Keys to Game 4
If the Predators knew that after three games, point-scoring leader Joe Thornton would have exactly 0 points, they would have thought that things would be going peachy in Music City. Key #1- Joe doesn't have to score to affect the game. The man is singlehandedly creating huge chunks of puck possession time and drawing penalties, which are two of the biggest keys to winning Game 4. The Sharks have to control the puck so they don't commit stupid penalties that allow the Predators' vaunted penalty play to create up top. If Paul Kariya can't touch the puck cuz he's on the bench while the penalty killers are on the ice cuz some exhausted defenseman just mugged Joe behind the net because Joe simply can't be separated from the puck legally, well, the Sharks have an edge. Plus, as Game 3 clearly showed, even if the Sharks don't score, Joe is wearing down the defensemen and allowing goal-scoring opportunities later in the game. If the Preds can't figure out how to stop Joe behind the net, that's the first step to victory.

Key #2- Patience- it's clear now that the Sharks have the edge in puck-handling skill and talent, but the Preds also realize that and are playing a counter-attack game. In Game 3, Neils Ekman made a ridiculously stupid pass to the blue line in an impatient attempt to keep the zone which led to the Preds' short-handed score. When in doubt, play the percentages, wait, and know that your superior firepower will ultimately prevail.

Key #3-Stop overpassing. Too often the Sharks are looking for the perfect play instead of putting the puck on the net and allowing mucky goals to transpire. Rookie Steve Bernier's slimy go-ahead goal at the end of Period 2 is a perfect example. No style points, just tons of momentum and a Tank losing its collective shit. Leave the aesthetics to the ice dancers.

Key #4- Keep Your Heads- Nashville is feeling desperate, and they will come out early and try to draw stupid penalities. Do not retaliate. Do not punk it up. Leave your machismo ethics at the locker room door. If they sense the Sharks will not bite, we will get easy penalities, an easy lead, and things could get ugly from there on in.

Game 4 is Thursday, April 27, 7:30, The Shark Tank, Fox Sports Net Ch. 40

What's Good?
Equals- First Among (Best of)- "Oh no, we got to rock on to Electric Avenue, and then we'll take it higher...Out in the streets"- you remember the early 80's, when MTV had the 8-song rotation cuz that's about all the vids they could play. Turns out Eddy Grant had him a serious past, and this document is part of it, an absolutely terrific slab of R&B, psych pop, and maybe just a touch of reggae beat to keep the boys back home thinking it's real. Outstanding for the late-night slowdown, the Sunday morning groove in, or the big smoke roll along.

Sharks' Penalty Killing Adjustments- any fool could have told Ron Wilson that the Sharks were not applying enough pressure in the neutral zone and on the blue line in Game 1, and the result was four power play goals for the Predators and a loss that could have been avoided with a simple tactical adjustment. OK, so they watched films and haven't allowed a power play goal since, but the tardiness burns my eye. Look for the Predators to dump and chase in Game 4, and let's see how the Sharks adjust. Slow-reacting Canuck fucks.

Moylan's Moylander Double IPA (8.5% ABV, 22 oz.)-- the most orgasmic beer I have had in my newest faze as balding, ponytailed, middle-aged beer snob was not this one, but the regular Moylan's IPA I had at Barclay's when the family "stumbled there" a month back for lunch, pretending we were just on a walk and never intending to find a cheap excuse to have a few before noon. Well, last weekend Nicole and I went to Chez Panisse to celebrate her birthday, and for a nitecap, I picked up this Big Daddy to wash the taste of California greens out of my mouth, and honey, can you say Hopsickle? Double your pleasure, double your load. Every belch is like a Nebraska farmhand farting in your mouth while he lies upside down chewing down some grain. One bottle is the perfect way to wet your appetite for several more. Can you say hop parade, party boy?

The Teaching Company- I get more sustained pleasure out of my commute than almost any other event of the day, and while that might beg certain questions about the quality of my life, let's just say I side with the Epicureans who argued that the pleasures of the mind are the highest, the grandest, and the longest lasting. Plus, I haven't figured out a way to sneak in an 8-ball and several Bolivian dancegirls to my post-Sharks parties. Anyway, I've been pimping these guys for years, so what's one more time- www.teachco.com, or come over with some Moylan's and I'll loan you my 96 lectures on the early Christ. The man was an apocalyptic hoot.

Gift Certificates to Fancy Boutiques for Your Significant Other's Birthday- ya know, I'm really tired of that look. The one she barely tries to hide when you go out on a limb and try to get her something from the heart and she doesn't even give you an A for effort and just grimaces and shakes her head and asks if you've kept the receipt and looks at you like if you loved her you'd know exactly what she wants and since you didn't get her exactly what she wants, well I'll stop there. I went all expensive gift certificates this year, and I was husband-king. Throw in a big bouquet of flowers and I just might have scored myself two more trips to Barclay's next week. It's all about compromise, sisters. Let the old man show you a strong negotiating technique. And yes, shoes were involved. Expensive shoes.

The US Passport Office- thank you for your hiring fat sloths with bad tempers who hate people, and thank you for making me feel proud of America once again. Guys, your postal workers are always at your service.

Harvard Thief & other Shit



So there's a new Roth out, which better surpass the nonsense of his last Hitler thingy. Anyway, Michicko's got the anti-Jew broomhandle up her ass.

Norman Mailer is still a prick.

Apparently some teen cribbed a novel and bilked a publisher out of six figures. I want to do this too. The Guggenheim deadline is October.

Pour me a beer.

Katie bar the door...

Goddam Kings Choked Hard!

Fuck Mondays...

Raises weapon to temple, questions existence...

Random House Confident of Follow-Up to 'Cold Mountain'
By MOTOKO RICH

Four years after agreeing to sell his second novel to Random House for an advance of more than $8 million, Charles Frazier, the author of the best-selling "Cold Mountain," has handed in the first half of his final manuscript, and is expected to turn in the remaining half next week.

The publishing industry is likely to watch the progress of Mr. Frazier's new book closely because at the time he signed the deal four years ago, his advance was considered extraordinary for a literary writer who had only written one previous book, although it was a huge best seller. With just a one-page outline of the planned work, he sold the second novel in an auction, and in so doing left behind the editor, Elisabeth Schmitz of Grove/Atlantic, who had discovered and nurtured him to success.

At the time of the deal, Mr. Frazier was expected to deliver in time for a 2005 publication date. Kate Medina, executive editorial director at Random House and Mr. Frazier's current editor, said he had turned in an earlier manuscript and has been working on revisions until now.

The new novel, like "Cold Mountain," takes place in the 19th-century American South and is the story of a young white man raised by Cherokee Indians who ends up representing them in Washington in their fight to preserve their land. According to Random House's fall catalog, which goes out to booksellers this week, the new novel, "Thirteen Moons," is also, like "Cold Mountain," an epic love story.

Random House is betting that the readers who made "Cold Mountain" such a hit will do it again for "Thirteen Moons." The first novel was a critical darling and a surprise reader favorite, selling 1.6 million copies in hardcover. There are 2.5 million paperback copies in print in the United States.

"Cold Mountain," which was also made into a movie starring Nicole Kidman and Jude Law, spent 61 weeks on the New York Times best-seller list in hardcover, and a total of 33 weeks on the paperback list. It also won the National Book Award for fiction. Carol Schneider, a Random House spokeswoman, said the initial print run for "Thirteen Moons," scheduled to go on sale Oct. 3, will be 750,000 copies. Just to cover the cost of the advance, the publisher — which will receive about half the $25.95 cover price of each book sold — will have to sell at least 625,000 copies. To cover marketing, printing and other overhead costs, it would have to sell even more.

There is certainly no shortage of stories of second novels that failed to ignite public passions despite a successful debut. David Guterson, the author of the best-selling "Snow Falling on Cedars," for example, stumbled with his second book, "East of the Mountains."

But Gina Centrello, president and publisher of Random House Publishing Group, said she thought "Thirteen Moons" would be at least as successful as Mr. Frazier's debut. " 'Thirteen Moons' more than fulfills the promise and talent of his first book," said Ms. Centrello, who added that she had read the early manuscript more than once. "This book is going to be the literary book of the year." As to whether the book justified its advance, which was negotiated by Ms. Centrello's predecessor, Ann Godoff, now at Penguin Press, Ms. Centrello said, "I never comment on anybody else's deals."

The story of Mr. Frazier's rise to literary fame captivated readers and those in the publishing business because he seemed to come from nowhere when Ms. Schmitz, of Grove/Atlantic, read a part of the manuscript for "Cold Mountain" and persuaded the company's president, Morgan Entrekin, to pay a $100,000 advance for world rights to the novel. This was the first book she ever acquired and edited.

The book became an unexpected sensation, and Mr. Frazier said he wanted Ms. Schmitz to edit his next novel. But when it came time to sell the next book, he hired a new agent, Amanda Urban of International Creative Management, and offered other publishers a chance to bid on it. Grove/Atlantic, in partnership with Vintage, the Random House imprint that published "Cold Mountain" in paperback, bid $6 million.

When Mr. Frazier took the more than $8 million deal at Random House, "of course I was disappointed when he left," said Ms. Schmitz in a telephone interview. "We did the best we could, and in the end $2 million is a lot of money to leave on the table. It's business. This is his job." She added that she expected Mr. Frazier's new novel to be as good as his first. "I just don't think that was a one-shot deal," she said.

As it happens, Grove/Atlantic has gotten back the paperback rights to "Cold Mountain" because Vintage's license has expired. Mr. Entrekin said he planned to publish a new paperback edition of Mr. Frazier's first book in late September to coincide with the release of "Thirteen Moons."

Mr. Entrekin said that while the success of "Cold Mountain" may have been a surprise, Mr. Frazier now has an established fan base. "There are several million people who have read the book and another several million who have seen the movie, so you're starting with a name recognition and a great built-in audience," he said. "Lightning isn't required to strike twice. This time you're starting at a big level."

“He is a happy man who can once and for all avoid having to do with a great many of his fellow creatures.”

“A happy life is impossible; the best that a man can attain is a heroic life.”

“Life is a miserable thing. I have decided to spend my life thinking about it.”

Irvin Yalom’s The Schopenhauer Cure is the story of Julius, a prominent 65-year old San Francisco therapist, who finds that he has melanoma, and maybe one good year to live. After the initial death-panic, Julius seeks out one of his greatest “failures,” Philip Slate, a former patient who suffered from sex addiction and got no better under Julius’s care. Julius, unsure of his own motives, seeks out Philip and finds him dramatically changed. He is no longer a sex addict and has cured himself through his study of great western philosophers, most notably Arthur Schopenhauer. That meeting leads to the two striking a deal that they hope is to their mutual benefit- Julius will supervise Philip so that Philip can get his counseling license, and Philip will attend Julius’s group therapy meeting for six months. It is those meetings where Yalom, a psychotherapist, wants to go, and it’s there where some of the most interesting sparks fly.

This is not, however, a traditional linear narrative. In between the narrative chapters, Yalom interjects Schopenhauer’s life story, with commentary on that life and some of his work. Each of these chapters acts to inform or underlie the subsequent chapter, as characters in some way illustrate the ideas inherent in the previous chapter. And so, it’s a novel of ideas delivered by a therapist who writes like a therapist about the best approach to the human condition. It is a series of conversations about ideas with only the most skeletal narrative lines to hang it on, so do not go here if you’re looking for art. There is none to be found. And don’t go here if the idea of observing group therapy sessions and all that group therapyspeak sends you reeling for the porcelain. There are enough “How do you feel about what she just said?” moments to have you puking for weeks. But as an accessible look at some of the big questions and for insight into one of the world’s most radically pessimistic approaches to facing the existential dilemma, you could do worse for mind candy. In the face of an indifferent universe in a life that ends in a death that makes that life just a spark between the blankness before you were born and the blankness after you’re gone, should you withdraw from the world or throw yourself into it? Should you avoid the pain of human relationships or commit yourself wholly to them? Would your tombstone read, Never Again, or Hit Me Baby One More Time? Yalom ultimately comes down on one side of these questions, and it’s not a surprising one. But Schopenhauer’s case gets its airing, and it’s one that describes the world as accurately and honestly as any I’ve ever encountered. How you choose to confront that world becomes the next question, so let the debates about what “happiness” and “heroism” and “misery” mean. I’ll be the one in the teal jersey, clutching a Drake's, yelling at the TV.

Kate Moss: Dreamgirl

Does Equality Produce a Better Sex Life?

CHICAGO - Japanese adults can't get enough satisfaction, but Austria's mojo is working. Sex is more satisfying in countries where women and men are considered equal, according to an international study of people between the ages of 40 and 80 by researchers at the University of Chicago.

Austria topped the list of 29 nations studied with 71 percent of those surveyed reported being satisfied with their sex lives. Spain, Canada, Belgium and the United States also reported high rates of satisfaction.

The lowest satisfaction rate — 25.7 percent — was reported in Japan.

The study was led by sociologist Edward Laumann, considered a top authority on the sociology of sex, who believes the findings show that relationships based on equality lead to more satisfaction for both genders. "Male-centered cultures where sexual behavior is more oriented toward procreation tend to discount the importance of sexual pleasure for women," Laumann said.

"When mama's not happy, nobody's happy," he said.

The study appears in the April issue of the Archives of Sexual Behavior. It was funded by Pfizer, which makes the impotence drug Viagra. Researchers surveyed 27,500 people by phone, in person or by mail, depending on local practices. The difference in questioning methods was one of the study's limitations, the researchers noted.

A nation's level of health and education could contribute to the findings, said John DeLamater, a professor at the University of Wisconsin and editor of the International Journal of Sex Research, who was not involved in the research. "It's conceivable that people in developed countries have more information about sexuality. And they're also healthier," DeLamater said. "Being better informed, and being in better shape, they may be more able to maintain a satisfying sex life."

It is GO TIME
Friday, 5:00 PDT
Sharks at Nashville
Game 1
Western Conference Quarterfinal

The IPA's are burning a hole in my icebox.
The anxiety is burning a hole in my stomach.
The teal boa is burning a hole in my chiffarobe.

It's time.

Why are writers so scared about writing about today?

From the Economist...

FOR years, Tom Wolfe has been lambasting America's literary establishment for ignoring the best story around—their own country. America positively pullulates with fantastic stories. And yet its writers, ensconced in their Manhattan lofts and writer-in-residence residences, can't be bothered to look further than the ends of their noses. “At this weak, pale, tabescent moment in the history of American literature,” Mr Wolfe wrote in one of his manifestos on behalf of literary realism, “we need a battalion, a brigade, of Zolas to head out into this wild, bizarre, unpredictable, hog-stomping, Baroque country of ours and reclaim it as literary property.”

Yet the trouble with turning yourself into an American Zola is that you immediately expose yourself to being trumped by reality. The better sort of critics are forever lambasting Mr Wolfe for going over the top—for using cartoon characters to exaggerate the evils of modern society—but the truth is the opposite. Mr Wolfe's satire pales into insignificance compared with the hog-stomping reality that he tries to capture.

Take Mr Wolfe's most recent novel, “I Am Charlotte Simmons” (2004). The book poked fun at the macho culture of an elite university that was closely modelled on the would-be Princeton of the South, Duke. This fictional institution liked to think of itself as being at the cutting edge of political correctness, all unisex lavatories and gay-pride demos. But in reality it was ruled by an elite caste of jocks—brainless bores who spent their lives drinking themselves senseless or wam-bam-thank-you-mamming with any co-ed they could get their hands on. And none were more boorish and brainless than the lacrosse players.

Elaine Showalter, a retired Princeton professor, duly published a tut-tutting review accusing Mr Wolfe of missing the “feminist revolution” and engaging in the “grossest of stereotypes”. Yet Mr Wolfe's story is tame by comparison with recent events at the real Duke. It seems that a month or so ago a group of —yes—lacrosse players hired a couple of strippers to entertain them of an evening. Unfortunately, what might have been a routine night of booze and bawdiness ended in turmoil. One of the strippers accused three lacrosse players of raping and assaulting her. The players strenuously denied the charges, and subsequent DNA tests have turned up negative. The event was heavily overladen with racial tension; the lacrosse players were almost all white while the two strippers were black. It also had a Baroque twist. Two hours or so after the alleged rape, a partygoer sent an e-mail saying that he wanted to lure more strippers to his room in order to kill and skin them.

Or take Mr Wolfe's last-but-one novel, “A Man in Full” (1998). The book opens with a lavish description of a quail hunt among the Georgia nouveaux riches. Many reviewers found the satire as over the top as the prose style (“Quail! The aristocrat of American wild game! It was what the grouse and the pheasant were in England and Scotland and Europe—only better!”). But it is impossible to read that scene today without finding it a bit tame. Why didn't Mr Wolfe include a major Republican politician? Why didn't he get the politician to shoot an elderly lawyer in the face—and then try to hush the whole matter up?

Or take his first novel, “The Bonfire of the Vanities” (1987). This has survived the reality test much better than the other two books. But hardly a week goes by without somebody coming along and trying to outdo one of Bonfire's characters. “Bonfire” introduced the world to Peter Fallow, a tabloid journalist who had turned freeloading into a career. Last week, the New York Daily News disclosed that Jared Paul Stern, a gossip columnist for the New York Post, recently solicited $220,000 from a billionaire investor, Ron Burkle, in return for a year's “protection” against damaging items appearing in the paper's Page Six column.

“Bonfire” also introduced the world to the Reverend Bacon, a black politician who uses any excuse to engage in agitprop and race-baiting. Two weeks ago, Cynthia McKinney, a black congresswoman from Georgia, got into an altercation with a Capitol Hill police officer: he tried to stop her from entering the building because she didn't have the right ID and she allegedly responded by hitting him with a cell-phone. Instead of apologising she organised an anti-racist rally at Howard University, complete with cameo appearances by Harry Belafonte and Danny Glover, to denounce the “inappropriate touching and stopping of me—a female, black, progressive congresswoman.”
The inadequacy of fiction

Mr Wolfe is not alone. The best of the would-be Zolas to join Mr Wolfe in trying to reclaim America as “literary property” is Christopher Buckley, the son of William Buckley, the founder of the modern conservative movement and long-time chronicler of Washington, DC. The younger Mr Buckley recently hit the literary equivalent of the jackpot. Not only has Hollywood turned one of his novels, “Thank You for Smoking” into a film; it comes out at a time when the Abramoff affair has focused everyone's attention on the lobbying industry.

But it is hard not to watch the film without feeling let down. It is amusing to see the hero labouring on behalf of the tobacco industry and lunching with his “merchants of death”, lobbyists from the alcohol and firearms industries. But this is tame stuff compared with what Mr Abramoff got up to. He not only bilked Indian tribes of tens of millions of dollars, but got evangelical Christians to help him in the bilking.

This is not a vote in favour of the sort of literary navel-gazing that Mr Wolfe condemned. But it is a warning that it is almost impossible to outdo reality in a country as richly bizarre as the United States. Perhaps writers should leave those unfinished novels locked up in the drawer—and content themselves instead with the humble craft of journalism.

The head vs. ass debate in rock is inevitable. There will always be those who want to make artistic statements. There will always be those who simply want to shake it. Let's move the art forward. Let's move it back. Let's make people think. Let's make people dance. Let's show them how brainy we are. Let's show them how primitive we can be.

You get the point.

I've generally fallen on the cavemen side, with the occasional dalliance with the dark side of the grey matter folks. Get your politics out of my good time, they say, and I mostly nodded along. Sometimes, though, if you live long enough and get just the right kind of bored, you want to go further into enemy territory, if only to see if you've given 'em a fair aural shake.

So I've been music-reading again, and whenever you do that, you're generally going to find a headmusic bias. Why? Cuz critics have more to chew on. Lyrics to explicate. Tricky arrangements to ponder. Sound experiments to compare to industrial wastelands and movie soundtracks. Plus, brainy rock critics just don't like to dance. It's a Cartesian thing. Anyway, after the Reynolds and Marcus books from two weeks ago, I finally picked up Clinton Heylin's From the Velvets to the Voidoids: The Birth of American Punk Rock, a 1993 publication rereleased in 2005 as, I can only assume, the explosion of cd reissues has made that era even more accessible (at least in terms of product availability) and interesting. Heylin's story starts with, you guessed it, the Velvets (he seems obsessed- he was the editor of the new book that collects just about everything ever printed about 'em) and ends, ironically, with a brief mention of The Plasmatics, included only as the death knell to the creative era that was. As journalism, the book is top-notch. All the major players are here, but you get the narrative and the context to see the interplay between bands, ideas and fringe lurkers, and Heylin skillfully weaves his own takes with the words of almost all the major players.

It almost made me want to buy a Blondie album.

But not quite.

So, if it's information and context you want, this provides both. Recognize that the man is infatuated with Patty Smith, believes Television's Marquee Moon is a masterpiece, and paints Richard Hell as a true artist, and you can keep that lump in your throat from exploding upon some of his pronouncements. If you do bite, get the reissue, because the cover price is worth it if only for his postlude, written in 2004 and taking no prisoners. Not everybody was happy with his version of events, and he gets personal. Let's just say Cheetah Chrome is not a fan, and Legs McNeil may want to get all battle royale on Heylin's ass. Neither would be pretty.

Oh yea, no matter how many books I digest on the era, ain't nobody gonna convince me The Talking Heads are worth a shit. DeeDee Ramone shoulda smacked David Byrne upside the head all the way back to the art school from which he came. We'd have all been better off.

Sharks Between Period Book Reviews (LA 1, Sharks 0)
I've ranted and raved enough about the length of current biographies, which is why these new Penguin mini-bios are perfect to salve those passing curiosities without demanding a monthlong commitment. I wanted to know more about Martin Luther, and here are some fun facts:

Wittenberg had roughly 2100 people, and in 172 of the 400 houses, residents owned licenses to brew beer.

Many reacted before the Theses to priestly scandal, and you could find sculptures of the pope being thrown into hell in churches.

Luther made one of his greatest insights while reading Paul's lettter to the Romans in the tower latrine above the sewer.

Luther attacked Rome for commercializing marriage and argued that the church had become a merchant selling vulvas, genitals, and pudenda of both sexes.

Divorce was worse than bigamy.

He suffered from chronic constipation and hemorrhoids to which he referred with "tiring regularity."

Luther was a punker- he changed from wearing monastic garb to donning academic and street wear, symbolizing that he would abolish more distinctions among pastors and people.

Luther was an elitist- he though peasants were stupid, illiterate, money hungry, dirty and slow to respond to the gospel.

Luther was an apocalypticist- he believed that the advancing Turk armies, the activities of the papal Antichrist, and many other signs showed clearly that the End Times were near.

Couples in the Saxon culture of the day were to be witnessed thrashing around on the marital bed demonstrating they had achieved consummation.

Luther was an anti-semite- he believed that those Jews who refused to convert were purely evil and should be banished, and he repeated many stories going around about how Jews poisoned wells and carried off Christian children to suck their blood, cook them and sacrifice them.

Luther was a partier- in a letter of advice to his children's tutor, he offered these words of wisdom: "Never be alone. Act foolish and play. Drink a good deal. It would even be wise to commit a sin- but not a gross one."

An enema performed on his deathbed did not revive him.

See, reading about Christians can be fun!

Geraldine Brooks, 2006 Pulitzer for Fiction

From Publishers Weekly
Starred Review. Brooks's luminous second novel, after 2001's acclaimed Year of Wonders, imagines the Civil War experiences of Mr. March, the absent father in Louisa May Alcott's Little Women. An idealistic Concord cleric, March becomes a Union chaplain and later finds himself assigned to be a teacher on a cotton plantation that employs freed slaves, or "contraband." His narrative begins with cheerful letters home, but March gradually reveals to the reader what he does not to his family: the cruelty and racism of Northern and Southern soldiers, the violence and suffering he is powerless to prevent and his reunion with Grace, a beautiful, educated slave whom he met years earlier as a Connecticut peddler to the plantations. In between, we learn of March's earlier life: his whirlwind courtship of quick-tempered Marmee, his friendship with Emerson and Thoreau and the surprising cause of his family's genteel poverty. When a Confederate attack on the contraband farm lands March in a Washington hospital, sick with fever and guilt, the first-person narrative switches to Marmee, who describes a different version of the years past and an agonized reaction to the truth she uncovers about her husband's life. Brooks, who based the character of March on Alcott's transcendentalist father, Bronson, relies heavily on primary sources for both the Concord and wartime scenes; her characters speak with a convincing 19th-century formality, yet the narrative is always accessible. Through the shattered dreamer March, the passion and rage of Marmee and a host of achingly human minor characters, Brooks's affecting, beautifully written novel drives home the intimate horrors and ironies of the Civil War and the difficulty of living honestly with the knowledge of human suffering.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Get Well Soon

Shark Between Period (3-3) Book Reviews
When I was a younger lad, the term "post-punk" sent me running for beer and an Eddie Money record. I had no interest in gender politics set to stop-and-start no-rhythms and bleated out by a fat lesbian with acne. Simon Reynold's Rip It Up and Start Again made my youth feel small. He made me feel as if transgender cries for liberation set to a primitive reggae beat were something to worship. Well, at least he had me going for awhile. The first half of the book is a fairly engaging exploration of some pretty terrific bands that took the the punk ethos and went in tangential directions. The second half is a joke that takes Frankie Goes to Hollywood and Adam and the Ants seriously. That said, I wholeheartedly recommend this if only to illuminate your ignorance about a time and a place you might have discounted because you did not want ideas getting in the way of your good time. Just check the chapter titles for the last two hundred pages and read selectively.

I finally delved into the cleverly marketed 33 1/3 series of writers opining at length about their favorite albums. This is a perfect fit for the aging obsessive looking to reconnect with the glories of his youth and bond spiritually with at least one other sad and pathetic geek. Sadly, nobody delivered a version for the Brainbombs' It's a Burning Hell, so I started with Andy Miller's take on The Kinks' We are The Village Green Preservation Society, and it was an enjoyable, if workmanlike, effort. If you've read Ray Davies' X-Ray, you'll have most of this info, but Miller's narrative provides context and makes a case that this is the greatest of all Kinks' efforts, and I humbly agree. Plenty of studio details, and loads of song context. If you're a Kinks fanatic, which I've become in my middle years, you'll have a fine two hours.

Between Shark Period (2-2, after 1) Book Reviews
Samantha Power's A Problem From Hell: America and the Age of Genocide can be summarized thusly: After the Holocaust, we said never again. We lied. Power clearly illustrates why the world allowed the Cambodian, Iraqi (the Kurds),Bosnian, Rwandan and Kosov(ian?) genocides by showing how leaders/bureaucrats/diplomats poopooed, redefined, and skirted the obvious- it was happening again but if it was indeed happening again we were going to have to do something about it and that would mean dead American bodies. Power lays out why politicians have little motivation to intervene, and those reasons are understandable when seen through the realist geopolitical and domestic political lenses. She, however, is looking through a moral lens, so she has no patience with those who will allow the killing to go on because the political costs of intervening are too high. She comes down too hard, though, in my humble opinion, on the Americans, instead of taking the Euros more to task for failing to build up militaries with the capability to stop genocide once it starts. Once it starts, only the Americans can stop it, and of course, only Americans get the blame. That does not free us from our shame/hypocrisy, but Europe can't continue to send unarmed UN troops into the bowels of hell and then blame American when we won't send in the bombers and then the ground troops.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Purple Hibiscus is an incredibly boring tale of an abusive father and the daughter who idolizes him in war-ravaged Nigeria. The girl reminds me of Alice Walker's Celie, but an even less engaging version set in a distant land. I yawned through the entire thing, which I'm guessing makes me a racist.

Lauren St. John's Hardcore Troubadour: The Life and Near Death of Steve Earle is a disappointing life story of the man who dared empathize with that "scum Marinite gone Talirat," (according to certain media outlets) John Walker Lindh. Disappointing only in that she hasn't the intellect or the writing guns to deliver Earle's amazing story with the emotional narrative the man deserves. Ok, maybe he is a grandstanding blowhard, but he's my grandstanding blowhard this month, so I'd prefer a better writer deliver those goods. That said, I now know way more about Earle's FIVE wives and SIX marriages than I'd care to know, and let's all say it together- cocaine and heroin are bad for you. There is a new book out now that purports to examine his actual music, so I'll report back on that. I can see your anticipatory breath from here. See ya after period 2.

Are you sick of this shit ass weather yet? Fuck I am angry all the time and want to be dry! Now goddamit!

Cheney Loudly Booed During First Pitch
Vice President Cheney threw out the ceremonial first pitch at the home opener of the Washington Nationals game today. The crowd was was less than thrilled to have him there, loudly booing over the Fox News reporter. (Note: Fox producers muted the crowd audio halfway through before letting viewers “listen in” after the pitch.)

The good news: Cheney’s pitch landed in the dirt, not in someone’s face.

The Blessing

This is getting weird. I can't stop listening to Steve Earle records. We're talking three or four a day. Obsessive, fanboy listening in my throes of middle age. These records all have duets on them, plaintive tales of love gone sour, and Sheryl Crow twangs on one of them. In one song, the background vocals spell out F U C K in Ramones chantstyle and then Earle comes in with "living in the motherfucking USA.' It's beyond cheeseball. One song is called CCKMP (Cocaine Cannot Kill My Pain). I am Clintonesque in response. He does a Caribbean ditty called "Condi Condi" in which he professes his undying lust for our Secretary of State. He tries to crawl inside the mind of John Walker Lindh.

Am I being sucked into the no-turning-back land of heartland schmaltz, desperate to feel anything from music again, even if it's telegraphed and delivered in a West Texas drawl by a self-professed "hardcore troubadour"? Or is this music, well, just very, very good, affecting even?

I don't know. I ain't no critic, just another asshole with a mouth. But it's fun to feel like a 14 year old kid again, revelling in the catalogue of your favorite band. See, schmaltz begets schmaltz, and maybe that's better than detached and difficult after all, at least for today.

That American Thinks He's A God

I thought...

I did something about this. Notice no one cared.

Naipaul on James

You only have to look at that dreadful American man Henry James. The worst writer in the world actually. He never went out in the world. Yes, he came to Europe and he 'did' and lived the writer's life. He never risked anything. He never exposed himself to anything. He travelled always as a gentleman. When he wrote English Hours about what he was seeing in England - written for an American magazine - this man would write about the races at Epsom and do it all from a distance. He never thought he should mingle with the crowd and find out what they were there for, or how they behaved. He did it all from the top of a carriage or the top of a coach. A lot of his writing is like that. And he exalts his material because he thinks that this subject matter he has alighted on - the grandeur of Europe and the grandeur of American new money - is unbeatable. Elizabeth Hardwick said to me about Henry James many years ago, 'What's he going on about? These people he is talking about are just Americans!' It has the effect that young American people still think they can 'do a Henry James' - come to Europe and write a book like Henry James.