I hate this guy

Well, I’m out of here in whatever non-literal because-this-is-the-Internet-and-I’ll-still-be-at-this-coffee-shop-regardless kind of way you want to take that.

I already said my thanks and listed my tear-jerking video goodbye list, so I won’t waste any more bandwidth with that sappy crap.

I will, though, be posting at least one more book related item (an interview with this guy) over at Condalmo, the poor man’s Adult Friend Finder. It will be gross. Bye.

Also told this picture wouldn’t have the squirrely eye

From Conversational Reading, a review of a mathematician ruining literature by trying to figure out if Borges‘ comprehensive Library of Babel could actually exist. It couldn’t. At least not in the sense of actual physical books. It’s an interesting idea, and I appreciate a math nerd being so into the brilliance of Borges that he decided to tackle this particular subject, but what a weirdo thing to do. I would, though, like to see a mathematical formula as to how many Kindles the library would fill.

Here is a list of ten McCain, er maverick mysteries. They’re tales that may take hits from both sides of the fiction aisle, but they have their own unconventional way to do things. The only difference, actually, between these books and McCain is they’re not on a delusional crusade to become president and then die.

From Sarah Weinman, here’s a total screwjob on Craigslist. Before I get to this, did I ever tell you I sold a midnight showing of The Dark Knight ticket for a hundred bucks? I’m guessing 90% of you do, because you are my good friends who pity this unpopular, doomed site. Hold on, I’m gonna watch this. Alright, so on Craigslist they’re offering to pay bored idiots a wooden nickel to write fake reviews of bad books. See, the authors pay 75 bucks to have their book “featured” with numb skulls writing how it’s the next Catcher in the Rye, but funny! Jesus, please go here and tell them you hope they fall in a vat of glue and then in a vat of stabbing knives.

Hemingway’s house with all the freak cats has been saved. I love how they act as if this had gone a different way the cats would have been tossed into the incinerator.

I had to Google “squirrely” to make sure it was spelled right.

I’m only posting this thing about the new Harry Potter because that cop must feel like a total douche.

And finally, there was a Blumesday (Ha, take that Joyce, you punk bitch!) to honor Judy Blume on her 70th birthday. I’m all about the lady, and it’s awesome that she can still be read and loved by millions of women, but there is just far too much talk about periods in the story for me to say much else.

Idiot Letters: One Man’s Relentless Assault on Corporate America by Paul Rosa

When my son was a little under four years old, I found him on the phone in his room, clutching a bag of Doritos. He had read the back of the bag which says, “Questions? Comments?  Call…” So he did.  Whoever on the phone was very kind, listening to him tell her all about the merits of the “red” bags and the short-comings of the “blue” bags.  

But if you are over preschool age, does anyone have a burning need to discuss or comment on the features of say, their box of Uncle Ben’s Rice?  Sadly, yes.  The responses to the ridiculous letters Rosa sent to such venerable entities as Quaker Oats, Arm and Hammer, Pizza Hut, Immodium AD (eeww!), and Preparation H (ewww, eeew!), prove that corresponding with the unwashed masses must be a pretty regular occurrence.  No matter how outlandish Rosa’s comments or requests, the responses are polite and unblinking. 

Here’s an example:

Dear Airwick Air Freshener rank and file, 

Just a word to let you know how much I’ve appreciated your fine Airwick “Stick Ups” over the years!  They’ve kept my house smelling fresh and clean as long as I can remember.  Recently, I tried the “Country Potpourri” fragrance and was delighted with the results.  Even my girlfriend (Cindy) commented on the delightful aroma.  Your product truly does, as you claim, “Stop big odors in small places.”  Keep up the impressive work! 

However, something has always struck me as a bit peculiar.  On the back of the air freshener boxes appear the words, “Use Stick Ups in the following locations:  Hampers, Cars, Under Sinks, Litter Boxes, Lockers, Garbage Pails, Near Toilets, Diaper Pails, and Closets.”  Each suggestion also features a picture of that location.  Are there actually people who don’t have the common sense to place an Air Freshener near something that smells bad?  Might someone grow confused and place one next to an azalea in the living room, and then wonder why the bathroom still smells dreadful?  Perhaps so.  Maybe a person could buy a Stick Up because the cat’s litter box stinks to high heaven, but when they return from the store they can’t recall why they bought it.  In this case, your suggestions would prove handy, indeed!  Is this why you did it?  Please let me know what’s going on here, as it has confused me for some time.   I look forward to hearing from you! 

Fragrantly yours, 

Paul C. Rosa 

P.S.  As someone who like to bathe no more than twice a week, I was wondering if it would be safe to use a Stick up on one’s person?  (i.e. center of chest.) 
 

Dear Mr. Rosa, 

We received your letter concerning Stick Ups, our concentrated air freshener. We’re extremely pleased to hear you are satisfied with the effectiveness of this product. 

In response to your comments regarding the pictures on the product packaging, we have found that in many instances visualization helps the consumer understand the uses of this product more clearly.   

Comments from consumers are always welcome and we want you to know we appreciate the time you have taken to let us know your feelings.  We value your patronage and hope you will use the enclosed coupons on future purchases of Stick Ups. 

Your continued interest and support of our quality home care products are greatly appreciated.  Thank you for taking the time to write.  

Sincerely, 

Ginger Newton

Consumer Affairs 

My note: ”Ginger” was promptly fired for not addressing the Stick-Ups to the chest issue. Because of her lack of attention to detail there have been at least sixteen deaths attributed to this particular failure to save the consumer from himself. 

Check out Paul’s blog for more recent examples of proof that we are living in the end of days…

The Hardhat’s Bedtime Story Book by Al Capp

“Charles Manson’s Ideals Will Never Die,” excerpted from Capp’s 1970 collection:

Dear Mummy:

Will you please send my allowance checks to the Charles Manson Memorial Commune, formerly known as the University Y.W.C.A.

A commune, Mummy, is like a home, only it’s nicer.  In a commune people love and share with each other even though they are not bound by the hypocritical chains of marriage, like in yours and Daddy’s degenerate society.

The people in our commune are Sally, Susan, Ruthie, Joanie, Jeanie, Betsy, Bonnie, William K. Fowlemouth and me.  We’ll need a larger one next year because then there’ll be Sally and her baby, Ruthie and her baby, Joanie, Jeanie, Betsy, Bonnie and their babies, William K. Fowlemouth and me.

…

I’d been out to the Welfare office to collect our commune’s monthly $2375 check, which really is not enough to keep us going until we destroy yours and Daddy’s greedy, inhuman society, and when I returned no one was home except William K. Fowlemouth watching cartoons on TV.  All the girls wer gone and so was William K.’s gun collection.

He said the girls (and his collection) were out preventing crime, and he was so worried about them, he could hardly concentrate on the TV cartoons.

Just then the door opened, and in came Sally and Susan and Ruthie and Joanie and Jeanie and Betsy and Bonnie.  They were giggling and carrying the gun collection and three tin boxes full of small bills and silver.  William K. said, “How come there are only three boxes our of four gas stations?”

The girls explained that some state troopers had stopped at one to gas up.

Then, Mummy, I’m afraid I asked a stupid question.  “Did you send the girls out to do something criminal at those gas stations?”  He looked so hurt.

“My dear,” he said.  “It was the owners of those gas stations who were doing something criminal.”

“You mean they were cheating?” I asked.

“Worse,” said William K., “They weren’t cheating.  They were paying their taxes!  And do you realize what those taxes pay for?  Such crimes as equipping the Army with defense material, pensions for the widows and orphans of policemen killed in the line of duty!

“By taking these tin boxes away from them, we’ve helped to prevent those crimes.”

“Even more, this money will now be devoted to changing our crooked thieving system into something clean and honest.”

“But,” I said, “you’re putting it all in your pockets.”

“Who else,” asked William K. Fowlemouth, “can be trusted with it?”  He then called a travel agency and asked them to reserve two first class tickets to Las Vegas and a suite at a first class hotel.  Then he called a stripper named LaBelle.  He’s been gone two weeks now.

Sally, Susan, Ruthie, Joanie, Jeanie, Betsy, Bonnie, and I all miss him terribly, Mummy, but those three tin boxes can’t last forever, not in Las Vegas.

POWER TO THE PEOPLE!

Still can’t stand him, though

So, the arrogant French writer guy is hated by an equally arrogant French writer, and they’re going to have a douche-off in this boring book for people who enjoy eating rusty tinfoil. Houllebecq will square off against Bernard-Henri Lévy in a series of published letters that is going to be filled with so much long-winded arrogance and pontification that I’d be fine if Sarah Palin banned this when she becomes the new anointed Christ upon this earth. Homeless people should burn these for warmth.

That last one was from Ed, but here is one I just found involving more terrible French writers and their awful lives. Some “auto-fiction” author named Christine Angot dated some rapper and wrote about it and critics are tearing her apart because… I don’t know, they say a bunch of different reasons, including racism and politics, but I think when you write a book and one of the most noteworthy inclusions is sex in an elevator (or lift) then you wrote a bad book.

And now onto the Canadians. Jane Urquhart crapped all over a new collection of Canadian short stories by including chapters from novels and snippets from memoirs. She said she was trying to push the boundaries of the short story, when I assume she was actually just lazy. People are shocked and outraged that Canada even has writers, but I’m just mad that one of the least respected literary art forms has to take a back seat to sheet music from Sum 41.

Remember when this book blog wasn’t closing and I was lighting cigars with 32 gig Ipod Touches? Also, I’m listening to some smooth Sade-type cover of Wrapped Around Your Finger and I can’t believe I’m still typing instead of spraying lighter fluid on my face.

And finally, an author from America where people are decent-ish to each other. Jack Handey on how to find the humor section of a bookstore. It’s the funniest finding the humor section in a bookstore-themed article you’ll read this week. Probably.

“Have you been to the basement?” (from Willard, 2003)

Iron and Silk by Mark Salzman

Yep. Government Logic. Somehow, it seems to me that this story could almost be set in the United States rather than in China. Too bad there isn’t a premium on the heads of Wall Street rats…

While living in China, author Mark Salzman worked as a teacher.  One day, a rat made a rather unscheduled appearance as a guest in his classroom.  Although he simply wanted to startle the vermin and make it run away, he clobbered it with an enormous dictionary and killed it. 

His students were thrilled.  They urged him to go collect the bounty given for any rat killed in the city.  Though reluctant, Salzman gave in to his class and took the dead rat into the official office for such dealings.  Unfortunately, he was told that he could not be paid, even though, as stipulated, the rat was quite dead.  Deceased.  No-longer-among-the-living.    A late rat.  A stiff rat.  An ex-rat.  (Cross reference Monty Python’s Dead Parrot Sketch)

But I digress…

Here’s Salzman’s tale of rats and governance:

“By the time we reached the Rat Collection Office, we had attracted quite a crowd.  I explained to the comrade-in-charge where and how I had killed the rat and put it on the table and asked for my reward.  He and the other men in the office laughed heartily when they heard the circumstances of the rat’s demise…

“I’m sorry to say that we can’t pay you.  The regulation is that the reward be given to students who kill rats in the dormitories…”.

The other comrade “pointed out that the official statement concerning rats is that they have been stamped out.  Only internal documents, which foreigners cannot read, discuss the rat problem.  Since you killed the rat, there’s nothing to be done about that.  But if they give you the reward, then an official disburser of state funds will have to publicly confirmed that rats do exit here.”

Sound familiar?  Anyone? 

Paul Cézanne, ‘The Card Players’ (1892)

Cézanne and Modernism: The Poetics of Painting by Joyce Medina

In her study of Cézanne in particular and modernism in general, Joyce Medina promises to “help define that vast and uncharted sea that we define as modernism.”  Her choice of Paul Cézanne as ambassador for this unwieldy task is based on her belief in his “transformation of traditional pictorial images and his invention of radically new types of images.”  From this pier, we are cast off into the “uncharted sea” which she proposes to map. 

It soon becomes clear that if you intend to dive into this sea, you had better be a strong swimmer with a good sense of direction.  Medina’s contemplations of Bergson, Kierkegaard and other philosophers are quite complex, as is her discussion of artistic technique.  The analysis is clearly directed toward a readership already well-versed in the discipline’s terminology. 

Even with audience intent in mind, Medina’s work is sometimes uneven.  It does begin promisingly, however.  Chapter One, “Cézanne and the Unity of Modernism” addresses what Cézanne did to help define the movement.  To this end, she explores the meaning behind  Cézanne’s assertion that  ”Modernism is thought itself,” tracing the artist’s shift away from “painted objects” (pre-1895) in favor of “abstract form” from 1896 until his death in 1906.  Medina contends that Cézanne’s changes were not solely in his technique, but also in his motivation. 

Motivation is key to understanding the inexorable drift away from Impressionism and the ways in which Medina separates the Impressionists from the Modernists is thorough and convincing.  She speaks of the Impressionists as recording their sensations exclusively as they experienced them, but of the Modernists as transcending the sensation of the moment while simultaneously reflecting the past and projecting the future into their work.  She also makes important connections to the psychological thought of the era by pinpointing theories such as “sign theory.”  “Sign theory,” Medina explains, “pointed directly to  intuited objects and essential connections and also to expressive realizations, as signs of a free and spontaneous consciousness.”  Unfortunately, as hard as Medina tries to unravel the confused mass, modernism repeatedly defies her ambitious attempts. 

This is not to say that she doesn’t give a valiant effort.  Medina’s examination incorporating psychological theories with the “new aesthetics” receives interesting treatment, especially her discussion of Cézanne’s ground-breaking work, Maison de Pendu (ca. 1873).  Her careful analysis of brush-strokes and the color palette is thought-provoking.  One wishes that the illustrations had been reproduced in color. 

Ostensibly to help clarify the tangle of Modernism, Medina calls upon everyone form Delacroix, Rubens, Baudelaire, Rilke, Pound, Barthes, Stevens, and even Mozart (to name only some of the influences and interpretations cited) to help illuminate the mind and hand of Cézanne.  Such diverse sources prove the Medina is an outstanding scholar, but lost in the sheer volume of citations are important distinctions about Cézanne himself, especially concerning the intriguing but unsatisfying analysis of the artist’s “mask imagery.” 

Medina is aware of the vast nature of her undertaking but is unapologetic for the inclusion of so many voices.  She argues, “it was necessary to bracket all possible conceptions about death.”  This “bracketing” of all possibilities may indeed be required for a full understanding, but it takes a dedicated person to remain committed to following Medina through her difficult voyage of discovery. 

And get new glasses

That ugly-ass book of Roth’s finally came out and everyone hates it because it’s lame and the narrator is dead like a Jewsexual American Beauty or something. Hitchens hates it, Kakutani hates it, this comic disrespects it, and Mark Sarvas isn’t exactly a jazzman about it either. So, I guess don’t buy it.

The Onion has always loved David Foster Wallace, and with his death they give him a worthy send-off.

I don’t know about you, but the first picture you see on The Last Book’s website that says “This Is A Mirror You Are a Written Sentence” is awesome. But anyways, you only have about 3 1/2 weeks left to submit something to this ambitious and somewhat disconcerting art project. This was from The Millions, and I already linked the website in the first sentence, so just click on that.

One thing I’m really going to miss about this blog is that I won’t have the excuses to traipse through the internet like a drunk after bar time anymore. I’ll just have to do it out of pure will.

I agree with Scott that The Digested Read isn’t the best, but I also agree that a podcast for The Crying of Lot 49 is pretty awesome. Seriously, Dr. Hilarious.

And speaking of comedy and Guardian, a lesson from some girl on how to write funny. Here’s an example of her skills. I can’t understand a goddamn thing.

A bunch of literary meanies. I love how they toss The Joker in there just so they can put up a Dark Knight picture.

And finally, audiobooks are fifteen percent of book sales. Did you know that? That’s straight bonkers. But anyways, Slate has some of the wrongs and rights of audiobook readings, and while I don’t listen to these things the criticisms seem dead on. Except, what’s wrong with Brad Pitt? The whole article is based on the money shot of the guy ruining All The Pretty Horses, but I didn’t see any problems. He has a cool voice. Maybe this is because I love Brad Pitt and want to marry him and be a mother to his fourteen children, but I don’t think it’s that big a deal.

Lamaze Schmaze…Bring Me a Whiskey Epidural

A Midwife’s Tale: The Life of Martha Ballard, Based on Her Diary, 1785-1812 by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

Ulrich’s study examines the life on an “ordinary” woman, Martha Ballard, a midwife living in Maine who began keeping a diary at the age of 50 in 1785 until her death at 77 in 1812.   The pages recount her experiences delivering nearly 1000 babies as well as nine of her own children.

Martha’s diary exhaustively covers what most male scholars have traditionally considered mundane:  household economy, gardening, and, of course, childbirth.  “Martha’s diary,” Ulrich argues, “fills in the missing work — and trade — of women (29).  Filling in those gaps creates a more realistic picture of life for all of society in the eighteenth century.

The way in which Ulrich bridges that gap is to demonstrate the interconnectivity of the sexes.  Ulrich does not put it this way, but I see Martha as a benevolent spider at the center of a web, a creature long dismissed by scholars as either inconsequential or dangerous, but in reality indispensable to the smooth governance of life.

Ulrich takes the barest bits of information offered from Martha and then pulls that thread into other existing documents to show the mesh of women’s and men’s lives.  For example, Martha’s entry of September 12, 1788 reads, “At home.  Clear.  Dolly warpt and drawd a piece for Check.  Laid 45 yards.  I have been home kitting” is studied for its implications on the larger world (73).  How did the thread arrive in the women’s hands?  What became of that cloth after its production?  Spinning and weaving is ostensibly woman’s work in a female sphere, the home.  But here the work is shown to be a vital part of the community as a whole, with everyone involved in the process.  Ulrich explains that “(s)pinning, like nursing, was a universal female occupation (but) (m)en broke flax, sheared sheep and performed other supportive services… women had the primary responsibility for the production of cloth (78-79).

Perhaps the most intriguing aspects of this diary are the early rumblings that foretold the seismic shift away from female-based obstetrics.  Until 1801, no man is ever mentioned or called upon to assist in births in Martha’s accounts (280).  But slowly, men are elbowing their way into the delivery room and pushing women out.  It did not happen often in Martha’s lifetime but it was coming.  The holistic approach was losing favor while the “body as machine” theory was gaining a following among male physicians.

Women might have felt the push towards the door in the delivery room, but interestingly, they were still often a part of autopsies.  The presence of women at these proceedings was frequently recorded.  However, the specific reasons for female inclusion, by Martha or anyone else, is not addressed in the primary sources.  On this topic, Ulrich can only speculate.  Her best guess is that women “ensured proper reverence for the bodies” and “perhaps was (extended as) a professional courtesy” (251).  Whatever the reasons, Martha’s accounting of her observations lets us see that she was cognizant of all internal organs and their functions.  As Ulrich repeatedly shows, Martha’s medical bag contained more than clean towels and a hot water bottle.  She was a physician in every sense of the word. 

Medical and professional issues aside, one of the most fascinating aspects to emerge from Martha’s diary is that this account is no hagiography.   Martha often grumbles, sometimes wallows in self-pity and complains about her ungrateful children and her husband, emerging as a real, flawed person.

Me boating into the sunset

On my last post, I said you’d miss me when I was gone. Now I can actually test this theory as my favorite book blog, this one, is shutting down at the end of the month. I guess I should have realized this would happen when only two people entered the Joshua Henkin contest (Louis Perry, you are a gentleman and a scholar and I thank you) and one of them wasn’t even eligible. So yeah, T-minus whatever and we’re done here.

I would like to thank Jamie for often times picking up the slack, quadrupling my comments, and directing everyone to some of the most insane books ever printed.

I would like to thank Matthew for… well, anyways it has been a wild, wild book-related ride.

And finally, while I’ll have a few more posts before the fallout, I’ll let Youtube communicate my feelings more appropriately:

The Boyz

Whitney Houston

Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

That Vitamin C song they used to play at graduations

Sarah Mclachlan

That same Sarah Mclachlan song, this time featuring photos from 90210

Corey Hart- Never Surrender

Corey Hart- Sunglasses at Night

I almost forgot John Denver

Johnny Paycheck