about this plan from other writers, so I thought I would check to see how you would feel about this, if you were a student. Also, feel free to pass along this email to any other concerned>> writers; tell them they can email me their opinions -- kembrew at kembrew dot com -- by Thursday, March 13.

I'll include an email I have written to the person who is representing the MFA students in the meeting on Friday, in case you want more background:

[Name of person representing MFA students],

After doing research on this issue over the weekend and informally polling several writers, editors, agents, UI writing program alums, and copyright experts I know, I can unequivocally say that this has to be one of the most poorly thought out, misguided, and perhaps truly stupid and irresponsible policies this university has attempted to ram down down our throats. (Where's the transparency? The clause just magically appeared on the deposit forms? Amazing!) I urge you to convey these sentiments to [the dean] in your meeting on Friday, because this policy cannot stand, particularly for MFA theses. Here is why: I think students who write creative theses (or translation works, and probably other kinds of writing that need to be considered) should have the option to withhold their work from an open access, online form of distribution -- though they should of course continue to be published as hard copies with the libraries.

On one hand, having a scholarly thesis or dissertation available more widely is a win-win for everyone -- the scholar who gets quoted, those who stumble across a dissertation on a topic they are researching, etc. On the other hand, I think creative work is qualitatively different. I can understand why some wouldn't want that work circulating widely and easily, for either artistic or economic reasons. That is because we are talking about different worlds -- the economies and professional norms of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, journalism, essay writing, academic writing, and other genres are all quite different -- so I can see why students (and faculty) are uncomfortable (or angry) about this. They can't all be lumped together with a uniform university publishing policy. You know my positions on copyright and the importance of free flows of information, but I also understand why some writers would want to keep control of their texts, because in many instances, theses aren't really considered completed works in certain fields. It's more of a process. God knows, I wouldn't want some of my grad school essays and papers being published, or my senior undergrad honors thesis published widely. When I was a student I saw this sort of writing as more of a fulfillment of the degree, and a learning process, rather than a publishing contract. Inversely, there are instances when a MF (or translation) thesis may in fact be the final product, more or less, and I can also understand why they do not want that work published in this way.

Speaking to this concern, I talked to my literary agent about this yesterday, one who represents both marginal academics and well-known authors, and who has been in publishing since 1972. Her first reaction was that this mode of distribution would be a cause for concern for some book editors, and might cause them to pass on a manuscript. It's not like she's wing-nut RIAA copyright lawyer; she supported me in getting Random House to distribute a free pdf copy of my entire book, Freedom of Expression. However, that was a decision I made on my own, because it worked for me. I'd hate to see a blanket policy imposed on other writers.

Anyway, it's not as if any student attending the University of Iowa has entered into a publishing contract with the school, so why does the university have the right to publish their work and use it as content fodder for Google's ad-driven Print project? Especially when students are paying UI tuition! As a labor issue, this is totally unfair and exploitative.

I'll be forwarding you some outraged emails from UI alums and nationally known writers, as well as one from a copyright expert, who is also known for his championing of libraries and open flows of information. [He] feels this policy is "alarming," as he put it, while responses from other writers contain four-letter words that probably shouldn't be included in an official university email or memo. I'm also passing along [another person's] endorsement of the NWP students' opposition to this plan.

Best, Kembrew

Cognitive dissonance

I saw this headline when I came into work this afternoon: Spitzer Is Linked to Prostitution Ring. Hello, cognitive dissonance! I can't get over it. What a fucking idiot. I mean, COME ON. I hope he resigns immediately so that elected Democrats don't look as hypocritical as elected Republicans do. (Also, Eliot Spitzer's wife is hot and smart. What the fuck?)

I don't know if you guys are like this, but every so often, I imagine running for something. Like water commissioner. And then I think back upon my really rather benign past and decide that if I were to run for office, the press would dig up a damning photo of me, like the time I went as a uterus to a Halloween party in college. Or any number of drunken photos. Or snippy emails I sent before I realized that email lacks the nuance required for difficult interpersonal situations.

My point is that don't you think that if you're in public office you might want to, I don't know, eliminate your illegal activities? Especially when you MUST be in the sights of all the huge financial-services firms you (rightly) forced into changing their underhanded ways?

Turdblossom dissed in the IC yesterday

From the Daily Iowan:

Boos exuberantly punctuated the UI Lecture Committee's introduction and dozens in the audience stood, turning their backs when President Bush's former deputy chief of staff and top aide took the stage. A woman charged up an aisle, her hands shaking, as she called for Rove to be arrested. And in a row near the front, a veteran told a different 84-year-old veteran to "F--- off" when he asked him to stop shouting.

Did any of you go to this? Very unusual rudeness shown by IC citizens. But then Mr. Rove was an unusual deputy chief of staff.

Bad line of the week

"'And what, exactly, is this supposed to be?' I say, poking the lump of red Jello-O. It jiggles outrageously, like a breast I once knew." -- from Water For Elephants

Anything you've read lately struck you as really, really bad?

Clearly, I was born 40 years too late

I'm going to go smack around the girl at Dunkin' Donuts now.

Stuff White People Like

You all may already have seen this site, but if not, I present to you one of the items on the list of Stuff White People Like:

It’s no secret. White people want to be writers. Why wouldn’t they? Work 10 hours a week from a country house in Maine or England. Get called a genius by other white people, and maybe get your book made into a film.

Every single white person harbors this dream. No matter what they tell you, all of them have at least one chapter of a novel stashed away somewhere.

Being a marginally crafty race, white people will often seek out every possible route to achieving this goal, and one of the most popular methods has been writers workshops.

These are expensive mini go-to-school type vacations. Where you talk with a published writer (often someone you haven’t heard of, but they have a book on Amazon) who will tell you how they became writers. If there is time, they will listen to you read your stuff and tell that you it’s good but it needs work on a) structure, b) characters, c) dialogue. Then they will collect their check and go back to their country house or studio apartment in New York.

Interesting

So I'm an Obama delegate to the Johnson County Democratic Convention, which is on 3/15. I just received the rulebook, and in looking through it, I found a couple of interesting things:

1. When you show up at the convention, you go into a preference group, like at the caucuses. But you do NOT have to go into the preference group of the candidate whose supporters elected you at the caucuses.

2. There are viability rounds like at the caucuses. So if a candidate's supporters don't surpass 15% of the seated delegates at the county convention, they either have to realign or just remain nonviable and not be able to seat any delegates at the district or state conventions. This could be interesting - what will the Edwards delegates do? He got 30% of the delegates at the caucuses, after all. And I think Richardson got a few, too.

County delegates translate into a smaller number of district and state convention delegates, which in turn get translated into a smaller number of Iowa delegates to the national convention. Seems as if whatever projections are out there for Iowa delegates to both Clinton and Obama could change.

For more info, see here.

Profile of Elizabeth McCracken

in the River Cities' Reader. She'll be doing a reading at Augustana College March 13.

The Importance of Print

As I tie-in to the lying gangbanger ("O.G. Homie"? Someone really bought that?), I bring you a photo of the press corps' current office for the Clinton campaign. Looking at it, I'm kind of astonished anyone would try so hard as to lie or whatever to be a writer of any sort. I guess it's a way to obtain love, fame, and respect without having to learn how to play guitar, throw a touchdown, or sing. That's pretty much the only explanation I can come up with.

This explains a lot

From a Cracked article on weird things that happen to be true:

"In 1933, group of wealthy businessmen that allegedly included the heads of Chase Bank, GM, Goodyear, Standard Oil, the DuPont family and Senator Prescott Bush tried to recruit Marine Corps Major General Smedley Butler to lead a military coup against President FDR and install a fascist dictatorship in the United States. And yes, we're talking about the same Prescott Bush who fathered one US President and grandfathered another one."

Publishing, a Complete Tool Shed

This kind of stuff makes me want to suit-up in my Fireman uniform and get book burning.

From Gawker:

"Before her publisher Penguin Group realized she was a liar and recalled her memoir, Margaret Seltzer gave an interview on Penguin's website and, probably, in press kits distributed to book reviewers. The interview is chock-full of quotes from Seltzer about her life as an impoverished gang banger raised in a Los Angeles ghetto by a foster parent called "Big Mom." The statements of course look absurd and hilarious, since everyone now knows Seltzer was raised by her biological parents in a nice suburb, where she attended private school and was not a member of a gang at all. Go read Seltzer's lies, issued under her pen name "Margaret Jordan," while they are still up on Penguin's website, or just take in highlights, after the jump.

One of Seltzer's cheaper tricks is a frequent use of urban black slang, which she probably inserted into her speech to bolster her claim of having grown up in South Central LA instead of, like, the San Fernando Valley:

Q: How did this book originate?

A: During my senior year of college one of my professors told me a friend of hers was working on a book and wanted to interview me. I declined. I wasn’t interested in the whole “South-Central-as-petting-zoo” thing. Then my home girl said the teacher might mess around and fail me for rejecting her friend, so I ended up calling the author and doing the interview. She was real nice and asked me if I had ever written anything. I ended up giving her one of a number of short stories I had written for my brothers’ kids and for the kids of my homies serving life sentences. ...

Q: What makes the difference between someone who is able to move up and on and out of the inner city and someone else who follows the trajectory into crime, juvenile detention, prison, and so on?

A: I wish I knew. I’ve got my homeboy who’s doing life who wrote me, “You and OG homie are the only ones who made it out.” Well, OG homie is now locked up. And I can’t even judge.

Requisite irony:

Q: What was it like for you going back and digging up all those painful memories of your childhood and teen years?

A: It was heart wrenching. And the amazing thing is that no matter how many rounds of edits I sat down with, it was heart wrenching each time. Sarah McGrath, my editor at Riverhead Books, said, “Every time I hit a certain page I cry.” I told her, “If you only knew! I hit that same page and cry every time too.”

The more blatant fabrications are also fun:

Q: What was the scene that affected both of you so much? A: It was the scene in which my little sisters and I were walking home from the Korean grocery store and Nishia dropped a carton of milk. It burst open and the milk streamed into the gutter. She burst into tears, begging me not to be mad as she stooped down trying to scrape it all back into the broken carton. I told her I wasn’t mad. But I was. That was a half-gallon of milk wasted and two dollars gone. Even now, as an adult, just thinking about that—thinking about the choices you were given as a child that weren’t kid choices—makes me want to cry. ...

Q: You were 16 when you cooked your first batch of rock cocaine. What led you to do that?

A: Our water had been shut off because Big Mom couldn’t pay the bill. If your water is cut off social services is going to come and say it’s bad living conditions and take the kids out of there. Where I was was cool. I was with people who loved me. I didn’t want us to be split up so I was trying to be part of the solution. That meant bringing in money and getting the water turned back on. Once again that’s not a choice kids should have to make. I knew it was not right—cooking up rock. I knew I was contributing negatively to the community. But the water got put back on the same day. The reward was there. To go from wearing third generation hand-me-downs to wearing name brand everything—when you’re a kid that stuff matters.

Then there are the odd things Seltzer just can't remember. Like the sexual abuse she said she suffered as a child, which in the Q&A she implied was something she "barely remembered." Or the question below, where her repeated shrugs get more than a little suspicious:

Q: Do you think it was a good thing you were removed from your parents’ home and put into the foster care system?

A: Who knows? Who can say? What would have happened if I hadn’t been put into the system? To answer that you have to enter the realm of speculation and I try not to get caught up in “would have,” “should have,” and “could have.” What I can say is that I’m a strong person and that I’m very proud of the person I am today. I don’t have a lot of room for regrets, especially over choices I didn’t have.

Seltzer was also tired of her 'hood being stereotyped:

Q: What’s the biggest misconception people have about South Central, about gangs, about the ghetto? A: Where to start? You meet someone and they ask where you’re from. If you say South Central they immediately ask if you were in a gang. Of course not everyone was, but then you’re embarrassed when you have to say, “Yeah I was.” And then they ask if you ever killed anybody. What? Who would ask that of anybody? There’s this whole misconception that we’re all cold-hearted killers, drinking forties out of paper bags, driving around in low riders—Bloods looking for CRIPs; CRIPs looking for Bloods—trying to shoot each other all night long. At one point I was showing my agent around my old neighborhood. We were shooting a video for the book. She said it was so much nicer than she thought it was going to be and that people were so friendly. We went to a local park and this couple walked up to us. I could see the camera crew suddenly got nervous. In my head I’m thinking, what do you think is going to happen? But then the couple was nice and all I could do was smile.

Sometimes you wonder why anyone believed Seltzer, particularly while listening to her weaker, more simpleminded lies and tricks:

Q: Throughout the book, when presenting dialogue, you write in slang. You also replace the c’s in many words with k’s. Why?

A: You have to find a balance. You want to make the book understandable to the average reader in the suburbs but you also want it to be realistic. I’m not going to walk into a store and say, “Hi. How are you doing? Nice to meet you!” I felt if I did that in the book something would be lost. And I want people to understand how deep-seated the hatred really is between CRIPs and Bloods. CRIPs celebrate C-days rather than B-days (birthdays) and Bloods smoke bigarettes not cigarettes. The hate is so deep that, as a Blood, you automatically change the spelling in words with a c in them.

Then there are the downright weird lies, where it seems like Seltzer is making it up as she goes along and lets herself go off on a tangent. Like in her story about the cop who buys pit bulls from gangster dog breeders:

Q: My understanding is that you’re an “inactive” gang member—that you’ve been given permission by the gang to step down from activity but are still considered friendly, and thus protected. Is that the case?

A: Am I “inactive?”

I don’t know. There’s really no such thing. I breed pit bulls and just took some down to Los Angeles for this guy. He said, “I saw your photo on My Space. You’re a Blood, right?” I told him I was a Blood once upon a time. He said he’d never heard of such a thing as an ex-gang member. I asked where he was from and he told me he was a police officer. "

If any agents are reading this, I am currenty shopping Mens Rea, Bitches! Devora Feces et Morimini: Tha Fo Shizzle Truth-o-dillo o the Krazy Gangsta Gs, Boy!!!: The True Story of A Law School Faculty Member.

The not-so-little differences

Over the past year we've accumulated first-hand examples of startling cultural differences between people we're meeting in Holland and Americans. From casual scatology to graphic sexual innuendo to pointed insinuations about one's significant other, folks here are much more willing to venture willy-nilly into bluntness, regardless of present company or circumstances or how well they know you. A counter-intuitive discovery, given the stereotypes. But consider the following:

I was asking our tax guy's assistant to explain a surprisingly large bill we got from the city. "This number is the property tax," she said. "And this is, how do you call it -- foulness?" "Garbage." "Yes, garbage. And this is for the foul water -- you know, when you flush and the turd goes down?"

T was talking to a colleague about a writer whose work she is editing. She said he wasn't very clear, wasn't good, even though he appears to be the top of his field. Guy says, "Well, when you are in the toilet and have to pee you must pull down your panties, and so must he." We're guessing this is some Dutch version of everyone having to put their pants on one leg at a time.

First class back from the holiday break, one girl in T's Dutch lesson took one look at another and exclaimed, "______! You got fat!"

An acquaintance offered his opinion that when T first arrived, she didn't look so good, but now she's better looking. This was while talking to both of us. He felt free to cheerfully speculate, "Now, if I slept with her, how long would it take you to forgive me?"

Another acquaintance cautioned me that if T did not do well on her impending Dutch test, I should "give her a good spanking." He proceeded to illustrate by holding my imaginary wife over his knee and playfully swatting her with his palm. He felt it necessary to add a little dance to it, shuffling sideways and swaying his own backside to some sort of interior soundtrack as the performance went on for, I thought, a tad too long.

Then we have a fellow -- a cross between Cap'n Crunch and Captain Kangaroo, but more "pirate-y" -- who never fails to seek us out and make some suggestive remarks. "My moustache is curly from oral sex," is a typical one. He claims to be a shaman and, recently, has identified our spirit animals. "Yours," he says to T, "is a big bird, an eagle. Always flying, high up in the air!" His eyes are wide, his arms open. "You want to go, go, go, and try new experiences.

"Yours," he says, turning to me and frowning, "is a little black bird -- a crow. He flies lower. He is dark. He is closed. He looks up and says, 'Oh, there's that big bird again.' He thinks the big bird is eating him. You want to try new experiences, but you say to yourself, no, I don't want to. I think you should try! She is flying very high and very fast, and you are low to the ground, flapping and flapping." He brings his hands up to his shoulders and flaps them pitifully. "And this is what I see between the two of you." Big friendly hands on our shoulders, he suggests getting together for a 'session.'


"I will give you my Web site." He writes down the URL on a coaster -- which I will not be linking to. "Don't scare!" he says, "but it is BDSM. That is my thing."

I cover my face with my hands, peek with desperation at my empty glass, and cry out down the bar, "Can I, for Christ's sake, get a beer down here?" Our interlocutor's twinkling gaze moves, like a minute hand, from me to T.

"Bondage, Discipline, Sadism, and Masochism," he clarifies. "I am a master. Everyone knows me. But it's only ... if you want it." He then mentions -- so, so casually! -- that another acquaintance of ours is his 'submissive.'

To T: "When you are under me..." -- this is helpfully illustrated by some gentle arrangement of his hands -- "I never do anything you don't want. I have a rope. Many people," glancing at me, "are afraid of such new experiences. But I say, try it, and if you don't like it, don't do it!"

My beer comes, and I down about a third of it. "I'm not afraid," I say.

"No, not afraid. Just closed, like the black bird."

"Well, I'm not sure you're on the right track here."

I'm not even sure what that means. I don't want to take offense, since I believe none was meant, but I'm not sure how to ease him off this topic. T, meanwhile, is ready to bust a gut.

He raises his palms. "It's just -- what I feel."

"Mm-hm."

Eventually he drifts away, leaving in his wake bafflement, titillation, squirming, hushed comparison of notes, and unbidden mental images of the Quaker Oats guy in studded black leather wielding a riding crop. In my best moments I like to see myself as a worldly and sophisticated ambassador of good will -- a friend of ours here calls us the "unamericans," meaning atypical -- but by gosh if I'm not often reminded that deep down I'm just a small-town Midwesterner, picking my way through a slightly alien land.

Possibly final primary predictions

What do you think will happen tomorrow? I'll go out on a limb and say Obama wins Texas, Ohio, and Vermont, and loses Rhode Island by 4%. In this way he puts the thing to bed. Clinton concession by Friday. And ... um ... free beer everywhere.

A Little Trouble with the Facts

Last night in Amsterdam, fellow 'Shopper ('06, I believe) Nina Siegal read from her recently published first novel A Little Trouble with the Facts, which PW calls "chick lit meets Raymond Chandler" and her Dutch publisher calls chick noir (the book is being translated into Dutch). A packed house and many questions after her reading of this glamour/gutter crime novel's Chapter 1, about a former big paper style queen, demoted to obits, who gets sucked into investigating a suicide. Nina came to Holland on a Fullbright to work on her second novel, which features characters from a Rembrandt painting -- and decided to stay.