THIS WEEK IN LITERARY HISTORY Thomas Hardy gets wasted, sells his wife and child, and thinks, "This is an awesome idea for a novel." |
24 April 2007 It finally happened.
Baby Bookfraud was born over the weekend, a healthy, happy baby boy weighing 8 1/2 pounds and posessing some extremely strong lungs. Wife and I are overjoyed.
If he has made me a better person, appreciate the world in ways I thought not possible, or take note of shortcomings, I can’t say for sure, because I’ve slept about 6 hours in the past four days. That bugger sure can cry.
He also has this weird, magical talent of being able to go sleep, and, just as Mom and Dad are in bed, starting once again to wail at about 129 decibels. It’s never a second before I conk out, not a second after, but always just at that precise moment when I retreat to the land of nod. Baby is so talented. I’m so proud.
He also has some other amazing talents, including the ability to poop in amounts so voluminous that it could be used to paint a fresco on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Just thinking about it gets me choked up.
Because of the overwhemling emotional nature of the event, I feel that I am going to do a Bookfraud first: I am going to post a picture of myself, Wife, and Baby, because I want to share with the world, with strangers even, the amazing joy that I feel beating in my heart.
Here we are:
Please, don’t ask for pictures unless you’re willing to pay. Don’t worry, it all goes to charity.
13 April 2007  As the world hyperventilates over the firing of Don Imus for his disgusting characterization of women basketball players as “nappy-headed hos,” I am losing my breath over something else: cheap tricks.
Not the band nor the services provided by the type of “hos” Mr. Imus so lovingly described on the air. I speak of lazy writers and artists who tack on a surprise ending or bogus conclusion to their work.
This is something that gets me really, really, really, really, really, really pissed off, much more than any “ho” talk ever would.
Wife claims that this is what ultimately marred “Special Topics in Calamity Physics.” Bad, stupid twists at the end can ruin what might have been an excellent book. Such endings are about as believable as Richard Gere going for Julia Roberts, the ho-with-a-heart-of-old, in “Pretty Woman.”
In beginning writing workshop classes, the ho running it often will begin with the edict, “You can never begin or end a story with a dream.” In other words, “It was all a dream!” is verboten.
I would add to that no surprises that add nothing or do not rise organically from the plot, that are done for shock value, and that involve hos. There are three instances that have gotten me so mad that you’d think someone had taken away my beer-making kit.
1. The ending of “Magnolia.” Frogs from the sky? This is how everything is tied together, as promised from the film’s prologue? Tom Cruise stars as a ho.
2. The first season of “24.” Wife and I rented this acclaimed series, and despite the ludicrousness of it all, enjoyed it until near the end, when an agent is suddenly — and I mean suddenly — unmasked as a double-crossing ho. (Other hos abound in “24,” mostly men). It gave new meaning to “came out of nowhere” and “it totally sucked ass. I mean totally.”
Imus: just say ho
3. A movie called “Swimming Pool.” There are two reasons to see this movie. First is Charlotte Rampling’s terrific performance. Second is that Ludivine Sagnier, under the pretense of being a free-spirited French ho, is topless for about half the movie (looked great on screen!).
But the ending — which I without any hesitation I reveal here in the hope it will persuade someone not to rent it — is that the action of the movie didn’t “exist!” It was the plot of a book — called “Swimming Pool”! — that Rampling is delivering to her publisher! It was all a dream, you stupid hos in the audience!
What ties these together is that all of them throw in bogus, ho-like surprises at the end that were dreamed up for an Encyclopedia Jones or Nancy Drew mystery. Also, at the end of all of these entertainments, I had the urge to attack the television with a blunt object.
As for fiction, there are as many craptastic surprises in novels as there are corporate and right-wing hos in the White House.
You might blame it on O. Henry (or “Ho. Henry,” as he was affectionately known), who was renown for his surprise endings to stories. His most famous story, “The Gift of the Magi,” concerns a couple, neither of whom are hos, but whose love for each other leads them to sacrifice their most precious possession.
This kind of surprise ending turns “The Gift of the Magi” into an anecdote, and it can have the same effect on any book, film or television show. Fiction becomes a punch line, worse than any stand-up ho desperate for laughs.
For instance, a one-page science fiction story whose provenance and title escapes me. In it, all the computers in the universe are networked together. At the triumphal press conference, attended by media-hos from around the galaxy, the lead scientist solicits questions from the crowd to ask the computer. “Is there a God?” someone queries, and the computer instantly replies, “There is now.” Horrified, the scientist leaps for the off switch, only to be struck down by lightening.
I admit there were two things I liked about “Swimming Pool”
You don’t have to rush to the library to find it. It’s an anecdote, not a story. (And it feels like I just ho-ed myself out to tell it to you.)
Why does this get me so angry? I don’t know why. Perhaps because I can probably conjure about 20 better endings to any one of these books or movies than are presented. I didn’t get the opportunity to publish a novel with a implausible, flashy ending designed to impress the reader.
But I wouldn’t do such a thing. No, the math is simple. You won’t find such attention-grabbing, sleazy writing from this here ho.
9 April 2007  Joshua Bell Gay. Why are so many of you obsessed with this, this Joshua Bell Gay? I write a blog entry over a year ago about this talented fiddler with the phrase, “tell Wife you’re gay, even though you’re not” and a year later, this entry still gets plenty hits from people Googling “Joshua bell gay.”
From the U.S., Europe, Asia, the Middle East, South America. Why? Are you gay and want to know if he’s available? Are you a woman who wants to marry Joshua Bell? Are you a jealous husband who wants to crush your spouse’s hopes forever of divorcing you and running off with Mr. Bell and his “Strad”?
I don’t know if Joshua Bell is gay, and I don’t care. You won’t find the answer to your query here. Despite all the many new “viewers” Bookfraud has gotten from people doing a search with the phrase “joshua bell gay,” there is no information here on this. Or “Joshua bell straight,” either.
The most frequent search term that lands people here is not “bookfraud brilliant or “great writer” or “why hasn’t bookfraud been published and gotten millions of dollars?” It’s you-know-what. It’s not “Tchaikovsky gay” or “Horowitz gay,” even though I’ve written about these two musical geniuses, and who were certainly homosexual.
In fact, nobody Googles “Itzhak Perlman gay” or “Sarah Chang gay” or “Jascha Heifetz gay” or “Paganini gay.” What gives?
Also, there seems to be a lot of people who are looking for Padma Lakshmi’s picture. There must be a lack of photographs for Ms. Lakshmi, whose tenuous connection to this space is that she is bethrothed to Salman Rushdie, perhaps the greatest writer in English these days. OK, here she is, with Salman, again proving that despite all the death threats, he’s the luckiest man in the world:
A lot of people visited this space after my entry on the Cubs was posted on a few baseball blogs (though, given the number of comments, you wouldn’t have known it). Long after the interest over the Cubs fades, though, you’ll get people who will come via searching the Internet for “Joshua Bell Gay.”
Please let me know why you’re doing this. You know who you are. Not that there’s anything wrong.
8 April 2007 
Phone rings, at about 7 p.m. It’s one of Wife’s friends.
“Hey Bookfraud, just checking in to see how Wife is doing,” the friend says. “See how she’s feeling.”
I say that Wife is feeling as well as can be expected, given she’s going to give birth in a week or two. She’s in the bathroom, can’t talk.
“Great! Just have her give me a call.”
Phone rings again, at about 7:30. We’re eating dinner and let the voicemail pick up. “Hi! It’s Wife’s Friend Number 2! How are you guys? You must be so excited now! I just wanted to check in and see how Wife is doing? Is there anything I can do to help? Anyway, give me a call! Bye!”
Phone rings again, at about 7:45. Fully knowing what is coming, I hand the receiver to Wife. “Oh, hi!” she says to Friend Number 3. “Things are fine! We’re getting pretty excited. Me? I’m feeling fine.”
And so it goes as we hurdle towards our final day as a married, childless couple. The phone rings (and rings and rings), and it inevitably will be someone asking about Wife. Her friends, her family; my friends, my family. They don’t ask, “Hey, Bookfraud, how are you doing?” They don’t ask, “Hey Bookfraud, are you feeling OK?” And they don’t say, “Bookfraud, are you sick of everybody ignoring you? Just wait. It’s going to get a hell of a lot worse.”
I know what they are saying. For though I am capable of great acts of self-delusion — it’s what keeps me writing — I am not blind to the fact that from now until the baby is born and several weeks afterwards, I am just an appendage, a barrier to be overcome. Everyone cares about the woman carrying the baby, for it is she who ultimately holds the hopes and desires of everyone around her; i.e. grandparents to be.
Lewis: doesn’t look like a carrot
Nobody really cares about the baby seeder. My job is essentially done and the worthiness for the rest of my life depends upon my performance as a provider, father, and fellow who just doesn’t get in the way.
My cousin, who has two children of his own, put it well when he said that my mother and my in-laws will suddenly have a Whole Lotta Love for this infant, who, as he put it, is substitute for the infant stolen from them when I grew up.
Michael Lewis, the author of Liar’s Poker, Moneyball, and several other amazing tomes of non-fiction, wrote how once his wife (Tabitha Soren, the former MTV talking head) entered the hospital in labor, his job was, essentially, to get the hell out of the way. No matter how many times he told dear Tabs that she could do this, the pain was going away, or that she could make it through this, the world of nurses and doctors and relatives treated him like an elevator operator.
He was there, helping people get on their way, but he really wasn’t necessary:
[U]p until the moment the child is born, the husband in the delivery room is in an odd predicament. He’s been admitted to the scene of the crisis but given no serious purpose. He’s the Frenchman after the war resolution has passed.
Or, as he also put it, the father in the delivery room is an actor searching for a role — the “carrot in the school play.”
I would extend this metaphor to the weeks leading up to the “glorious event” (as one of my co-workers put it). I might as well be in Sierra Leone or Indonesia. It’s not that people don’t care about my perilous mental or physical health, but really, they don’t care. It’s all about Mama.
My own family is of the same mindset. My mother: “How’s Wife feeling?” My brother, “How’s Wife feeling?” My sister, “How’s Wife feeling?”
Endgame
If you are a parent or perceptive in the least, the joke is on me — and Wife. For, although Wife will still get plenty of sympathy I the coming months over her recovery, breast feeding duties, and days when she is alone in charge of Baby’s care, soon, that sympathy will fade. People’s concern will center on the child. Forever. This is not going to change unless I get sick and die. From now on, every friend and family member’s concern will be on Baby, Infant, Toddler, Child, Adolescent, Teenager, College Student, Adult Son of Bookfraud.
The only thing that’s going to matter is if we have the wherewithal to support Child. The only thing that’s going to matter is if we have the wisdom to choose the right schools for Child, if we get him to take piano lessons early enough, and if I can teach him to hit a curveball. Tell me when it gets better.
6 April 2007  “It’ll go north of $800 million, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it went for more than $1 billion,” says Marc Ganis, a Chicago-based sports industry consultant.
“It” is the Chicago Cubs. “It” is up for sale. And “it” is less a baseball team than marketing juggernaut, and has been for some time.
The Tribune Co., erstwhile owners of the Cubs, are selling their media empire to a Chicago real estate magnate while jettisoning the team at season’s end. Given their roster and wise moves to boost the payroll, it appears the 2007 Cubs are on track to win 36 games, and the smart money says that volatile manager Lou Pinella will register more burst aneurysms than destroyed water coolers this season.
It’s not that my beloved Cubbies aren’t worth a lot of money, in a business sense: Tribune owns the stadium, part of a cable network, and the team generates over 3 million loyal sheep-fans every year. Perhaps shelling out $1 billion for the team will be a good return on capital. (It certainly will be for Tribune, which bought the Cubs for $20 million in 1983.)
But no amount of fiscal reasoning can hide the fact that the idea itself is galling. Paying $1 billion for the Cubs? This is like paying $1 billion for a company that recycles used toilet paper. This is like paying $1 billion to masturbate before a live television audience. This is like paying $1 billion for the Bad News Bears.
Curse my ass
For someone like myself, it is a double insult. Not only have the Cubs constantly ripped out my heart and treated it like a clay pigeon, but think of what good the money could have done in the world of fiction.
$1 billion will get you 10,000 book advances of $100,000 each, or 20,000 advances of $50,000. Now let’s do some analysis here.
Out of 20,000 novels, about 80 percent will sell for shit, 15 percent will do a fair business, and perhaps five percent will be hits, with 0.5 percent being blockbusters. That means 100 books will be major sellers, and if one does not recoup the $1 billion investment, at least there is the satisfaction of launching a young or (middle-aged) writer (like me) on his road to retirement.
Now, let’s look at the Cubs. While you’d get 100 blockbuster novels from $1 billion, that same amount is buying a team that hasn’t won the World Series in 100 years. It hasn’t even won a pennant in 62. You can get 20,000 books or a single, sorry franchise that proudly markets the Curse of the Billy Goat.
This penchant to wildly overpay for an asset is what is formally known in the business world as “fucking insane.”
If it seems that I am passionate and angry about this topic, you would be right. And it doesn’t even have to do with the fact the Cubs have disappointed me more than a stereotypical Jewish son disappoints his mother.
A columnist recently noted that back in the early 1980s — when I was a high-schooler living in the Chicago suburbs and frequent attendee of Cubs games — Wrigley Field and its surrounding environs were considered eyesores at best, slum-like at worst. There was nothing hip or cool about going to a game, and the working-class neighborhood the ballpark sat in was as grey and uninviting as standing on the Addison Street “L” stop in January.
By the time I had moved to Chicago as an adult in the early 1990s (and living only blocks from Wrigley Field), everything had changed. Going to games became less about the game than “hanging out at Wrigley” or visiting a baseball “shrine.” Attendance exploded, largely due to a mass infiltration of fools.
Two things had happened: the Cubs won the division title in 1984, and the Cubs went national, through the cable superstation WGN, which broadcast most of the Cubs’ games. Suddenly, yuppies were moving into the newly christened “Wrigleyville” neighborhood (the fuddy-duddy “Lakeview” no more) and baseball-ignorant tourists were flocking to visit.
Then, Harry Caray, a once-brilliant, Hall-of-Fame announcer with the Cardinals who had gone to pot with the Cubs, became a legend, singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” each seventh-inning stretch, spreading the gospel of Wrigley Field to a national audience, and ending one season with the unheard of average of 2.29 BPI (Beers Per Inning), a record that stands beside Joe DiMaggio’s 56-game hitting streak as one of the “unbreakable” records in baseball.
Caray: roll out the barrels
The transformative nature of what happened — the asinine “loveable loser” tag became a marketing ploy rather than a state of affairs — is really one of the great American business stories of the past 25 years. Going to the ballgame became a trip to an amusement park. The Cubs, though coming close a couple of times, never made it to the World Series, lost far more games than they won, let their ballpark crumble, and yet became one of the most “successful” franchises in all of sports. It’s marketing brilliance like none other. They succeeded by sucking.
It’s almost enough to make you watch cricket.
5 April 2007 I promised that I would post something every day until Baby Raoul is born. This could be any day now, but it could be two or three weeks.
The post below got sidelined for reasons as picayune as they are dull.
What to say? I’m reading banal baby books, and my brain has turned to mush.
My eyes waver when open up something substantial.
Wife is reading “Special Topics in Calamity Physics,” which makes me want to throw up. (The author’s success, that is).
I still despise George Bush, Dick Cheney, and Republicans in general.
Some things never change.
3 April 2007  There is another type of outsourcing that the United States is suffering, one that nobody talks about but is costing us lots of high-profile, high-paying jobs.
This rant all started when I was flipping around last evening during commercial breaks of WWE RAW (a boy’s gotta have his entertainments, right?) when I encountered another disturbing manifestation of a trend threatening our great creative nation.
A television show called “The Riches.” The program is not evil in and of itself, but consider what I witnessed last night. Minnie Driver, an English actress, and Eddie Izzard, an English comedian, are the stars of this show.
“The Riches,” as far as I can tell, is set in the American South. And in the brief scenes that I witnessed, the characters of Ms. Driver and Mr. Izzard, who are con artists, were Southerners pretending to be English to an unsuspecting sucker.
In other words, you had two actors from England pretending to be people from the South pretending to be people from England. There is something inherently wrong about this. It is like Robert DeNiro playing King Lear in Italian.
It is globalization — out of control. I’m amazed Lou Dobbs hasn’t done a special on it.
In essence, there are an alarming number of Englishmen, Aussies, and Kiwis playing Americans on stage and screen. The list is shockingly long.
Beckinsdale: Ava she’s not
Just in the past few years, you had Jude Law and Kate Winslet as old school bayou families (!) in “All the King’s Men.” Gary Oldman as a tough cop in “Batman Begins.” Daniel-Day Lewis as a gang tough (with the bizarre-est accent ever) in “The Gangs of New York.”
Kate Beckinsdale as Ava Gartner in “The Aviator.” Ben Kingsley, Ralph Fienes, and Bob Hoskins. Even Elizabeth Taylor is English (officially, at least).
When will this madness stop?
But this is nothing compared to the jobs we have outsourced to Down Under.
From Australia — a nation of 20 million, less than in Texas — there are the following actors whose job is to play Americans in movies: Russell Crowe, Cate Blanchett, Nicole Kidman, Naomi Watts, Geoffrey Rush, Guy Pierce, Hugo Weaving, Eric Bana, Toni Colette, Judy Davis, Rachel Griffiths, Isla Fisher, Hugh Jackman, and Anthony LaPaglia. Hell, you even had Heath Ledger playing a vocabulary-challenged gay cowboy from Montana.
There’s even Rick Springfield, taking valuable soap opera time from deserving Americans.
There must be something about the desert heat that turns Australians into fame-seeking whores who take American jobs that American actors could play as American characters. There ought to be a law.
I liked Australia better when their biggest entertainment exports were AC/DC, Paul “Crocodile Dundee” Hogan, Yahoo Serious, and Jacko. (Yes, Jacko, the former Australian rules football star and battery commercial guy above). They didn’t try to be Yanks: they were as Aussie as a pint of Foster’s and didn’t try to be anything else.
There are some noble actors who hew to a minimal code of conduct. Judi Dench sounds like a limey, and doesn’t have pretensions of being, say, a farm girl from Mississippi. Could you ever picture Alec Guiness, Richard Burton, or Richard Harris even trying to be an American? I know Lawrence Olivier played a sadistic Nazi dentist who decamped to the United States, but that was a Eurotrash part that we wouldn’t want a German playing, anyway.
The most American role Alec Guiness had was Obi-Wan Kenobi, which I must admit has always sounded like the name of an Indian restaurant.
I believe we must stop this scourge by striking back, hard. Being that our military is stretched the breaking point by this wonderful war in Iraq, an invasion is out. So is boycotts, assassinations, or physical violence, as much as most Americans would like to insert a fist down Russell Crowe’s gullet.
How the English should act
There is a very simple solution to this. As a condition of their employment in the United States, all British, Australian, New Zealand, and other actors from the Commonwealth are required to become Scientologists, live in Jackson, Mississippi, or swear off doing American accents forever.
I mean, we’ve got to keep Tara Reid employed, after all.
3 April 2007  You can choose your friends, but you’re stuck with your family. I’d like to add a codicil to this rule: you can choose where you work, but not the person who sits next to you at work.
I am sure that certain aspects of my personality grate on my co-workers: the incessant swearing at my computer, the frowning, pissy face I make when things don’t go my way, and bringing an semi-automatic weapon to the workplace.
Two things I am not known for are a harsh, grating voice that could split an airborne 747 into several pieces, and a cellphone ring with the volume turned up to 11 and that goes off most frequently when its owner is not at her desk. The cellphone plays “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”
Also, when I am making a noise that puts the whoop in whooping cough while blowing out an average of 3 liters of phlegm each day, I stay at home.
Sadly, this person I describe is real.
Normally, talk of my job is verboten in this space. My employers would be none-too-happy given the content here, and there are about 14 million other bloggers relating their day-to-day hell known as their job, in any case. It’s like Jennifer Anniston in “Office Space”: I don’t want to talk about my pieces of flair.
But since this person who is lodged near me (and fortunately, does not work with me) threatens to steal the last remaining threads of my sanity, today I will make an exception.
Of all the cube farms in all the towns in all the world, she walks into in mine
In short, I find this woman revolting. I hate her.
I hate her voice, I hate her endless, stupid conversations on the phone, I hate her germ warfare that she seems intent on waging on the rest of us. I hate her frequent laugh that could shatter glass; I hate hearing all about her personal problems. She is a life-support system for pointlessness.
There, I said it. Now, what to do about it?
That’s where you come in.
If living well is the best revenge, then writing about one’s tormentors is even better.
I may just write a story about this officemate, but I can’t really decide what will happen. I’ve come up with five possible scenarios, or at least five fantasy scenarios that I’ve rolled over in my mind with the frequency of an obsessive washing his hands:
1) An enormous asteroid emerges from the heavens and stomps on her.
2) An enormous foot emerges from the heavens and stomps on her.
3) She is fired from her job and arrested for embezzlement, sentenced to 25 to life in the Sing Sing.
4) She begs to make mad, passionate love to me, but I reject her in disgust, and she jumps out the window.
5) Nothing changes except that the volume of her voice increases, she changes her cellphone ring to “My Humps,” and I end up working for her, then, for reasons unknown, I divorce Wife and marry this other woman. I jump out the window.
I’m going to allow you to determine which one of these storylines to follow.
I would prefer not to
But if you come up with something better — which shouldn’t be hard — I’ll go with instead.
I will take the winning entry, write a short short (under 1,000 words), and publish it here!
America, you decide.
Non-Americans can vote too.
1 April 2007  It’s been over a fortnight since this space was last graced with the wit, wisdom and brilliance known as Bookfraud, and a lot longer since it has been graced with actual wit, wisdom or brilliance.
If anyone actually bothers to read this, bully for you. I’ll send you a check, as you deserve it.
The actual time without blogging does not mirror the perception; i.e., it feels like I haven’t written anything since 1968, when I was four and wrote a story called “Making Poopie on the Toilet.” Actually, it was a finger painting, but it had a narrative.
I have a lot of fine excuses for this pause, and they don’t even include Wife giving birth, as she remains tumescent and waiting, as the due date is precisely two weeks away. But excuses do include a 12-hour, two-day class on labor & childbirth, an experience that included footage of several births, shot from the point of view of the person delivering the baby. After watching these, I felt fully confident that I could pass the medical boards in gynocology.
More importantly, these instructional programs convinced me I will hover near the top of the bed when Wife delivers Baby and ensured my fidelity to Wife, or at least ensured that I will never have sex with the women featured in the videos.
This educational summit also gave me new insights into meconium, cervix effacement, vernix, the episiotomy, birthing positions, and, last but not least, the epidural. The epidural sounds about the only nice thing of pregnancy — you get opiates — yet a stupefyingly high number of women reject this miracle of modern medicine for a “natural” experience. (Women, please hold the angry letters, I know it’s your choice, it’s the right thing for you, etc. Also, the anti-circumcision “activists” please don’t tell me that Baby shouldn’t get the Big Snip. I got one, I don’t remember the pain, and it fucked up my head for only six years.)
Time to write
I’ve also taken classes in baby CPR, newborn care, and breast feeding, the last of which convinced me that I will definitely have Baby sucking down formula before he nestles at my teat. In this vein, Wife and I have been shopping for things like bottles, nipples, and pumps. Who knew that milk was so fraught with financial and psychological turmoil?
Add to all of this has been a terrifyingly difficult stretch at the office, during which I have been working extremely hard, playing computer solitaire for hours a stretch while my superiors believe I am working my ASS OFF. HA! (Just kidding, for anybody from my office reading this. Although if you are reading this, it means my cover is blown, and it’s time for the cyanide).
This silly lament goes beyond mere bitching, of which I am eminently qualified at doing. I realize that for the first few months of Baby’s life, very little of my time will be spent at the keyboard. But I know of writers with small children who find time to work, and even some who find the time to write fiction and blog, and while it is tempting to assign such characters to the realm of rich people who don’t slave away at an office, it does make me wonder just how I’m going to write when I don’t seem to have time for it now.
Grace Paley started writing when her kids were ill, or when she was ill, or her husband’s Aunt Ida was ill, or something or another, but she managed a collections of short stories write while raising children, as did Alice Munro, or maybe Grace Paley started writing when Alice Munro’s children were ill, but you get the idea.
Grace Paley: more kids than books
Now, I know what some of you kind souls will write in the comment section, if I get more than two. “You’ll find time to write, Bookfraud, you’ll just find the time,” which is a nice sentiment, but if I can’t find to time to scribble before the little rug rat joins Wife and I, just when will I be able to write when he subjects us to a 24/7 existence of All Baby, All the Time?
I would like to commit to writing something new in this space every day until Wife begins labor, but I’m just too damn scared.
Uh, anyone want to talk about Opening Day?
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