Category: literature

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Between the lines

In case you’re sitting around bored this weekend, here’s an interview with a book designer who isn’t Chip Kidd.

Here’s a blog post by Dylan Horrocks (a.k.a. one of the finest cartoonists alive and an all-around swell guy who let me crash at his home in New Zealand a few years ago) on science and art.

And here’s the introduction to a new book on Leo Strauss. I found it pretty interesting, especially when it went into the east coast vs. west coast Straussians’ rivalry. It really heated up when they popped Biggie, that’s for sure.

I hope your weekend is exciting enough that you don’t read all this stuff.

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noToryous?

My buddy Mitch once praised the Grateful Dead, not for their music–which he detested–but for their ability to get money out of hippies. He considered that one of the strongest legacies of the 60’s.

Conversely, this writer at the Herald (UK) contends that Trainspotting author Irvine Welsh, who recently “came out” as a Tory, is a traitor to the cause.

Of course, people’s views change over time, and there’s no shame in that. There’s nothing more common than for a youthful socialist to evolve into a middle-aged Tory. What is distasteful about Welsh’s apparent volte-face, however, is that he has made his fortune from exploiting a grotesquely picaresque community whose brutal existence has provided the most colourful, horrifying, virulently anti-establishment material for fiction since Balzac’s backstreet Paris.
While with one hand Welsh was guddling a hungry readership, many of whom had scarcely seen a book since school, with the other he was holding a champagne flute at Edinburgh’s New Town soirees.

Moreover, despite the “guddling,” she (sorta) knew it all along:

From the start of Welsh’s career doubts have been raised about just how closely his widely reported wild behaviour matched reality. Former colleagues at Edinburgh City Council remember a dapper, punctual employee who, they said admiringly, “could have gone right to the top of local government”. Even as his novels were being devoured by the poverty-stricken, the addicted and the terminally unemployed, he is believed to have been dabbling in the property market, and we’re not talking council houses.

Needless to say, I think she’s an idiot, even when she concludes that drug dealers are the “most successful capitalists of our time.” After all, Renton doesn’t really want to deal; he just wants to get away to Amsterdam, be a DJ, and live with a model. Is that so wrong?

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Pynched

When I was a wee paranoiac, I heard that Vineland was soon to be released. At that point, I’d only read V., and Lot 49, but I’d made a stab at The Big One (it took 4 attempts before I finally made it through).

I read the notice in Pynchon Notes that the long-awaited new book from was soon to be released. As it turns out, the book wasn’t very good, and I’m convinced he put it out to keep his publisher off his back while he completed Mason & Dixon. But at the time, it felt like a bit of literary history was going to occur.

In fact, I actually had a dream about Vineland before it came out. I was in a bookstore, and there was a large “dump” of the new hardcover, several months early! I picked up a copy and thumbed through it. When I woke, all I could remember of that dream-book was the back cover flap. It had an author bio that read, “Thomas Pynchon is the author of V., The Crying of Lot 49, and Gravity’s Rainbow. He lives in New York City.”

Below the text was a beautiful black-and-white photograph of an empty loft. Even as a teenager, my subconscious liked to mess with me.

All of which gets me to the following question: Wouldn’t it be great if the book actually kept this title?

(Update: Slate contends that Pynchon may have spammed his own book’s Amazon page)

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The Hit Factory

Since I’ve been writing about the drug industry (our magazine bowed in October 1999) I’ve been hearing that we’re heading toward The Era of Personalized Medicine. This means that, as we develop more knowledge of the genome, proteome, and metabolome (you think I’m making this stuff up?), drugs will be tailored to generate greater efficacy or fewer side effects in smaller population groups.

The drug that gets touted as the advance guard in this wave is Herceptin, which can be very effective in treating breast cancer, but only in tumors that over-express the HER2 protein. Around 20% of breast cancer cases fall into this category; Herceptin isn’t effective against other tumors.

Some pharmacoeconomists contend that personalized medicine will lead to The End of the Blockbusters, as smaller patient groups translate to a cap on your “customer” base. On the other side of the spectrum is a “mass appeal” drug like Lipitor, the cholesterol treatment that sells more than twice the dollar amount of any other drug in the world and is now being tested for benefits in treating Alzheimer’s disease.

I bring this up not because I just finished that Top Companies report, but because of N’Sync.

This morning, I read a funny article adapted from the book The Long Tail by Chris Anderson (not this guy). It examines how the entertainment industry faces The Death of the Blockbuster, citing diminishing CD and movie sales figures and TV and radio ratings as indicators that the niche is where it’s at.

It’s altogether possible that NSync’s first-week record [2.4 million CDs sold] may never be broken. The band could go down in history [. . .] for marking the peak of the hit bubble — the last bit of manufactured pop to use the 20th century’s fine-tuned marketing machine to its fullest before the gears were stripped and the wheels fell off.

Music itself hasn’t gone out of favor — just the opposite. There has never been a better time to be an artist or a fan, and there has never been more music made or listened to. But the traditional model of marketing and selling music no longer works. The big players in the distribution system — major record labels, retail giants — depend on huge, platinum hits. These days, though, there are not nearly enough of those to support the industry in the style to which it has become accustomed. We are witnessing the end of an era.

His long-term economic arguments and his moralizing (near the end) are bizarrely off-kilter. For one thing, News Corp. owns MySpace. The site may offer massive “niche” opportunities, but it’s going to make cash hand over first for Murdoch & Co., both little (user fees) and big (as a promotional tool for its properties).

For another, in this era where every entertainment option is allegedly losing its hit-making power, Anderson manages to avoid any mention of the Harry Potter books and The Da Vinci Code. Both of these are such impossibly massive hits — despite the fact that more individual titles get published now than ever — that they blow a sizeable hole in the concept that we’re all moving to the margins.

It’s my contention that, while there a whole lot of factors at play in the decline of hits in the last five years, I think the biggest is that almost every blockbuster movie is crap, contemporary pop and dance music is so dull that radio stations needed to be bribed into playing it, and the current generation of TV executives were raised on the awful television of the late 1970s and 1980s.

Hits might not be as big as they once were, but they’re even more important to the entertainment industry now, given the high price of failure. I’m not saying it’s right, as it tends to lead to “safe” committee-designed projects, but in the pharmaceutical business, as in Hollywood, the big hits help defray the costs of a bazillion failures.

(The Agitator has some reflections on Anderson’s book.)

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Question of the Week

Since finishing that Robert Moses book last week, it’s been kinda tough for me to start another book. It’s as if I’m caught in its wake. I spent the last few days catching up on some long-form comics, like Eddie Campbell’s The Fate of the Artist, which I’m afraid left me flat. Compared to his most recent collection, After the Snooter, it was a distinct let-down.

I’ve also been catching up on magazines. Amy & I went on a subscription binge a few months ago, and now I’ve got the Virginia Quarterly Review and Foreign Affairs to beat me into submission.

Yesterday, unable to settle on a new book to read, I decided to go back and reread one of my favorites, Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia. (If you’re interested, there’s a neat piece in the Guardian about Stoppard’s new play, Rock ‘n’ Roll. It sounds pretty neat to me.)

What brought me back to Arcadia was the weird realization that, if you asked me what my favorite novel is, I would have no answer for you. Arcadia was a fave of mine upon a time, and it still resonates for me. In fact, if I had been immensely talented, it’s probably the piece I would have tried to write, given my interest in its subjects (chaos mathematics, the mistakes of history, English letters).

I can tell you what my favorite movie, my favorite comic, and my favorite record are (Miller’s Crossing, Little Italy and Stop Making Sense), but I’d have a devil of a time deciding on a favorite novel.

It’s not for lack of trying (here’s that list of all the books I’ve finished since 1989, when I started college). But there’ve been so many phases, and so many directions I’ve taken, that it’s really difficult for me to settle on a single novel. When I think of what I might have answered in years past (Gravity’s Rainbow, Tropic of Cancer, The Recognitions, Pale Fire, Invisible Cities, Going Native, Anna, Portnoy, Gatsby, Lolita, “Marcel”) I wonder what each answer tells me, and what changed that struck them from the top rank. (Fortunately, the “novel” requirement knocks out the Athenians, Homer, and Shakespeare, and that Arcadia. And if I have to pick a non-fiction book, it’d either be Ron Rosenbaum’s essays or that book on Robert Moses.)

For a moment, I tried to convince myself that it was somehow a universal problem afflicting our age, but I’m pretty sure it’s just me. Maybe I’ve oversatured myself with these books. Maybe I’ve simply become too fluid, or disconnected from the influences I thought I had. Maybe I need to — or already have — circumscribed my life in ways that keep some books from mattering so much to me.

Nowadays, I’m wondering if All the King’s Men is the book that speaks to me the most, or if it’s Gould’s Book of Fish. I’d better keep looking.

You, meanwhile, need to tell me what your favorite novel is, and what it means to you.

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I Was a Marvel Zombie

Fun article at the Washington Post on the differences between Marvel & DC comics. I was a Marvel geek throughout my youth, as I found the DC books to be way too square.

DC, back then: It’s your kid brother, wacked out on Pop-Tarts, still in his underpants at 10 a.m., insisting on “Super Friends” over “Josie and the Pussycats in Outer Space.” Thinks he’s Batman at night, thinks he’s Aquaman in the tub. It’s make-believe, make-believe, make-believe. A hot dog is not a death ray, now sit down and eat. And who used all of the red and orange crayons? And why is Robin always in here naked with my Barbies?

Marvel, back then: It’s your big sister’s boyfriend, already 18 and “kind of different, but nice,” your mother observes, although he rides a motorcycle with no helmet. He draws an Incredible Hulk for you on a sheet of paper, and that’s it, you’re hooked, he’s a god. From him you learn about Ghost Rider and Conan the Barbarian and Silver Surfer. He listens to Rush.

DC, back then: Shlockarific television! “Batman” in the ’60s (Ka-pow! Wham!), “The New Adventures of Wonder Woman” in the ’70s. The toys, the cartoons, the read-along storybook LPs.

Marvel, back then: Put out a comic book starring the rock band Kiss.

DC: “Sgt. Rock.”

Marvel: “Doctor Strange.”

But look at DC now: It has become a retreat for grown-ups who’ve had it with the Marvel characters’ endless angst. When you weary of 22-year-old mutants, Batman can seem comfortably adult. Superman feels right. Green Lantern is a terribly interesting idea, a meditation on burden. Wonder Woman and Aquaman are filled with what seems like literature and history.

And look at Marvel now: After decades of fawning over bad-boy Wolverine, everyone started paying a lot more attention to Captain America. He kind of rocks, in a way you never knew, and so does Iron Man. For years nobody except total Marvelheads read “Iron Man.” The World Trade Center collapsed and Marvel took it personally, bub, and started drawing firefighters and cops more. Started drawing flags and sunsets. Had a moment.

All hail Tom Spurgeon for linking to this.

Tom also posted a link about the American Library Association’s annual meeting, which was the first major event to be held in New Orleans since the flood. The report is written by a comics/pop culture site, but the content isn’t geek-specific.

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Hag and Mope

Official VM buddy linked to this site as part of his entertaining and unofficial guide to the annual Comic Con in San Diego. He linked here in reference to a couple of drawings by Jaime Hernandez that I bought at Cons past. I won’t be at this year’s, but if I were to go, I’d see if Jaime had any drawings for sale of Ray D., Doyle and Speedy, to balance the three drawings of his women that I own.

Without further ado, here are two of those drawings. I never got around to scanning my Penny Century drawing, but it’s a wonderful illo.

I wrote a bunch of posts last year from the Con, with plenty of pix and wacky observations. Here’s a list:

July 15: Walking, Talking, Gawking

July 15: One More Thing

July 16: Rise of the Imperfects

July 19: Pic-Shas (includes some other San Diego stuff)

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Suburban Handicap

Yesterday, the Official VM Wife and I headed into NYC to see a performance of Measure for Measure. It was directed by John Castro, a lifelong friend who stopped talking to me in September 2003 because of a girl. I think.

I mean, I know she’s a girl, but I’m not exactly sure exactly what John’s reasons were for not returning my calls for a year, since he’s never told me. Even though he finally deigned to write me, he’s never managed to put together a free evening to get together with me, and his responses to e-mails are intermittent at best.

He missed my wedding last March, for what I assume were reasons relating to the founding of his new theater company, Hipgnosis. That invite was pretty much my last attempt at salvaging 30 years of friendship, but I figured I’d perform some sort of friend-like duty and see his play before its run finishes tonight.

It sounds like a going-through-of-motions, I admit, but I prefer to describe it as an “echo of friendship.”

God, that all sounds like it was a depressing evening, but it wasn’t.

In fact, I had a great time, because another friend of mine, whom I haven’t caught up with in 11 years, joined us for dinner and the play. This guy was a Navy vet I knew in college, and we hadn’t seen each other since I took him to the airport in 1995 to send him to his teaching gig in South Korea. He had just helped me move into my new/old home, and we had some adventures getting the moving truck up from Annapolis to Ringwood.

Cap’n Nemo (fortunately, I didn’t have a college nickname (that I know of)) was filled with riotous stories about his sudden deportation from SK and his life in the last decade, his unique political & linguistic perspective, and obligatory college reminiscences. He’d never seen me drink–much less drink gin–and when we made introductions yesterday, he laughingly replied to “This is my wife, Amy” with “Never thought I’d hear that from you.” It was great to see how we’ve changed and could still stay close.

Joining us for drinks but not dinner or Shakespeare, was my buddy Elayne and her friend Jill. We had (what I consider to be) a lovely time, shooting the breeze, telling stories, and crisscrossing our lives into one another’s. Elayne joined us early in a bar where Amy & I ended up to get out of the heat.

We watched the second half of the France-Brazil match, then watched a loud patron hit on the Czech bartendress, with whom I bonded over the virtues of pop music, as characterized by Hanson’s “Mmmbop!” which was playing on the jukebox.

Is the play the thing? I suppose I should get around to writing about it, but I don’t have much to say. I enjoyed it, but the theater-space was overbearingly hot. I haven’t read the play, so I didn’t have any preconceptions about how it should be staged. I don’t even know how to critique actors at this point, except to say that none of them embarrassed themselves, and no one seemed out of place, although the Duke came off as a bit wooden in his soliloquies.

John & I didn’t have any tearful reunion/reconciliation. I don’t think life works like that, at least not in your mid-30s. He happened to be outside the theater-building as the three of us were approaching, and he zoomed across the street to greet us, giving me a big-ass hug. I introduced him to Amy & Mark, and he shook hands and then headed off for whatever stuff he needed to get done, pre-play. We didn’t stick around after, but we had some fun conversation on the way to Mark’s subway entrance.

Coincidentally, another friend of 20+ years got in touch with me during the afternoon, calling while Amy & I were walking through the east village. The thing was, we heard loud cheers coming from several of the bars and restaurants on the street, so we assumed there was a goal in the France-Brazil game. Since the cellphone-call came an instant later, I figured it had to be my dad calling. It turned out to be my friend, who also missed our wedding, but just came across her present for us, and is hoping we’ll come by today to pick it up (and see her and her family).

Friendship takes a lot of turns.

(Wanna see some pix from our east Village meanderings? It’s a little photoset, but it includes a pic of the place where Amy & I had our first date).

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Relief Effort

Well, after busting my ass for a couple of weeks on this writing-heavy issue of the magazine, with plans to work through the long weekend in order to get the pages out Wednesday morning, I discovered that another magazine at our company is way off schedule and is shipping with ours from the printer. So, according to our production coordinator, I have more time (like into the week after) to get this issue wrapped up.

So there’s a profound sense of relief going on, with me and my associate editor. We haven’t said anything to our salespeople; so no telling!

But an ever weirder feeling of relief comes from the fact that I finished reading The Power Broker this morning. I started Caro’s epic biography of Robert Moses in the middle of May, and 6-7 weeks is a long time for me to spend on a single book (let’s leave out last year’s reading of Proust, which sorta breaks out into 7 books). As I told Amy a few nights ago, “I think this is the first book I’ve ever read in which the page count reaches four digits.”

The book was absolutely amazing. I recommend it to anyone who’s interested in how New York City “got that way,” as well as anyone who wants a good illustration of

a) how your good intentions can lead everyone else to hell;

b) how city authorities function(ed) a lot differently than elected officials, operating like a kingdom (complete with dark tower);

c) how idealism can get squashed like a bug;

d) how much of a douche Robert Moses could be; and

e) how one can be a creative visionary force, and be completely wrong.

That said, it’s a giant book: 1,165 pages of not-so-great typography. But the portrait it paints is fantastic.

Now, as I said, there’s also a relief factor. See, for weeks now, I’ve been bringing that volume with me to work. Lately, I’ve been going out for take-out lunch, parking in a lot, sitting in the back of the car and listening to Howard Stern replays while eating, then, when I’m through, turning off the satellite-radio and reading 15 or 20 pages of the book. It’s been pretty consuming.

Today, about to head out for some sushi, I thought, “I have nothing to read.” Walking in the door tonight, I thought, “I don’t have to kill myself on the magazine, and I don’t have any more of The Power Broker to read. Wow.”

Anyway, that’s Life As I Know It. I watched a little of the NBA Draft last night, but no one wore any really breathtaking ensembles (Amy & I were waiting for the 18-button, triple-breasted suit and vest, but gave up and watched an episode of Buffy instead).

And now it looks like I actually will get out to that staging of Measure For Measure this weekend.

Unless I start another book. . .

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Measure for Mermaid

If you’re in NYC and got a hankerin’ for some Shakespeare, former VM buddy John Castro (not-so-long story) is launching his new theater company tonight with Measure For Measure. Dates, times, location, tickets, etc. are at the Hipgnosis Theatre site.

I’m not planning on being there, for a variety of reasons. Opening night is out because I’m pretty stressed out from writing my Top 20 Pharma Companies report (nice job by Wyeth, not reporting that it’s fired 750 sales reps), and I’ll be probably be parked in front of the big screen to watch game 4 of Mavs-Heat. Also, I’ve never read M4M and I’m afraid to pick up another book while I still have 500 pages of The Power Broker remaining.

Besides, if I were to go into NYC tonight, it would be to catch ABC over at the Canal Room. Now That is one fine suit . . .

Maybe we’ll go next weekend, but our big excursion is likely going to be the Coney Island Mermaid Parade! I haven’t been to Coney Island since I was a little kid, and I’m usually away at conferences on parade weekend, so I’m hoping we get good weather and can get blisteringly drunk while watching my erstwhile favorite bartenderess try to win the Best Marching Group award (her group came in 2nd last year as the Mir-Maids).

I kinda doubt we’ll be in any Shakespeare mood after something like that, but hey.