The Harpoonist

Ten Questions to Ask Your Friend Who Just Read Your Novel

2010-01-07T20:21:00.000-05:00

An aspiring author recently asked me to help him figure out what to say to his friends before he gave them his novel to read. He wants them to read critically, give him honest feedback, but he's afraid they'll just phone it in because they like him.

When you hand your friend a novel you've written, he or she knows you've slaved over it for months, maybe years, and how much it means to you, and how devastating it would be if he told you "Oops, it's terrible." He doesn't want to be critical, or hurt your feelings, which is why the most common response from a friend who critiques you is something along the lines of "It's good!" or "Good job!" Hearing "I liked it" presented as a critique is not helpful to you at all. But how can you get your friend to be honest when she only wants to make you feel good?

Here are ten questions to ask that will not put your friend in a tough spot, but will still give you some useful input on your novel:

1. At what point did you feel like “Ah, now the story has really begun!”
2. What were the points where you found yourself skimming?
3. Which setting in the book was clearest to you as you were reading it? Which do you remember the best?
4. Which character would you most like to meet and get to know?
5. What was the most suspenseful moment in the book?
6. If you had to pick one character to get rid of, who would you axe?
7. Was there a situation in the novel that reminded you of something in your own life?
8. Where did you stop reading, the first time you cracked open the manuscript? (Can show you where your first dull part is, and help you fix your pacing.)
9. What was the last book you read, before this? And what did you think of it? (This can put their comments in context in surprising ways, when you find out what their general interests are. It might surprise you.)
10. Finish this sentence: “I kept reading because…”

Your friend is probably still going to tell you, "It was good!" However, if you can ask any specific questions, and read between the lines, you can still get some helpful information out of even the most well-meaning reader.

Maybe Female Writers Just Aren't Relevant?

2009-12-31T20:10:00.000-05:00

It's the time of year when magazines and web sites are publishing their "best of" list. This year we not only have to hear about the "Best Books of 2009" but also "Best Books of the Decade" even though the decade doesn't officially end until next year. As December wanes, it's the traditional time for women everywhere to scan the names on the "Best Books" list, realize they are woefully underrepresented, and complain. In Publisher's Weekly's list, none of the top ten were written by women, and only 29 of the top 100 were. Hmm, what a shame.

As Juliana Baggott pointed out in her Washington Post OpEd yesterday, "Amazon recently announced its 100 best books of 2009 -- in the top 10, there are two women. Top 20? Four. Poets & Writers shared a list of 50 of the most inspiring writers in the world this month; women made up only 36 percent." It's an incontrovertible fact: Women writers aren't as celebrated as men.

While Baggott and others call out a sexist bias, Baggott goes a bit farther, asking why this imbalance in artistic recognition exists. Too often feminists and other axe-grinders reel around shaking their little fists and saying "This is bad! Bad list!" Then they totter away, ending the train of thought in comfortable outrage. But this isn't about morality, or whether something is right or wrong. This isn't church, and we don't get points for being right. It is what it is. The interesting question is "Why is it the way it is?"

Baggott suggests the lists favor men because they favor male themes: "war, boyhood, adventure." She says that she was discouraged, early in career, from writing about motherhood, a female theme, because "it would be perceived as weak." So, maybe the reason women aren't "Best of" is because they don't write about "Best of" things.

I have to agree with Baggott's theory. Women generally do not write about war and adventure. The female purview may be, as Baggott posits, emotion and motherhood, love and feelings. Faced with the undeniable evidence of the "Best of" phenomenon, we have to ask ourselves, how important is motherhood? How important is emotion? Let me ask you something. When have you ever heard motherhood immortalized in a historical date? Probably only when it coincided with the birth of... a man. And probably only if it was a man who participated in war and adventure. When has emotion left a mark on history? History is war, sex, and violence. The female issues do not make it onto the calendar.

The list is real. The numbers are what they are. As I see it there are three possible explanations:

1. The list is sexist, purposefully oppressing women. The solution in this case would be, I guess, to burn down the list. Make a new list. Get those bastards. This seems kind of weak and paranoid.

2. The list is false, reflecting a lame and lingering cultural bias that is on its way out. The solution is to wait. After all, we didn't count the black writers, or the South American writers. It will all come around, given more time. I guess this is what I would like to believe.

The third possibility is more alarming than the others, because it is the simplest explanation, and therefore the most viable:

3. The list is right. The things that women write about are neither culturally nor historically significant, and the books that women write are not the best books.

Baggott mentions the deification of Faulkner, Chekhov, Hemingway. I have to ask: In the last decade, what woman would you put up against these giants? Maybe there were moderns that could carry the torch -- Virginia Woolf, Gertrude Stein, or others from the 20th century: Harper Lee, Willa Cather, Alice Walker, Toni Morrison. But now? Where is my Gertrude Stein? Who can stand up against Junot Diaz and Khaled Hosseini and Kazuo Ishiguro? Is it really supposed to be Alice McDermott?

The lesson of the list is that nobody's going to do us any favors. We're not going to get prizes just for showing up and writing our little books. Girl books are great; I like to read them and write them. But if we're writing girl books, we're not getting on "Best of" lists, and that is the reality. Do with it what you will.

I'm writing this as a woman who has spent the last ten years working on a novel that is about motherhood. Yes, it's also about death, space, humanity, and artificial intelligence, but mostly? It's about motherhood. And I have to say, as that woman, that I'm looking hard at the book I'm writing, at the things I'm saying, and wondering, "Is this going to make it onto the calendar?" Yeah, motherhood is important, we wouldn't be here without it. But we wouldn't be here without eating either, and I don't see a lot of cookbooks winning Pulitzers. Maybe it's not about writing about "man themes" but about human themes. Maybe it's not about pandering to the list, but evolving, as a gender, into people who address the important stuff, the big stuff: death, war, sex, adventure, as it pertains to women and men. Where is our Cold Mountain? Where is our Kite Runner? Seems like the greatest innovation in female writing in the last decade is the mainstreaming of Chick-Lit. And that is a little embarrassing.

Everyday Psychokillers: A History for Girls by Lucy Corin

2009-12-28T10:12:00.001-05:00

That's no catcher, and this is not rye.

Everyday Psycho Killers: A History for Girls

Lucy Corin's first novel, Everyday Psychokillers: A History for Girls, published by FC2, begins as a wild, unapologetic mess. The story of a young girl in southern Florida, Psychokillers reminded me initially of Lynda Barry's Cruddy, Kathy Acker's Blood and Guts in High School, or a number of other ragged, jagged narratives yanked out of confused teenaged women. It's messy in that way, in that essentially female way, and its zigs and zags are almost familiar to me, this unpredictable, non-linear tempo.

It's the kind of book that leads reviewers and jacket copy writers to create lists of disparate elements: a Ted Bundy reject, the God Osiris, a Caribbean slave turned pirate, a circus performer living in a box, broken horses, a Seminole chief in a swamp, and a murderous babysitter. And the book is good in this way; it's inventive, fresh, out of control. You spend most of the first half asking yourself, "Where is she going with this?"

But ultimately what's interesting about the book is not the way it's fragmented. The story is told in mad, intense chunks, increasingly so disconnected from the central narrative of the young girl. We go from a fairly chronological account of a home life, a school life, of this main character, into digressions that start as anecdotes or asides from the character herself and evolve into separate stories -- stories of death and killers, murders, fear. That aspect of it is great, and Corin pulls together a very bold collage.

The interesting thing, though, is how it isn't fragmented, how the book spirals back on itself, revisiting ideas, images, and even sentence structures, so that while in some ways time, characters, and realities are fractured, the idea of the book spirals inward to a point, and comes together where the book blows apart. There are six or seven absolutely tight and monstrous pages toward the end that clearly express the book's central theme. I realized, reading them, the path I had to take to get there, to be told I am a killer, and that I am being killed, and that both are me. That realization is at the center of the spiral.

Looking at it from the top, a spiral moving outward looks the same as a spiral moving inward. It's not immediately obvious how Corin's book functions in this way, but the destination is worth the journey, and the investment in the book, you will find, sneaks up on you. Along the way, you'll find chapters that work as short stories, you'll see a dazzling slideshow of images you definitely have not seen before, and you'll find yourself falling into suspense over this character. Yes, in the middle of a novel built of formal experimentation, you'll be worried about this girl, and the question central to her psycho psyche -- will she kill or be killed?

Elegy for a Fabulous World by Alta Ifland

2009-12-24T09:40:00.000-05:00

Elegy for a Fabulous World by Alta Ifland

Publisher: Ninebark Press

For its second offering to the hungry world of literary fiction, Ninebark Press brings us Alta Ifland's short story collection, Elegy for a Fabulous World. From the very first story, Ifland had me in her grasp with merciless, darkly funny tales from her childhood in communist Ukraine. In bleak, unapologetic images, she shows us the gypsies that camped outside her town, the gravedigger the children all harrassed, the way the trash collectors failed, and the magic of one coveted bottle of Coca Cola. You can read the titular story online at AGNI Magazine. Not my favorite example, but the strange picture of what constitutes a seaside vacation for Soviets will give you an idea of what the rest of the book has to offer.

Ifland's gift is control. She shrugs at absurdity with the measured pace of a female Nabokov. Yet just as you're sinking into a mild rhythm of predictable slice-of-life revelations, she jerks the image just a bit, skews it enough to remind you: this is foreign. So, the mute adopted sister you're accustomed to seeing, with her iconic silence and her mild beauty, may not stop as a symbol of some unknowable aspect of childhood. She may suddenly go jetting off into space as the story takes a sudden flinch outside the deftly drawn limitations of the village, the family, the characters, the way of life. Ifland injects just enough of these blank surprises to elevate her work from competent memoir into the realm of contemporary craft.

The second half of the book delivers more typical contemporary short stories. Well crafted, interesting, satisfying, but lacking the depth and impact of the first section.

A few stories into the collection, when I was so enchanted with the voice, the landscape, the complex dark shadows of it, it occurred to me how impossible, how thin it would all seem if these same stories were set in modern times, in the loud, plastic American world. Is it possible for her, I wondered, to create this same kind of elegant starkness without the exterior starkness of village life, without cell phones or televisions or that brisk cacophony a more contemporary set of characters would be wading through. There's a timelessness to the childhood that Ifland renders that would be, maybe, fractured by the introduction of technology, information, something faster and less private. The second half of the book answered, to some extent, my question, as the stories that took place in office buildings and other less austere locations didn't have the same effect on me as those in the sort of anti-fairytale settings of the earlier pieces. So the mute sister could only fly away into space out of the house without wires attached to it, and the man crying in the graveyard could only be as profound if his life existed in rumor and legend, instead of a newspaper story.

The best thing about the book is the way the identities shift and change, particularly the mother and the main character herself. One can find these common characters in the earlier stories but not necessarily pin down a "she" throughout, or even an "I." A great example of this is a story where the main character takes her husband back to the old country to meet her parents, whose desire to feed him and nurture him and impress him with food nearly kills him. Her return to her homeland, accompanied by the uninitiated American, made me think of my experience reading the book, how hopeless it was for the husband to understand her family, or for her to show him to them properly. Ultimately, there is only the reality of what they are, and what he is, physically, to show for it. And this was what impressed me about Elegy for a Fabulous World. Ultimately, it is in surreal images and what facts and memories can be clearly delivered that this other, fabulous world exists. And if this old, communist life can only be understood in fragmentary, shifting narratives, looped through with the myths of the old country and the realities of the new, then Ifland's atttempt is a success.

For more information: Purchase Elegy for a Fabulous World, visit Alta Ifland's web site, read more about Ninebark Press.

What's on your Inspiration Shelf?

2009-09-20T00:52:00.002-04:00

If life is finite, your book stash must be too.

I think that hoarding books is a stand against mortality. If we've read them already, we might want to read them again. If we haven't read them yet, we might want to. Looking around at my shelves and boxes, I want to believe I will have time before I die to read them all, maybe again and again. Even if my current rate of reading means I'd need to live three lifetimes. To admit that I can't read all these would be to admit that at some point I'll stop reading. Difficult to imagine.

I recently some changes to my personal book hoard, and culled three boxes of books from the stacks. I decided to get rid of all the books I've read that I do not want to read again. That helped. But it also hurt to say goodbye to these objects. I'm tech-positive in so many ways, but like so many writers and readers, I am in love with the physical presence of books, and I have a hard time getting rid of them. A hard time embracing Kindle, and hard drives.

To make myself feel better, as I was sorting through the books I would let go, I decided to make another stack of books that I would never let go, that I would fetishize in the extreme. I made my inspiration shelf of books I've read that motivate me to write, a little shrine to their actual selves, a space for them to take up unapologetically in the world. If I must be mortal and my reading experience must be finite, then let's make it exquisitely finite, limit my great books to one shelf only. These are the books that are important to my life, at least, right now.

Here's my list, in no particular order. For some, it's the scope of the book. For some, it's the daring. The personal connection. The theme. The innovation. For a few it's just the time it was in my life, and how much it affected me. This is not a list of great books, or a list of personal favorites, but these are the books I can look at and feel something in me reaching. So, it varies:

Moby Dick by Herman Melville. The very copy I first read in high school. I have read it maybe 20 times, and in this copy I can see all my teenage notes.

House of Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

His Dark Materials Trilogy by Phillip Pullman.

Lord of the Rings Trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke

Penrod by Booth Tarkington. A book I read again and again when I was a child, before I understood the irony, before I understood racism at all.

My Horse and Other Stories by Stacey Levine

You're a Bad Man Aren't You by Susannah Breslin\

Between Georgia by Joshilyn Jackson

The Rainbow by D.H. Lawrence

Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy

Geek Love by Katherine Dunn

Observatory Mansions by Edward Carey

The Intuitionist by Colson Whitehead

The Most of P.G. Wodehouse

We the Living by Ayn Rand

A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf

Dubliners by James Joyce

Candide by Voltaire

So, I've broken it down to these 20 volumes. If I add another, I think I should subtract one -- that's how the brain works best. My own two books are not on the shelf, but I hope my next one will be. It's what I aspire to: to write something that belongs in my brain with these.

Challenge: What's on your inspiration shelf? What one book would definitely have to be there? If you take a picture, I'd like to see.

How Twilight Killed "The Wasteland"

2009-09-03T00:37:00.000-04:00

Lev Grossman, book reviewer for Time Magazine, has bravely prophesied an end to modernism. In his Wall Street Journal article, Grossman posits that the modernist stranglehold on novel-writing is finally over. A new day has come! Nuts to you, Joyce, Eliot, Faulkner, and Kafka. You guys are history! No longer will readers suffer through beautiful language to get to an epiphany. Today's readers want plot, plot, and more plot. "Lyricism is on the wane," gloats Grossman, citing high sales of the Twilight series as proof that plot trumps beauty for these kids today.

Grossman, possibly unaware that Joyce and Eliot have been dead for fifty years, believes that these "modernists" have tricked us into thinking that a decent plot is indicative of a weak book. So, we're secretly reading mysteries and scifi, wishing literary writers would just take heed. "Should we still be writing difficult novels?" he asks, "Isn't it time we made our peace with plot?"

Grossman has graciously forgiven the moderns for blowing up the conventions of the Victorian novel. But he now feels that the time has come to embrace plot again. His evidence? The popularity of young adult novels, which never aspired to disregard plot in the first place. For Grossman, there have been no intervening literary movements. No novels of consequence that delivered any measure of plot with their lyricism, or any lyricism with their genre. The article has the intellectual weight of a strawberry tart, and yet the internet is upside down with panic over it. Is literary fiction over? Do we all have to start writing vampire novels?

Relax. Grossman's thinking is reductive, cowardly, but mostly just silly.

Consider these three major flaws:

1. It's weak on literary history. Did modernists shatter plot? Maybe. But look at the novels Grossman cites: Wharton, Hemingway, Lawrence, Fitzgerald. Really? These writers may be moderns, but in theme and ethos, not in formal experimentation. Pound, yes. Kafka, yeah. Joyce, okay. But Grossman's list of defiant modernist novels is full of plot. Sorry.

2. He uses the word "Pavlovianly."

3. His prognostications don't make sense. In proving his point that plot is back in style, Grossman uses Chabon, Lethem, Niffenegger, Gaiman, and Susanna Clarke as examples. These are the literary champions that are boldly bringing back the storylines we have all been silently, hopelessly craving for 80 years. However, these writers are all contemporaries of the Twilight juggernaut. The figures that Grossman so gloomily references (adult trade sales down 2.3% while Twilight author Stephanie Meyer sells 8 million books) would seem to reflect that while Chabon and Niffenegger may have been slinging Grossman-approved level of plot, the book-buying public wanted to buy Twilight books anyway.

I hope that writers of difficult books will not pause to listen to Grossman's confused ramblings about how literary movements from one hundred years ago are stultifying contemporary fiction. I hope writers will disregard all petulant whines about how "we the people" really want to read inglorious garbage like Twilight. I hope writers of difficult books will not take plot advice from a guy who lifted his own plot from Harry Potter. Yes, Twilight is selling. Yes, cheap fiction does move. It always has. But greatness is not easy, in reading or writing, and you weren't really writing for guys like Grossman anyway. Write for the smart people, the people that filled a football stadium to hear T.S. Eliot, the people who still celebrate Bloomsday. Write for me. I will still work for an epiphany.

To Hell with Publishing: Neither Irreverent nor Inventive

2009-08-17T00:33:00.000-04:00

The name promises much. The name inspires obstreperous agreement. Yeah, to hell with publishing, anyway! This is 2009. We're all about downloads, and Kindle, and Twittered novels, and free information, and Google books, and plots we can download via wires straight into our arteries, and plugging into authors via Friendfeed, and instant updates, and modules! To hell with publishing, to hell with journals, to hell with prizes, to hell with first novels. Yeah! Fist-pump!

From a group of projects so provocatively named, I now expect mind-blowing innovation. I expect earthshaking progress. I expect, at the very least, heaps of scorn for the old way of doing things, and arms flung wide open to the new, digital world. Please, make sense of fiction on Twitter for me. Please, package blogged novels. Please, help me to understand new media. I beg you! Unfortunately, what I'm finding here is same old, same old. Instead of revolution, "To Hell with Publishing" is pushing cardstock, ink, and contracts. Readings at a library under a dropped ceiling. Submission guidelines -- click here! And please include a cover letter.

"To Hell with Publishing" is just another small press. Like every other small press in the history of earth, they desire to "return vital writing, and in particularly, the best in contemporary fiction, to the main literary stage." Well bra-thumping-vo. They publish... books. Books made of paper and glue. And they publish journals. They have a prize for... unpublished manuscripts, but unagented manuscripts are not considered. Please submit paper copies in triplicate, because at "To Hell with Publishing" they are all about the snail mail.

That name followed by that business model is like the sound of a trumpet fanfare followed by the sound of a drunk falling downstairs. Where's the innovation? Where's the middle finger raised to the literary establishment? Listen: Here are the two ways that "To Hell with Publishing" bites its thumb at the mainstream presses.

1. They will only publish first novels. No second novels! Oh my god! Their plan is that other publishers will swoop in and take over their authors' careers after novel #1. Because yeah, mainstream publishers are so interested in picking up seconds after the author has been deflowered of his first novel. Do I really have to pursue that analogy?

2. Their journal (To Hell with Journals) will only have 26 issues. They have decided this... in advance. Only 26 and no more, even if thousands of screaming fans are lined up outside the bookshop, demanding just one more issue, tearing up their organs in despair that only 26 issues can possibly be produced. They will stand innovatively firm on this principle: THEY WILL FOLD AFTER TWO YEARS.

These two policies manage to be simultaneously defeatist and overly ambitious. Yeah, we MEANT that journal to go under, and we MEANT that author to never produce another book, because that's all part of the rakish, devil-may-care plan we have here at "To Hell with Publishing." Look, there are already small presses out there doing exactly what THWP desires to do, but without these weird stipulations that seem to undercut any kind of longevity or long term relationship between press, author, and reader. Obviously a few more domain names are needed: tohellwithlegitimacy.com, tohellwithauthorloyalty.com, and tohellwithrelevance.com. "To Hell with Publishing" is a profound disappointment, leaving this reader still looking for the next great thing. When it comes along, I have a feeling that "To Hell with Publishing" would be a really cool name for it. Unfortunately, that domain name is already taken.

For more info: I found out about To Hell With Publishing from the Book Ninja.

The Significant Objects Project

2009-07-02T00:25:00.000-04:00

How to create a significant object:

1. Find some tchotchke. Any tchotchke will do. The weirder the better.

2. Pretend in your brain that it is significant.

3. Write a story telling everyone about how significant it is.

4. Sell the object, and the story, on Ebay.

In other words, (from the web site of the Significant Objects project): A talented, creative writer invents a story about an object. Invested with new significance by this fiction, the object should — according to our hypothesis — acquire not merely subjective but objective value. How to test our theory? Via eBay!

In order for the significance to be created, the object must begin with no significance at all, before the story is written. The items in the project were collected at thrift stores and garage sales, obtained for very little coin. If an object of no actual value gets valuable via its place in a piece of fiction, then these garage sale finds (the web site categorizes them as talismans, totems, evidence, and fossils) should be commanding a higher price on Ebay than they did at the garage sale. According to the evidence, this is actually happening. Take for example Susannah Breslin's story about the button in the photo, the All American Official Necking Team button. The button is for sale on Ebay, along with the story, and the bidding is now over $35. It was listed at $0.50, which was the price it commanded at the thrift store. There are five days left -- who knows how high this piece could sell for?

The idea of making "real" the objects that appear in fictional work is not new. Here's one example: When author Joshilyn Jackson toured with her book The Girl Who Stopped Swimming, she took along a quilt that represented the quilt created by her artist main character. The actual quilt was made by collage artist Pamela Allen, and brought the quilt in the book to life in the smallest detail. Another example: last month a gallery in the UK showed a collection of books that exist only as titles in other books. The idea of an object from a piece of writing coming to life as a physical object you can hold in your hand is kind of magical, it creates the kind of fetish object that deserves the title "totem" or "talisman."

However, when I think of these pieces from SignificantObjects.com, I am less interested in the value created in the object via the fiction, and more interested in the value created in the fiction, via the object. How difficult would it be for an author to sell a short story on Ebay, without the object attached? Especially a story given in full, which a potential buyer could immediately read online or print out for him/herself? Pretty difficult. Yet here is a story, connected to an old button found at a thrift store, that's selling for the price of three paperbacks. Remember, we are in a time when even books are seen as archaic, where people download cheap digital versions of novels, and fiction is readily available all over the internet in a bazillion online magazines.

Maybe what this buyer is actually purchasing is a feeling of ownership that escapes the average reader of a Kindle download or a mass market paperback. This reader will possess the button, and therefore possess the story, in a way that no one else will or can. Like an illustrated text, before the printing press was invented, there is a real sense of exclusivity to this type of writing -- it can only truly be owned by one person.

For more info: For more significant objects to bid on, follow @significobs on Twitter.

Alice Hoffman Freaks Out, and Plus Her Book is Bad

2009-06-30T00:14:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, angry author Alice Hoffman used Twitter to publish a reviewer's phone number and (misspelled) email address. She encouraged her followers to "tell [the reviewer] off," after reviewer Roberta Silman published a lukewarm review of Hoffman's most recent book, The Story Sisters, in the Boston Globe. Instructing followers to "Tell her what u think of snarky critics," Hoffman caused eyebrows around the twitterverse to raise a few languid millimeters, as the book world vaguely pondered whether reviewers should really be punished for saying what they think.

Their conclusion: No, they should not. After receiving some flack for her tweet, Hoffman tried to turn this tantrum into a principled stance, saying, "Girls are taught to be gracious and keep their mouths shut. We don't have to. And we writers don't have to say nothing when someone tries to destroy us." Uh, yeah.

In an incredibly synchronous coincidence, I just yesterday finished reading Alice Hoffman's novel Here on Earth. Do I dare tell you exactly how I feel about this book? Will my phone number be posted on Twitter tomorrow, beside an impassioned call to action?

I did not like Here on Earth. I only picked it up because my brain somehow crossed wires and I thought I was picking up an Angela Carter book. Carter wrote The Infernal Desire Machines of Dr. Hoffman. She is not, as I now know, related in any way to Alice Hoffman. I had never read Alice Hoffman before.

Here on Earth is a romance novel dressed up as literary chick-lit. Its central character is an unlikeable woman whose choices are dense and reprehensible, and whose family and friends are only slightly less loathsome. Switching through point-of-view characters with irritating frequency and loping along in an uncomfortable present tense, the book spirals outward away from an increasingly irrational and self-destructive heroine as if the plot is mirroring the reader's desire to get out of her unsavory story. Several times in the book, young characters are told that they just don't know anything about love. Maybe my failure to connect with this novel is a result of a similar misunderstanding.

Or maybe it's because of lines like this: "He can spend hours watching a wounded cedar beetle and weep over its rare beauty, as well as its agony." Or this: "He knows what can happen to any man who won't let go of his pain." These lines were written without sarcasm about two different male characters, and they're not even the ones we're *supposed* to hate! Maybe it's because of the close attention paid to sweaters and cookies. Ultimately, though, I didn't buy the violence, the pain, the delusions, or even the love.

The Boston Globe said about Here on Earth: "A sound addition to an impressive body of work." I wonder if that reviewer would have been called out on Twitter, had it been around back in 1997 when Here on Earth was published? Because all that reviewer really said was, "Alice Hoffman has written another of many books." And sometimes, if you're trying to be nice, that's all you can really say.

UPDATE: Alice Hoffman's twitter account is no longer. However, Gawker has screen caps.

Here's a list of the people I referenced in the article if you want to follow them on Twitter:

Alice Hoffman @alicehof (deleted? suspended? torn down in a fit of rage?)

Ron Charles, Washington Post Writer: @roncharles

Islinda, outraged fan: @darkonfire

Thanks to Maud Newton who retweeted it: @maudnewton

Thanks to Susannah Breslin who sent it to me: @reversecowpie

And this is me: @lostcheerio

Reading Wickett's Remedy in the Time of Swine Flu

2009-06-28T00:09:00.001-04:00

You think you've got it bad?

Myla Goldberg's novel, Wickett's Remedy, begins pleasantly enough, as a quaint period piece about a young girl in the early 20th century, escaping South Boston to experience big city life as a shop girl selling men's shirts. Lydia Kilkenny finds love, gets married to a medical student, and sets up house. The narrative is augmented by marginal notes in the point of view of ancillary characters, and newspaper articles and editorial letters from the time, and other snatches of dialogue.

Then the Spanish Influenza happens. The book stops being cute, derails itself from a nice little plot about a ghetto girl who conquers the world, and heads into dark and dangerous territory. Now the marginal notes, the newspaper articles, and disembodied dialogues and unexplained bits of correspondence become sinister, threatening, and the main character, who had seemed a little too sweet, too plucky, too dear, is now our only hope. The book was extremely moving, after things got dire. Once I got to the awful part, I could hardly put it down. The multiplicity of voices becomes part of the story itself, as if the only way the unfairness, the starkness, the confusion of the times could be portrayed is through this fragmentation of the narrative.

Goldberg illuminates a world of which I had absolutely no knowledge, no experience. One third of the world's population was infected with this flu. The mortality rate was 10%. That meant that more than 3% of the world's population died of this disease. Seventeen million in India. Six hundred thousand in the US. The most gruesome fact of the pandemic was that the disease killed strong young adults more effectively than the old or young, because the stronger your immune system the more violently the disease came on. Truly horrific. And the things that happened on the Navy ships. Goldberg hints at horrors, via snatches of dialogue and reports, that defy belief.

I highly recommend Wickett's Remedy to anyone who has been loudly panicking about the swine flu, has felt themselves put upon and afflicted by this outbreak, or has been walking around in a face mask. The things Goldberg will show you will make your life in 2009 seem like a paradise of health and vigor.

How to Compete for a Woman with Twilight's Edward Cullen

2009-06-26T00:03:00.000-04:00

The coat is key.

As we all know, Edward Cullen, dark and dangerous (but not too dangerous!) star of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight, has ruined women on regular guys for the next ten years. (Read this: Ten ways Twilight has ruined a generation of high school girlfriends.) Merciful creature that I am, I have some tips for the victims of this literary vampire, who has sucked away your chances for getting a prom date and left you feeling fleshy and inadequate.

1. Purchase a pea coat. After that, if you feel okay, get some pants that actually fit. Wear them together at the same time. If you have anything in your wardrobe in any shade of red, green, or yellow, push it to the back and don't touch it again.

2. Tell a girl you're bad, very very bad. Then never do anything even remotely bad.

3. Get your hair off your face. Purchase mud, shellac, cream, pomade, or wax but *not* hairspray. Squeeze your product into your hands, and then grab at your head as if it's causing you agonizing pain. Continue to clutch your skull until all your hair is pointing away from your forehead. For style reference, check out Brandon and Dylan from Beverly Hills, 90210 circa 1992. No more Disney Channel shag.

4. If you can't think of anything to say to a girl, just glare at her. Never explain anything. Say almost nothing at all. If she asks you what you're thinking, put your arm around her and look away.

5. Imagine the expression you'd have on your face if someone stabbed you with a pencil in the gallbladder, spleen, pancreas or pyloric valve (any other dark, secret, unlocatable place in your abdomen will do). This should now become your default expression.

6. Your excuse for not doing anything should be that you want to too much. As in, you couldn't call because you wanted to *too much.* You couldn't wait for her because you wanted to *too much.*

7. Refuse to do anything physical with your girl, and only relent when pressed to extremes. At each base, you must stop yourself and her from going farther at least three times (claiming, of course, to want her too much).

8. Don't hum, laugh, punch other guys, or behave in any way that could be perceived as happy, relaxed, or lively. Instead, hold a book in your hand and stare off into the distance, maybe about half a football field away.

9. Never think of or mention football again, except if you're using it as a reference point for your distracted, tortured staring. Do not participate in sports, no, not even baseball unless you are an actual vampire.

10. Lead with your forehead. You should always be able to see a little bit of your eyebrow hair as you are peering out from under your brow. This is particularly true if you're attempting a smile. And your smile should always say, "I'm full, but I could eat more" and never "I'm happy" or "That's funny" or "Do you like me?"

Now, there are some lengths to which you should not go to bag a Twilighter. DO NOT:

1. Attempt to run up a tree.

2. Take off your shirt.

3. Wear lipstick.

4. Pretend you can type blood by sight.

5. Jump off a building.

6. Engage in warfare with a rogue vampire.

7. Take her to meet your family.

8. Attempt to stop a speeding car with your body.

9. Drive like you're immortal.

10. Eat a raw deer.

Good luck! Happy hunting, regular guys!

Ten Ways Twilight Has Ruined a Generation of High School Girlfriends

2009-06-23T23:58:00.001-04:00

Your girlfriend is mine.

It used to be hard to get a date in high school. Now, thanks to Twilight, it's got to be damn near impossible. What Mr. Darcy did for husbands, Edward Cullen is doing for boyfriends, and another generation of women is losing interest in the happy jocks while musing over the dark-haired, troubled guy with all that anguish in his eyes.

Edward Cullen is the fictional teen vampire / Byronic anti-hero in Twilight that seduces awkward, brainy heroine Bella Swan. The characters in the book bump around school and rainy Washington, being moody and misunderstanding each other, as Bella and Edward fall in love. Then there are mean vampires, and then more love.

So what makes Edward the Vampire Fantasy Boyfriend such a PR problem for real life teens who just want to get a date to take to dinner and hang out with at the prom? What do the girls see in those black gold eyes?

10. The reason Edward rejects you initially is because he loves you *too much*.

9. Edward has super powers like running superfast and walking up trees, which he can perform while carrying you, making you feel very small and thin.

8. He's strong as an ox but physically effeminate and beautiful, looks great in a full face of makeup.

7. He can save you from speeding SUVs and vampires and thugs without sweating. If a real boy saved you from a thug he'd probably rehash the whole event in front of his friends forty times, but Edward just wanders off.

6. When he's being cryptic, and you push him to explain himself, it just makes him like you *even more.* Real boys tend to have to get off the phone when this happens.

5. When he's moody, it's because he wants to eat people, not because he's about to break up with you.

4. He can read everyone else's mind, but yours is a total mystery.

3. At the beach, his skin turns into diamonds. Real boys turn red and blotchy.

2. He's immortal. Real boys can be killed by almost anything.

And the number one reason that Edward Cullen has ruined things for average teenage boys:

1. He is overcome with deep, torturous lust for you, but he can never, never act on it, or you will die.

Edward Cullen is the safe boyfriend. He will never make you actually take your pants off, but he will constantly reassure you that he only wants to ravage you.

What does this mean? Teenage girls don't actually want to be ravaged. They want to be desired but not deflowered, that they want to be constantly, urgently threatened with intercourse, but never have to experience it. Edward will never, ever satisfy himself with Bella, because doing so would kill her. Let me make you a metaphor map: Loss of virginity = death. Edward = impotent. Therefore the perfect teen boyfriend.

So what's a regular guy to do, in the face of this kind of competition? Now that the movie's out, even the illiterate girls have Edward as a measuring stick for male perfection.

Next time, I'll give you ten ways that regular, average boys can compete with Edward Cullen, using sneaky tactics and clever ploys instead of actual vampirism.

From Susannah's "A Photo a Day," June 22, 2009

2009-06-23T22:15:00.001-04:00

A Photo a Day, June 22, 2009
Originally uploaded by Susannah Breslin

Shut up, Barbie.

Ten Words to Make You Sound Smart in a Book Discussion

2009-06-17T23:47:00.001-04:00

Try to impress Jacques Derrida.

Here are ten words to stock your conversational arsenal that will make you sound like you spent six years in a PhD program reading Derrida and Joyce and drinking absinthe. Warning: With the wrong audience, you might end up punched in the face or wearing your underwear outside your pants involuntarily. Use at your discretion.

1. Hegemony: This word describes a stronger group inflicting its self-serving ideas on a weaker group, while making the weaker group believe these ideas are awesome. Hegemony is pretty much a cuss word, for book nuts. Example: "This is a total hegemony, man!"

2. Proust: Proust is a fiction writer, and gay, and French, and dead. Those are the facts you need. His most famous work was over 3000 pages long. It's about the nature of memory and art, and no one except his mother has ever read it all. You can say it contains whatever character or plot twist you wish, and never be contradicted.

3. Deconstructionism: Contrary to popular use, "deconstruct" does not mean the opposite of construct. It actually means to reduce a written work to its most basic assumptions and then show how those assumptions are paradoxical and therefore meaningless. Instead of good vs. evil, it's neither. This is not a synonym for "analyze." Sorry, Sean Hannity.

Marcel Proust is scintillated by your discourse.

4. Hermeneutics: This word means the study of ways to find meaning in a text. There are a million ways to go about finding meaning, all predicated on the idea that it can be found. Believe it or not, there are people who believe that hermeneutics and meaning are stupid and boring. For serious rockstar points, publically discard hermaneutics and everything it implies.

5. Post-colonialism: At some point in the 20th century, the world decided that making colonies was bad, and that reading any native literature from a colonized country as "cute" and saying "It's neat how they keep writing things down!" was also bad. So we had to develop a new term for our new enlightened way of interacting with this type of discourse. Post-colonialism means "after the colonizers decided the colonized might actually have something to say."

6. Foucault: Foucault is a philosopher, and gay, and French, and dead. He wrote in a very smartypants manner about a bunch of stuff, including how there is no truth or meaning, no way to interpret discourse. He was super-against hermeneutics. In fact, if you want to disagree with something that ends in -ic or -ism, you can probably cite Foucault.

7. French Feminism: French feminists invented the idea of a female kind of writing, "ecriture feminine" which is super-sexy and completely different from phallocentric male discourse. French feminists believed women should write about women, and their bodies. If you use the phrase "writing the body" you will get knowing nods from male friends and phone numbers from the girls.

You fail to convince Heidegger.

8. Joycean: James Joyce's catalog is varied and deep, which means that "Joycean" can go in front of any noun you want, including "Joycean monologue" and "Joycean symbolism" and "Joycean analogy" and even "Joycean discourse."

9. Heterogeneous: Heterogeneity is good because diversity is good. Therefore the word "homogeneous" is bad, just like hegemony is bad. Note: None of these words can be properly applied to milk. Just political movements, world populations, ideas, and granola.

10. Discourse: Use this word in place of any synonym for language. Any chunk of words, spoken or written, can be discourse. Do not ever, under any circumstances, call words "words" or sentences "sentences." Try "heterogenous discursive units." For bonus points, find three places I've used the word "discourse" in this very article, just trying to sound smart!

So, have we learned anything today? Did you know all of this already? What's your favorite word to use in a book group?

For more info: There is a lot more info. But do you really want it?

Blogging is Dead. Long Live Blogging.

2009-06-16T10:30:00.001-04:00

Is it just me or does blogging these days seem tragically onerous? It's a little bit like living in a cabin in the woods, all by yourself. Your cabin may have been built with your own hands, and may be a cabin you're really very proud of, but ultimately it's a cabin that no one ever sees. It's just so far out in the woods, you know? No one sees the brick path you laid, the planters you filled with geraniums, the really neat pot hangers. No one sees your blog either.

It's lonely in the cabin. A person starts to feel like the only person in the woods. So we all come out to the lodge or the campfire, and we start chatting with the other mountain dwellers. Of course, when you're sitting around the campfire, you can't pontificate for hours on the state of your geranium planters. You have to keep it brief, keep it entertaining. That's Twitter. That's Facebook. That's Tumblr. Meet me at the campfire. I'll listen to what you have to say for thirty seconds at a time.

Here's the reality: I'm no longer visiting your blog. Well, that's not entirely true. I'm no longer visiting your blog just to visit. I will read your blog posts if one of these three conditions is met:

1. You tweet or Facebook a link to it that attracts my attention.
2. It appears in my reader, in which case I read it there, in my reader.
3. It turns up in a google search for something specific I want to know.

I don't care about your awesome page layout.
I don't care about your 18 inch blogroll.
I don't even care about your tag cloud.

No, not at all.

I do care, deeply, about your ability to write 140 words at a time in Twitter. I care about your ability to post funny or interesting Facebook updates. I care about your blog posts too, insofar as they fit into my reader, uniformly formatted with all the other posts by bloggers with which I've categorized you. I care about the words you write, but I no longer care about the context in which you write them. And really, I want to say to you, and to myself -- enough blogging. If you can say it in 140 words, you should. No more "What we did today." No more "Here's a funny anecdote." No more "Have you ever wondered about this question?" None of those things merit a blog post any more, and I'm not traipsing all the way out to your cabin to read that! Say it in 140 characters, right here at the campfire, or don't say it. Sorry!

It sounds extreme, and obviously, I'm not entirely done with blogging myself. So what kinds of things can I *not* say in 140 words? What topics do I actually feel justified blogging about, and what blog posts will I still trudge out to your blog to read?

1. Something that's long and funny.
2. Something that's long and useful.
3. Something that's long and contentious.

I might also blog something that's full of pictures, but it must also be either funny, useful, or contentious. Otherwise I can just Tweet or Facebook a link to the Flickr set.

That's really it.

Does this mean that we no longer have the attention span for blogs? Am I now supposed to say something wan and dire about the decay of this or that, or the disintegration of blah blah blah?

No. Because the writing isn't gone. The text isn't even really shorter. It's just that the internet has become more modular. Instead of the context of your layout, your blogroll, your About Me, your profile, your color scheme and the rest of it, you now exist in a larger context. You are now in the context of whatever feed that brings you to my screen. You are adjacent to everyone else. You are without context.

This isn't the decay of anything. It is a literary evolution. Now more than ever, content is king. The blog posts that people do write and pay attention to are less like journals, less like casual diaries, and more like articles -- meaty and complex. The blogs that survive Twitter and Tumblr and will be the ones with actual content that's accummulated into a body of work with merit. For the rest of the blogging population, Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, Flickr, and Friendfeed will more than suffice. This is a good thing, people. While "Blogging" may be alive and well, "blogging" is dead. Face(book) it: It's just not worth posting the small stuff anymore.

Tweeting this post? Here's a short URL: http://bit.ly/ry1o8

American Idol Recap: Top Three: Adam Lambert is Heartless

2009-05-12T22:46:00.003-04:00

America, there are three white guys standing before you. But you only hold two photographs in your hand. Only two of them will go on in the hopes of becoming America's Next Top Douchepouch. Which one will you choose?

You know, now that we're here, now that we're staring down the finale, I'm thinking maybe you should scrape the stage clean and start over, America. These puppets' felt noses are starting to pill. Their bright little jackets are frayed. As they stand there, shifting from foot to foot, showing their teeth, I realize I'm truly more interested in the commercials for Glee Club than I am in the show tonight. The contestants remaining are all treasured little darlings of the judges. They are predictable, solid performers who have nothing left in them besides obedience. Convenient, because this is the week they sing songs the judges have chosen for them. Three singers, four judges -- Randy and Kara have to collaborate.

DANNY GOKEY: For Danny, Paula chooses "Dance Little Sister" by Terence Trent D'Arby. Wow, I can't think of a less current song or a less relevant artist. Gokey sings it with moist scatting and damp foot-kicking and comes down to goofily play up to the judges like it's his farewell song. If James Brown married a beetle larvae and their baby was trying to sing a Terence Trent D'Arby song, that beetle child would be like, Gokey, I owned you just now. Paula and Simon get into some kind of wrestling match that results in Simon having a big smear of tan makeup directly over his right tit during the rest of the show.

KRIS ALLEN: Kara and Randy have chosen "Apologize" by One Republic. They predict that it will show his range, and his "dark melodic beauty." Unfortunately he proves completely incapable of hitting that high note. You know the one that recurs about a million times throughout the song? Totally inadequate voice for this assignment. He goes to a lower note, thrums simple chords on the piano, and looks beaten and a little stoned. Kara and Randy are disappointed that he didn't just come out on the stage with an acoustic guitar and sing it straight. The elephant in the room farts and bellows: "HELLO! HE CAN'T HIT THAT HIGH NOTE. WERE YOU LISTENING? ASS?" Simon: "Kara, I don't think you can blame him for the song, when you picked it." Kara: "Don't tell me about interpreting songs. Have you ever interpreted a song in your life?" Puff puff huff huff. They argue about whether he interpreted it right.

ADAM LAMBERT: Simon has chosen "One" by U2 for Adam to sing. Adam turns in a bizarre and unsavory performance. It starts low, sounding a bit like a song from Cats. Adam turns in a few very sweet and surprising notes. I'm thinking, damn, if he keeps it kinda creepy and low like this, he's going to blow me away. But then he starts belaying it, slaying it, and fileting it. He goes higher, squealier, squintier, and then unrolls his gruesomely long tongue, and ruins it. Completely. The judges love it with deep abiding love. I kinda just hate it. Adam reminds us kindly that the lyrics in the song are really beautiful. Yeah, but you delivered them like the front man of an eighties hair band. Sorry, Adam.

After we come back from the break, Ryan lets us know that in the last two years Idol has raised $140 million for Africa, and really, everyone feels like that's enough. No "Idol Gives Back" this year. Idol is resuming its policy of only taking. What a relief! Africa is grateful for the mosquito nets it got.

DANNY GOKEY: Did you forget last week that Danny Gokey's wife is dead? Well she is. Completely dead. And he *really* loved her too. Isn't that sad?

KRIS ALLEN: Kris Allen, allowed to make his own song choice now, chooses "Heartless" by Kanye West. I've heard Kanye's version on SNL, and on the radio, and I strangely like it, although this is not usually my thing. Kris Allen's version was actually really cool! He did it completely straight, with just the acoustic guitar and his own voice. It was very good. The judges love it. I love it. It's Kris Allen! Maybe he can bump out Gokey to edge into the finals. I hope so.

ADAM LAMBERT: Adam sings "Cryin'" by Aerosmith. He picked it because he can. He sang it because once he had called everyone there, worked out the arrangement, led the judges to expect something magical, invited a throng of people with hand-lettered signs, he had to go ahead and deliver. No one was surprised. The judges predict he will be in the finals, but Simon takes the time to remind us to vote, vote, vote for the white man in the leather jacket, who looks like he owns it, who looks like he can be the next gay rock star that girls can't wait to fuck.

This season it seemed like the producers might have wanted an Amy Winehouse, a Duffy, a funky edgy girl Idol. But failing that, they'll take another rocker. Whatever.

Best performance: Kris Allen's "Heartless"
Worst performance: Adam Lambert's "One"

Going home: PLEASE GOKEY PLEASE

American Idol: Top Five: Jamie Foxx Loves Everyone to Distraction

2009-04-28T22:56:00.004-04:00

I have Idol fatigue. Do you? No? Are you panting for more? Well, that's what you're going to get tonight. More. Not better or different. Not fresh or unusual. Just more.

Tonight's theme: Songs that would sound like Christmas songs, if they had Christmas lyrics. Cruise ship standards. Brat pack hits.

Tonight's mentor: Jamie Foxx.

KRIS ALLEN: Let's start out the show with a little hysterical hyperbole. Jamie Foxx loves Kris Allen so much! Kris Allen is his number one. If this doesn't work out, Jamie Foxx will marry Kris Allen and take him away from all this meaningless drudgery. As if to underscore his deep love of Kris, Jamie Foxx stops talking and grabs his own breasts. Kris sings "The Way You Look Tonight" in a super-boring, mind-numbing karaoke way. The judges rip out their hair and canter around the stage, rhapsodizing about his impeccable phrasing and charm. Randy, Kara, and Paula tear their clothes and pile ashes on themselves in humble adoration. They're not worthy. They abased themselves by urinating on each other in shame before him. Simon calls it, appropriately, a little wet.

ALLISON IRAHETA: Jamie Foxx LOVES Allison. She is his favorite, for sure. She sings "Someone to Watch Over Me" in a manner that would be ludicrous and repulsive in a 27 year old, but in a 17 year old is apparently precocious and inspiring? Or that's what the judges say. The judges peel their skins off and create little Allison dolls to sell to the crowd, decorating them with their own teeth and hair. It's an Allison love-fest. She is the best ever.

After the break, Matt Giraud will sing "My Funny Valentine." Can I go to bed yet? I swear I will put my eye out with this laptop if he winks.

MATT GIRAUD: Matt is like, hey, I wore a fedora before a fedora was appropriate. Yeah, that's not a point of pride, fool. Jamie Foxx takes one listen and then tears off his head and fills it with candy for Matt Giraud. That's the least he can do to prove the intensity of his love: create a bloody, brainspeckled candy dish for Matt's personal use. Matt sings pinkly and with a weird forcefulness, like he's trying to convince us of something related to the border with Mexico. Surprisingly, the judges actually manage to critique him. Maybe America will be allowed to actually vote him off this week! He was brought back and selected in the wild card show, then saved by the "save," and now... oh... wait. Simon calls him absolutely brilliant. I have a feeling Matt will be back to wear his Fedora yet again, maybe during techno-pop week or "white guy brawling songs" week.

DANNY GOKEY: Ace mentor Jamie Foxx needs to creepily violate Gokey's personal space in order to make him be more pure and real. Seriously, he like gets right up in his grill. He reports that Gokey's breath is fresh. Weird moment. Awkward. Gokey looks like he feels hit on, the opposite of pure and real. He sings "I'm Gonna Love You" and sounds like an old man. At first I think he will be denied his favorite technique of shouting his way through from the chorus to the end, but then he gets hollering about "rain or shine" and peels his lips back for the big ending as usual. Randy pulls out a record contract and begs Danny to sign on, eager to do an entire album of just minutely diverse versions of this same song. Kara wraps her neck around and around a stripper pole, seductively mouthing, "Gokaaaay." Paula demands that Danny suckle on one of her teats. Simon looooooves Danny.

DUDE, AM I CRAZY: These performances are just so completely unremarkable. Are they just setting us up for Adam Lambert? What can he possibly do to top the way the judges perceive the other contestants have performed tonight? What adjectives and analogies are left to describe him?

ADAM LAMBERT: Adam is going to sing "Feeling Good." Jamie Foxx predicts that our heads will fall off. Adam wears a white satin suit, rides in on the glowing red stairs, and delivers the only performance of the night that couldn't have been found on any cruise ship in the Caribbean. A little Freddy Mercury. The judges' heads all fall off. And the show is over.

Best performance: Adam Lambert
Worst performance: Matt Giraud
Going home: Matt Giraud

Or whatever. Seriously, the relentless lovefest is getting so old. Am I wrong?

American Idol: Top Seven Take Two: Disco Mild Blaze

2009-04-21T22:16:00.004-04:00

Say hi to your judges! Hi, judges! Randy points heavenward as if to say, "It's not about me, it's about God." Then he confusingly gives the UK version of the middle finger, as if to say, "Go eff yourself, America." No, the sign for peace is not a palindrome. When you turn it around it means something else. Kara in a pink homecoming dress, Paula in a floral cardigan, and Simon in an undershirt. Tra la la, isn't it all wonderful? Do we have to sit through six confused amateurs, poorly produced and ludicrously dressed to get to some Lambert?

LIL ROUNDS: Lil sings Chaka Khan's "I'm Every Woman." She's wearing a black spandex cat suit and a super funky wig. The judges have been trying to get her to sing something like this for weeks, but then they hate her for it. Yeah, okay, it was a steamy mess. Only Paula throws her a bone, saying she had laryngitis yesterday and has made an amazing recovery. As Lil listens to the judges' comments, she crumples like a dropped puppet. Then Simon says she's going home for sure -- this is her last week. Someone from the crowd yells angrily and the camera shows us some variety of Rounds relative who is saying unmentionable, I'm pretty sure, to the lip-readers in the audience. Poor Lil. Pimped early, dropped late.

KRIS ALLEN: Kris sings "She Works Hard for the Money" with a Latin folk vibe. Oh my goodness, somebody has changed up a genre! How shocking! They even drag out that drum that you sit on to play it, and bring all the percussion right downstage. Kris sings kinda like a fuzzheaded little cat or something. Sometimes he yawns and a note comes out. Kara repeats the perpetual lie with her overworked, ruthlessly articulating lips, "Oh, wow, you took a HUGE risk with that performance! And it paid off BIG TIME." Yeah, a giant risk. Because last year's winner failed utterly in switching genres on songs. And this year's front runner is having terrible trouble with his "Looky, I made it my own" performances. So yeah, big risk. Trust me, when they bring out the drum you sit on, accusations of blistering originality are right around the corner.

DANNY GOKEY: Danny sings "September" in a super dorky way. You know what, it just feels like everyone has given up. They're done. They're on the tour. Lambert is the winner. They don't even care anymore, they just want to get to the part where they get a few weeks off to take horse tranquilizers and lie around. Gokey's dancing is just beyond laughable. Gruesome even. When they go to "Danny's friends and family" the camera picks out four undead girlbots in sundresses. Who are these people? The camera visits them again and again. Are they more Cheesecake Factory conquests? Danny has an entourage that takes its ranch vinaigrette on the side. They droop and leer at the camera. The judges fawn and gush about him. Kara's lips disengage from her body, crawl down her front, swing out from the microphone and land on Gokey's scruffy chin, grabbing for purchase among his weedy little beard scraps, and landing at last on his pink, thin mouth hole. We know the judges love Danny.

ALLISON IRAHETA: Allison arrives on the stage riding a glistening chrome staircase illuminated with red bulbs and bathed in the glow of the fiery jumbotrons. She is a rocker! Take a memo! They're trying to help her out of the bottom three, I guess, but then Randy says, "You're one of the best singers in this competition." Really? One of the best? There are only seven left. Out of like thousands, hundreds, dozens, etc. So, really, one of the best -- that's overwhelmingly generous. The judges quibble. Do they like the arrangement? Or not? Who cares. They drag out the old lauds and honors -- she's authentic, she's genuine, she's real.

We are going to commercial BUT -- THERE IS ADAM LAMBERT! He's in the crowd -- I see his HEAD! I see his smiling head all wreathed in hair product and favoritism!

ADAM LAMBERT: Adam is pinching off a little Elvis tonight, and I totally want that snake ring on his pinky finger, microphone hand. He sings a really tortured, eye squeezing, look-at-my-pulsing-soul-seething-with-angst version of "If I Can't Have You." An unremarkable song that has now has all of the corpuscles wrung out of it forcibly, in the meaty fists of our favorite son. The judges froth and foam. Kara shakes her head in fake, contrived disbelief. By the way, Kara shouldn't wear her haid pulled back -- it makes her look like a fetal monkey. The kids love it. Paula confesses tearfully that she could feel Adam's pain. Simon calls it brilliant. Whatever! I didn't actually like it that much. So!

MATT GIRAUD: Matt bores the shit out of everyone with a predictable, crotch-touching, Whiny McPulerson version of "Stayin' Alive." Randy searches around for something mildly inaudible to say, and decides to opine that this group of seven is one of the most talented groups they've ever had. Oh, really? Out of seven groups, this is *one of the* most talented? I'm overcome with awe. Matt in a black straw fedora and burgundy leather jacket. Just the most completely unattractive man I have ever seen. Just that.

ANOOP DESAI: Anoop sings "Turn Down the Lights." I don't understand the song, the pink v-neck sweater under the taupe business suit, the judge's comments, or the show itself anymore. I am utterly, completely bored by Anoop, to the point that I clicked away from this window to investigate an incoming mail alerting me to a auto-thanks-for-the-follow-DM on Twitter. Just to see if maybe there was anything else there besides the autothanks. Equivalent of changing channels to watch the channel guide.

BEST PERFORMANCE: I didn't like any of them.
WORST PERFORMANCE: Matt Giraud.
GOING HOME: Matt Giraud and Lil Rounds

American Idol Top Seven: Movie Night with Quentin Tarrantino

2009-04-14T21:40:00.003-04:00

Apparently Tarrantino is a genuine Idol fan. Well, kids, it's been a long time since I thought about Quentin Tarrantino at all. How about you? I did see that unlikely bit of movie where the girl flops around on the hood of a car. I also saw the snowy scene in one of the Kill Bills -- that was pretty memorable. I think the last time I actually laid eyes on his physical person was that scene in Four Rooms where he cuts of his finger, or some other person's finger. Tarrantino is aging kind of angular. But also doughy and full of sweat. Like that guy from Office Space who is missing his paycheck. Oh I know, yes, I understand the significance of QT. But he is, to quote a movie he did not direct, so fucking eager.

ALLISON IRAHETA: Quentin Tarrantino's mentoring for Allison was beyond genius: "Okay, that was good, but now I want you to sing it again while I'm sitting in a chair." According to him, that did the trick in rehearsal. Unfortunately for Allison, in spite of many many people in chairs in front of her during her performance, she still smelled a little off. There was *one note* that was good, and that's all she could muster. The rest was kind of tired, like she was up late last night, threw on a shirt dress over some red pants, and rolled onto stage. Paula loved her, and Simon calls her the girl's last hope.

Commercial break: If you cut your shower down by two minutes, you can give a needy child a pair of shoes.

ANOOP DESAI: I feel confused that Anoop is still on the show. My confusion is not assuaged by Anoop's outfit tonight: a suit jacket with leather varsity jacket sleeves grafted onto it. Maybe Anoop is still around to promote someone's weird zombie-prep clothing line? Tarrantino earnestly requests that Anoop deliver "Look Into My Eyes" by Bryan Adams (yes, Bryan Adams) with a little grit, a little urgency, a little heart. Anoop decides to go with the castrated spaniel delivery instead, the only thing bold about him is ignoring Tarrantino's advice. Dan says, "I hope Tarrantino goes up on stage and cuts his head off." The judges loved it.

ADAM LAMBERT: Adam wows Tarrantino in practice. He is just really looking forward to the performance. No criticism. Adam sings, "Born to be Wild." They're giving him, dude, seriously, such better arrangements, such better mixing, there were effects on his vocal that no one else gets -- it is kind of sad really for the other people, not that they deserve anything better. Paula: "You dare to dance in the path of greatness. Fortune rewards the brave, and you're one of the bravest contestants I've ever witnessed, ever." Wow.

COLORLESS MOLE: It's Bryan Adams night! Tonight on Idol! Matt sings "Tell me if you ever really really luhved a wuhmuhn?" Tarrantino was like, "Colorless Mole, I never really have. I'm afraid of them, a little bit. But I'm okay with that. And don't lose the lyric." Matt just makes me kind of ill. The judges aren't in love. Kara mysteriously criticizes him for choosing a rock song? Matt nervously bites his lip and rubs his meaty thigh.

DANNY GOKEY: Gokey is going to sing "Endless Love" either to his dead wife or maybe to that girl Pam he was going to hook up with at the Cheesecake Factory? No, it's to his dead wife, as he underscores by looking up (into heaven) at the end of his song. Oh, the brutal vote-baiting. Brutal. Gokey is going full in on the dead wife treatment, since Lambert is so undeniably winning the YouTube battle. In the tape, Tarrantino had something really interesting to say. He points out that with a really emotional song like this, hand gestures and arm waving can kind of dissipate the intensity. He instructs Danny to sing it with his hands in his pockets, and let all the emotion come out his face. Well, I dunno if he managed to do it in rehearsal, but in his performance, he's waving and gesturing like he's trying to beat off bees. Seems like another great time for Tarrantino to decapitate someone, but... he is probably still a fan. The judges love the Gokey of it all.

KRIS ALLEN: Is he still here? He's singing a song I haven't heard from the movie "Once," which I haven't seen. He makes kind of a mess of it. It's one of those Scrubs-type songs. He does a lot of falsetto and a lot of wandering around the pitch looking strained and as if he's possibly dying. Total fail.

LIL ROUNDS: Lil is going to sing "The Rose." Again, Tarrantino actually has really good advice, and a good violent analogy too. I had my doubts with the whole "Let's try it with me in a chair" routine, but he's actually been way more useful than the musical icon mentors on this season. Lil sings all over the place, very wobbly and desperate. Now look at her on stage: that stupid magenta light, one spot, light rock arrangement, the usual. Whereas Adam Lambert gets chorused, reverbed, strobe lights, head-banging back-up singer, the works. Poor Lil. She coulda been there.

Best Performance: Let's just say, for the sake of variety, Adam Lambert.
Worst Performance: Kris Allen
Going Home: Kris Allen

I could be totally wrong, but I think Lil is still safe.

American Idol Top 8 Recap: The Search is Over, I am a Sucker for 80s Ballads

2009-04-07T23:36:00.004-04:00

It's baby picture night as the Idols sing hits from the year they were born. In a long, awkward, interesting-only-to-them sequence, we see baby pictures of the judges and Ryan. Wow, embarrassing. They used to be BABIES, everyone! Tee hee! Babies! What, no mentors again? Doesn't any other aging superstar have an album to pimp? No?

DANNY GOKEY: Danny sings a 1980 version of "Stand By Me" -- cheater. It's Lite FM all the way, first with strings and then with wo-wo-wos and bongos. Paula is dancing! The screen behind him matches his shirt! He's almost scatting, and I don't mean jazz stylings, I mean what you call bear poop when you're hanging out with Aragorn. The judges reused their comments from the last four shows. Danny Gokey is so awesome!

KRIS ALLEN: Kris' mother opines mysteriously, "We'd be just as happy as if his dream was to be a taxi cab driver." Unpack THAT sentence, Seacrest. Kris is going to sing "All She Wants to Do is Dance." Am I officially old when I can remember roller skating to the songs from the years these kids were born? Whatever. Kris has planted himself in the middle of the crowd just like Matt Giraud did last week, so there's a little knot of excited, brightly-lit women clustered around him and his electric guitar. In spite of all this pheromonic activity, the song is utterly bloodless. Kara says it sounds like "jazz funk homework" -- for once, I find her very perceptive. Paula calls him likeable. OUCH.

LIL ROUNDS: Lil takes her tape time to clarify that her name is Lil Rounds. Revelatory. Then she emerges in a leather vest and completely ridiculously amazing shoes and proceeds to rip the bowels out of "What's Love Got to Do With It?" After she's gutted it, the band drains its blood and leaves it in a mall parking lot. The arrangement sounds like the background music for a puzzle video game, you know one where the shapes fall peacefully from the top of the screen and little colored baubles congregate or quietly explode or disappear or whatever. Paula didn't like it, called it karaoke. Simon called it copycat, and said we've lost Lil.

ANOOP DESAI: Anoop apologizes onstage for the completely shocking and offensive behavior he exhibited last week during his critique. Wait, I don't remember anything about this, and I was there, oh, was I there? He says he was not being himself and he is just mortified and ashamed. Nobody seems to remember it, even Kara, who was the victim of his forgettable transgression. Anoop sings Cyndi Lauper in a spring green cardigan. It's "True Colors" but as if John Mayer was singing it, with John Mayer's nose stuffed with chewing gum. Whatever. The judges like it. Really, not a bit of that song was in tune. Paula: "You did show your true colors, and it was like a rainbow." Wow.

Hey, fuckers, don't vote til the end of the show! Or we'll come after you!

SCOTT MCINTYRE: Scott appears with an electric guitar and an amp, and sings, "The Search is Over" by Survivor, from 1985. Okay, American Idol, I give up. You found me. At least you found where I was at 13. I love this song, and I always will, and it has to do with a very intense tweeny crush and high school gym class, and this is not something I can control or explain, okay? It's irrational, like most of high school was. This song, on the radio, can still make me get all kinda dreamy and faraway. OKAY I ALSO FEEL THIS WAY ABOUT "THE GLORY OF LOVE" BY PETER CETERA. Now you know. So go ahead and poke a stick in my soft, fluffy underbelly. Scott's guitar-playing is awful and the mix is so dire the twangy guitar sound just kind of sits on top of the rest of the band. The judges hate it, and I think, now, that Scott should definitely win this whole show.

ALLISON IRAHETA: I didn't listen to Allison's tape, I was too busy trying to ascertain if it's really been 24 years since that Survivor song was a hit. Ow. She appears with freshly pinked-out hair and sings "I Can't Make You Love Me" by Bonnie Raitt -- a dangerous song choice for someone who's spent a little time in the bottom three recently. This is one of those songs it's easy to go out singing. Yet year after year they always sing it. The arrangement is elderly, the delivery is rough, the song is boring and inappropriate. The judges rave and scream about how original she is, how she reminds them of Kelly Clarkson, how she made it her own, how it was so young and vibrant. Allison looks confused, as if she knows something's fishy in this pond. Kara says, and I quote, "Let's go make a record!"

MATT GIRAUD: The funnest words ever: "Let's go back to 1985 and learn a little bit more about Matt!" Actually, it does turn out to be funny: We see footage of Matt being a saucy angel in a school play. What a little eye-roller! Then he sings "Part Time Lover" by Stevie Wonder. More scatting, this time in a fedora. Randy says, "Vocally, one of the best of the night." Faint praise, considering what's come before him. Paula and Kara make up for it by screaming and fist-pumping and stampeding around their desk making wildebeest noises. Gross.

There's only one Idol left! The only one that matters. Unfortunately my DVR cut off at 9:01 and I do not know what Adam Lambert did or did not do. It's a pimp spot backfire! Classic!

Best performance: I'm tempted to say Adam Lambert but my honest heart demands that I say Scott McIntyre. Come on, did anyone else have a special memory attached to this miserable excrescence of a song? Dammit.

Worst performance: Anoop Desai

Going home: Allison Iraheta

American Idol: Top Nine; ITunes Week: Adam Lambert Brings the Funk

2009-03-31T22:48:00.005-04:00

This is their moment! Paula is wearing awesome pink bling! Kara is smiling with her mouth hanging open! Someone in the audience is distractedly pulling the limbs off a child!

Tonight is More Money for ITunes week! The Idols will be mentored by the equipment in the studio where they tape Ryan's radio show (it's the show that Dick Clark started!) where Ryan demonstrates how he says, "This is American Idol!" into a microphone. Wow, at the push of a button, music comes out of the speaker! It's like magic, but really predictable unawesome magic. This week, our singers can pick any song that's popular on ITunes, with "popular" defined as "available."

ANOOP DESAI: Anoop sings an Usher song. Who is Usher? Is he that cartoon dog with the square head? Anoop is wearing a grimly ill-fitting black suit with the collar turned up. The epaulets are made of Rainbow Brite puffy stickers, all in a row, and there's a chain around one armpit. His shirt has a Care Bear on it (the one with the raindrops on its gut). I don't know the song, I don't want to be glared at by Anoop, and I have a feeling the backup singers could give us a better show than this horse's ass. What a staggering tool is Anoop Desai. What a quivering, gelatinous mass of toolage is this eyebrow waggler. The judges are unimpressed. Anoop defends himself by clarifying that their opinions are their opinions, adding that his butt has a hole in it, like most other people's butts, and that he wants to be an R&B artist. He is wearing a sparkly dog tag when he says all this. Can anyone else make sense of this man's wardrobe? It just mystifies me, but not in a good way, in a, like, how did the corpse of a hedgehog get stuck in my garbage disposal way.

Tom Colicchio wants me to keep it simple. I do not want Listerine to do six things. Just one thing.

Shock: Every song you hear is available on ITunes!

MEGAN JOY: Megan doesn't care, she's singing Bob Marley's "Turn Your Lights Down Low." This is finally, she says, a song she really loves. She sings it in her own special twitchy gutteral way, channeling Katherine Hepburn and also that lady at the old folks' home that won't shut up and keeps looking at you with that knowing wink, like, we understand each other. But you don't know her. And she smells like cabbage. Megan (not the hypoethetical old lady) is wearing chains and necklaces all over her collarbones, a teal corset top, and jeans. Kara doesn't like it. Paula suggests she sit on a stool with a spotlight and sing a sensitive ballad that rips the heart out of everyone. Simon calls it boring and indulgent. Randy says it took forever. They encourage her to sing Amy Winehouse, Duffy, and Adele.

DANNY GOKEY: Danny tells Randy that last week he had to sing his fifth choice of song. This is not the first time, this season, that Idols have referenced the song choice process, and suggested that they aren't completely in control of the song they sing. It's almost like you start questioning the way they're grilled and blamed about song choice every week, but then you don't, because the shiny lights are so sparkly, you forget about it. He sings "What Hurts the Most" by Rascal Flatts. Maybe the mix is off tonight -- everyone sounds kind of wobbly and dim. Danny never quite finds the pitch or the beat. The song is another reminder that his wife died, and that is pretty sad, but... if he sings "The Dance" by Garth Brooks, he is fired. This is the last "my wife died" song of the season. The next one he sings, the floor opens up and he gets dropped into the basement full of wolves and scary clowns. The judges love him. He responds in his squinty oh-golly way.

ALLISON IRAHETA: Allison practices the guitar in her tape, and we get to see her chewed, wrecked, nasty black fingernail polish. Endearing. She appears in a deconstructed prom dress and Pat Benatar hair, awkwardly stumbles through the first guitary part of "Don't Speak" by No Doubt, with the guitar. Then she flips it around to the back to rasp through the song holding the microphone. The guitar was a mistake. I hate this song. Allison looks like a muppet. No one can understand her clothes. Simon calls it "dressy-uppy." Allison is actually a 45 year old mother of three, she works in telemarketing, smoke three packs of Camels a day, and vacuums her trailer in heels. Vote!

SCOTT MCINTYRE: Don't go changing to try and please him. You've never let him down before. Just lead him over to the piano, so he can smile in your general direction. Scott has new fancy George Michael hair and jacket, and sings Billy Joel. I want to believe he is wearing a t-shirt under there. He is, right? The piano is bangy, the singing is loungey, and his sister is so excited she's bouncing out of her headband. Kara loves the eighties hair. Paula is proud. Simon calls it his best performance. I have been told to stop making fun of the blind guy, so... I will say nothing about the waving. The weird zombie waving. But if you saw the show, you know.

I do not like the overdubbed exaggerated eating sounds on Hardee's commercials.

MATT GIRAUD: Matt reminisces about being in the bottom three last week. No one cares at all. We're just waiting for him to get voted off and then release some precious little album on some sweaty little label and someone will call it "Intense!" and then he will go back to playing standards in a piano bar. Dear Matt, if you have to wear outerwear onstage, do yourself the favor of buying a jacket that fits. "Fits" means the sleeves go at least down to your wrists. Jackets that do not go down to your wrists do not "fit." Ill-fitting jackets counteract intensity. All Best, LYDIA. Matt sings a song by The Fray (you know, like in Scrubs!), with the keyboard set up in the middle of the crowd. The judges say it's like that horrible time he sang Coldplay, and that he needs to choose between the rock side of pop and the R&B side. Between the resentful glow of his colorless mole and the apologetic sheen of his giant pink gums, I don't know what to think either.

LIL ROUNDS: Lil has chosen "I Surrender" by Celine Dion, and between her rained on hair and her aging diva gown, she seems like she's going to play it completely boring. She sings it straight Celine for about the first half and then she lets it rip a little bit, funking it up Lil style. Pretty strong -- I was impressed. The judges don't want her to be adult contemporary, though. They want her to stay young. Ryan brings Lil's daughter to Randy so she can punch him for the criticism, but she gives him a big, adorable hug and Lil cries. That should be good for a few thousand votes.

ADAM LAMBERT: Adam is singing my favorite song, "Play That Funky Music (White Boy)" tonight. He does it kinda Lenny Kravitz, but more Aerosmith. Lots of screaming and tongue-waggling and strobe lighting. Whatever! Okay, it's a super-cheesy song, and there is NO WAY on earth to do it without cheese. Adam does cheese in a way that acknowledges the corniness and then flips it up. The judges like it. It's really weird that he chose it, given that he could have chosen, apparently, anything in the whole world, but yeah. He says he had fun and salutes the band.

KRIS ALLEN: Kris confesses that he is trying to make one of those special moments with "Ain't No Sunshine." Kris, don't you know, when you want to make one of those special moments, you need a string quartet on stage with-- oh, there's the string quartet! Awesome! The moment should be along any moment now -- WOOPS, there it is! He knows, he knows, he knows, he knows. The performance is strained, full of anxiety, like if a chimp got up on stage to play the keyboard, and we all sat there kind of listening to the chimp play the piano, but mostly just worrying that he was going to poop or something. The chimp did not poop but he also didn't blow it out the box metaphorically. Kara has three words for him: "That is artistry." Wow, did you really need "That is"? You could have just given him one word. They really want to keep this fuzzheaded poser in the competition -- they gave him the pimp spot and a string quartet, and yet he still comes off like someone's earnest, nervous brother who wonders if you got a chance to listen to his demo yet.

Best performance: My newly refurbished icemaker.
Worst performance: Anoop Desai

Going home: Matt Giraud

It seems like Anoop has some kind of voting mojo that we mere mortals cannot understand. He should have been gone after "Beat it" and yet, here he is. Megan, also, has a strong fan base. Matt is a lame poser -- he was a wild card, nobody likes him, and I think this is his week to damply depart.

Related posts: American Idol

The Conservatives Against Conservation Association takes on Earth Hour!

2009-03-28T21:16:00.005-04:00

1. Earth Hour is a global demonstration where people turn off their lights and appliances for an hour to raise awareness about global warming and plant the idea of energy conservation in people's heads.

2. Conservatives come back with Human Achievement Hour, in which people turn all their lights and appliances ON, to show how stupid liberals are.

3. Twitter channel #tcot becomes flooded with gleeful reports of "My block is lighted up like a Christmas tree!" and "I even have my car and motorcycle running in my driveway!"

4. I become aware of this, and start tweeting sassy tweets like "#earthhour #tcot Liberals are saving money tonight. Conservatives are spending money. Who's dumb?" and "Join us in bright lights! We're the Conservatives Against Conservation Association! #caca #earthhour #tcot"

5. Somebody RETWEETS my thing about Conservatives Against Conservation, as if it was a serious post.

6. People start actually using the hashtag #caca which was created by me to be funny and stupid.

Would You Friend Your Kids on Facebook?

2009-03-27T09:54:00.009-04:00

Some of us parents lead a double life. Not the exciting kind where you end up in Ankara with no recollection of how you got there or why you're wearing only one stiletto, but a double life of the mind. We make our mom faces, wear our mom clothes, and use our mom vocabulary. Even those of us who are "cool moms" create a mom persona -- it doesn't have to be all braided hair and cookie dough. My mom persona is constructed out of different parts: part is my own personality, part is what I think mothers should look and sound like, part is how my mother was, and another part is a new creation -- something that came out of me after my kids came along, that wasn't there before. I like being a mom.

However, I do have a separate piece of my brain that's entirely personal. This piece is a survivor from a time before my children; maybe part single girl, part newlywed, maybe even part teenager. I try to let it change and grow apart from my "mom" self, so that I don't just become the mom and abandon the real me. So that I don't look around when my kids leave for college and realize I have nothing to do but wait for grandchildren. Writing novels is part of that separate piece, and blogging is part of the separate piece (peace?) and recently Facebook, for me and a lot of moms I know, has become part of it.

Yes, we've always had our email lists and phone calls, but there's something about posting OMFG, I need them to be asleep. Must. have. quiet. as one of my friends did recently, that provides instant gratification. You wouldn't write an email to say "Why is it that my children think they need to physically help me open a pack of gum?" But if you Facebook it or Twitter it, you'll have five or six amusing answers within a few minutes, and nowadays really that's all you want. Email has become the new snail mail -- it feels cumbersome, antiquated, and formal, like you need a really good reason to do it, especially to a whole group. Facebook and Twitter is where you go for instant luv now. To shout out to your mom homies, and hear a "hellz yeah" back. Of course, you can't shout out to your mom homies with the children in the room.

But it's not just about complaining about your kids. As more people find and use Facebook, your friend list becomes a synthesis of your entire life. You have high school friends, college friends, ex-boyfriends, professional acquaintances, people who only knew you when you played in a rock band, people who only knew you when you were a cool writer chick, etc. Putting all these people in one place is perplexing enough, without introducing them en masse to your children, who may not know that Mommy wrote a kind of edgy experimental book back in the 90s, who may not see Mom as a rocker, who have no concept of any previous life that Mom may have led, or really anything that existed before they, the children, came into the world.

Which is why you get posts like this, from another friend: I need to post something funny but don't want any speshul snowflaks to see. To which I responded: Whisper it in groanupps langwadj. And another mom added: We must find a way around this... Well, don't we still have email? Don't we still have the telephone? Yeah, we do. But since we've tasted the sweet, sweet nectar of Facebook and Twitter, we can't go back to the old way of doing things. Anyone want to run out and register Mombook.com?

To recap, there are three reasons to NOT friend your kids on Facebook:

1. No more bitching about the kids or reporting the funny things they do/say.
2. Kids get to meet Ralph the pierced stoner and experience all his video posts, then ask me how I know this Ralph guy and what those people are doing with that garden hose.
3. Now I have to edit everything I say to make sure it's safe for the dinner table.

But some of us have kids old enough to have their own Facebook accounts. High schoolers, even. So, are there any reasons TO friend your kids?

1. Know what your kids are up to. This was actually the reason I joined Facebook in the first place, and my first two friends were my two teenaged stepchildren. See -- it works both ways. Maybe someplace on LiveJournal there's a post called "Would You Friend Your Mom on Facebook?"
2. If they ask you to friend them, and you don't friend them, then that feels mean. And it is mean. There's just no way around it. You don't want to say "I won't be your friend" to your child, even if you explain it in the kindest possible way.
3. Maybe, just maybe, it's a good thing for the kids to see their moms in this context.

For example: Yes, Mom has friends. Yes, Mom makes snarky comments about politics to people I've never met. No, I don't get all the inside jokes on her Flair corkboard. No, I didn't know she went to college in three different places. Seeing mom in the context of other adults, in the context of the great big world, and witnessing some interactions that have nothing to do with children, nothing to do with them, might just be good for our kids, especially the older ones. I have no solution to the privacy problem or our need for an "Adults Only" zone that's just as fun and immediate as Facebook, but until we figure it out, I am pretty sure that friending your kid is the only thing you can do.

What do you think?

Related post: Twitter, Tumblr, and Tags: You Are Still All Alone

American Idol Top Ten Recap: Motown Night Droops and Sags

2009-03-25T23:04:00.009-04:00

Are the judges to enjoy their big dramatic entrance every episode now? That wasn't just a special treat for them at the beginning of the finals? Look. They are not basketball stars. They are not game show contestants. They are people that sit in chairs, and sitting in a chair does not require a big spotlit entrance parade. Okay? Actually, Paula looks really awesome tonight in a tutu -- and straightened hair. She's making Kara look kinda washed out and elderly, in that get-up. Go Paula.

Hey, it's Motown night! Would anyone know if they reused the old montage from past years' Motown nights? I doubt it. The idols met Barry Gordy in the real actual Motown (museum) and then accessed Smoky Robinson for some mentoring. Smokey Robinson visits the Idol house, which has a winding stair and sparkling gold railings. The Idols

Matt Giraud: Since Matt doesn't please us, let's pretend that Matt's colorless mole, so unremittingly central on his forehead, will sing tonight's Motown song, "Let's Get It On." Would you, viewer, get it on with Matt's colorless mole? Would anyone? Should Matt's colorless mole go bark up some other tree? It is soulful, but it is colorless. It has a vein right underneath it that pounds with Motown passion on the woo-hoos. Can a colorless mole ever truly know love?

Matt is wearing a navy blue cardigan, a button down shirt and tie, and the most gruesomely ill-fitting black jeans ever stone-washed. The boy has a big butt, and more importantly, big thighs. We need to either decrease the size of his ass or increase the size of his pants -- is there an iPhone app for that? Eh? Randy loves it. Kara congratulates him on getting up from the piano and walking around, and all of us at home recall the awkward moment last week when Paula asked Scott McIntyre to do the same thing. Paula compares his performance to wearing "a great old pair of worn-in jeans." Simon says his voice is absolutely suited to this kind of song, this is exactly what he should be doing. So, he should be doing songs that are fifty years old. Well hey, Justin Timberlake -- peel that fake colorless mole off your forehead. You have nothing to worry about!

Kris Allen: Smokey Robinson loves Kris Allen. Chris takes the stage in a military style shirt, tan and epauletted, with weird numbers across the shoulders and shirttails. Are those the numbers that will predict the end of the world? Is the secret to moving the island stamped above Kris Allen's nipple? It's like he's a prison camp guard and prisoner at the same time. It's so paradoxically stupid! He sings "How Sweet it is to be Loved By You." It's super-boring and the judges rave about it. They tell him multiple times that he did his own version of the song -- I will tell you that he did not. The arrangement was very James Taylor, very Lite FM, completely predictable. The comments had absolutely nothing to do with the performance. Nothing. They encourage him to have something called "Self Belief."

Someone, tell Scott McIntyre to keep his teeth together when he smiles. I have nothing else to say about that, but if you're reading this and you have his ear, you might mention it to him. He manages to keep his teeth together when talking, he could extend us that courtesy while smiling.

Scott McIntyre: Scott interviews that he is single, and waiting for the perfect fit, so he can relate to his song. Smokey Robinson thinks he's absolutely fantastic. I think he might do better with women if he wasn't wearing pink pants and a paisley shirt. Hey, he might! He sings "You Can't Hurry Love" in a fidgety, twitchy style -- kind of like if a wildebeest on crack sat down at the piano and started banging on it and panting. Dreadfully cheesy rendition, too fast, too jittery, too reminiscent of a bovine mammal. Paula loved it, but Simon and Randy were underwhelmed. Kara praised his tempo. Something happened I didn't quite get, and then Paula gave Simon a box of 64 crayons and a coloring book. Then this happened:

Scott: You have to vote for the pink pants!
Ryan: How do you know they're pink?
Scott: They told me. But not until ten minutes before the show.

Wow, Ryan! Way to bust this faker! Finally, the "blind" guys is exposed for the liar he is, whoring for votes with his "blindness" and his "visual impairment" and his "bad eyesight." HOW DID YOU KNOW THE PANTS WERE PINK, SCOTT? HUH? I THOUGHT YOU WERE BLIND! Then trying to blame it on his pants being secretive. The idea! Bravo, Seacrest. That's tough investigative journalism. I want to thank you from the bottom of my red American heart for this reassurance that although the newspapers are folding and the nightly news is losing a ratings battle with Judge Judy, tough questions are still being asked in this country. Way to put him on the spot! I have to go immediately and Twitter about this fraud being perpetrated on us viewers. I'm sure it will be all over the internet by morning. Talking pink pants, forsooth!

Megan Joy (CORKREY): Smokey calls Megan half-jazz, half-cabaret. Smokey loves Megan! Wait just a damn minute, Smokey loves everyone! He has not said one critical word. Megan takes the stage in a strapless blue satin dress with a poofy short skirt that has been hemmed by Scott McIntyre. She's wearing a chunky tropical necklace and, bless her warbling heart, flowers in her hair. And ballet flats. She sings "For Once in my Life" in her Megany way, with little hip twists and gutteral strangeness, marching around with shrugs and head wobbles for everyone. She looks like a middle-aged woman drunk on a Cancun vacation. Randy calls it a trainwreck. Kara tells her she could have chosen "My Guy." Paula agrees. Simon calls it horrible. Caw caw!

Anoop Desai: Smokey loves Anoop. Shock fills my soul. My teeth fall out of my head. I need a cocktail and a soft chair. Uh, oh, look out. Anoop is seated on the stage! I feel a falsetto coming on, so hold me down!Folks, they're breaking out the light effect that makes little spotlights swirl around on the stage. And purple lights, yo. The intensity is overwhelming! Fortunately, Anoop is wearing a white shirt and a black tie, then a grey henley sweater, a black jacket with completely confusing red and white striped knit cuffs and collar, and what is with these male idols wearing jackets on stage? It looks completely stupid. The mood is broken. Anoop is all over the place with this song -- never hits the right pitch on the ooo parts and just sucks utterly. He looks very very soulful and serious in the face, to the point that there is a little moisture under his beak. That is completely embarrassing. Kara says it was pretty good, and he has "a skillset." So does the guy that did my kitchen floor, Kara, but we don't want to hear him sing ballads. Paula calls him sweet. Simon calls it good. Randy requests that he "turn it up" next week.

Michael Sarver: Is this lukewarm potato still on the show? Michael reveals that he was sick last week. Michael says he is going to "church it up" which means, he interprets, he will "sing it off the cuff." Smokey actually offers a little critique, encouraging Michael to pound it, and not sweet-talk it. We'll see. I notice that Michael taps his fingers on the microphone like all those girl singers do -- remember Jasmine Trias from years ago? She used to do that, and it was such a weak little girly thing to do. It looks weird on the oil rig dude. Michael's pants have little rips under the back pocket which show faux underpants sticking out. I wonder if the pants didn't tell him about that until ten minutes before the show. Paula says it was too lounge, too Las Vegas. Simon couldn't wait for it to end. Me either.

Lil Rounds: Lil got emotional at the Motown museum. She wants to do this for Martha and Diana and everyone who paved the way. Okay, bring it. She sings "Heat Wave" and has Paula up and dancing in her tutu! Lil looks pretty cool in a flapper dress with really long fringe, a chin-length wig, and sparkling heels and earrings. She seems very extremely comfortable on stage, and while there's nothing really surprising or devastating about the way she sings the song, she has a certain authenticity and charm -- it's winning. Randy was disappointed. Kara says that Lil was the diva that everyone was waiting for, because this was her week. What, because she's black? Really? Paula disagrees, she thinks Lil owned that song. Simon was looking for a moment, and doesn't think she had one. Simon is always talking about "the moment" -- remember with Katherine McPhee and her "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" moment? Fantasia with her "Summertime" moment? He has a point. Lil replies very glibly and diplomatically to mixed criticism until Paula suggests she run for President, and Lil responds, "Obama!" Yeah, Obama. What?

Adam Lambert: Adam sings "Tracks of my Tears" for Smokey with a really red, flushed neck. He says he's nervous and his neck agrees. He's planning to keep it low and sweet through the whole song and Smokey approves. Adam sings his song on the stool, dressed in a silver suit, with slick Elvis hair, accompanied by an acoustic guitar, a string bass, and one of those box drums you sit on. He sounded great, lots of falsetto and interesting melodic interpretation. This kid cannot trip, it seems to me. I think he's made some really aware, really smart decisions. The audience goes crazy. Kara stands in her seat in awe, gasps, claps, and says, "I have six words for you: One of the best performances of the night." Gee, you had to stand up to deliver such faint praise? And also, that was eight words. God, I hate Kara. Paula loves his cleaned-up look. Simon calls it the best performance of the night and calls him an emerging star. Randy calls it "unbelievably hot." I agree. Sorry, but the guy is a solid performer. He is a professional. He's playing chess and the rest of them are playing tiddly-winks. Sorry!

Danny Gokey: Danny has the pimp spot and new glasses! He's going to sing "It's All Right" or "Get Ready" or "Here I Come" or whatever it's called. Smokey helpfully reminds him to sing all the words, and Danny humbly agrees on tape that Smokey is right, and he should sing all the words, but on stage Danny decides to let the background singers sing the "it's all right" and "you're outta sight" parts. Controversy! Betrayal! Defiance! Oh, no one notices. This performance reminds me of his performance of PYT and also whatever he sang last week -- he likes to sing at the top of his lungs and jump around. Whatever, Danny is a poser. Paula says he's undeniable, identifiable, and reliable. Simon calls it clumsy and amateurish.

Oh wait, that wasn't the pimp spot. This show is lasting half my life tonight. Please, let it end.

Allison Iraheta: Allison will sing "Papa was a Rolling Stone" because it will allow her to show her funk side. Smokey predictably approves. Allison funks it up big time! I enjoy her, black lace tights and denim dress notwithstanding! Kara and Paula are out of their seats clapping and pointing. Smokey and Barry are standing too. Randy says it was hot. Kara raves, "You sing like you've been singing for 400 years! That is from God! You can't teach that!" Simon calls it one of her best performances. I agree.

Best performance: Adam and Allison
Worst performance: Anoop and Michael

Going home: Megan. Don't get me wrong -- I love Megan. Anyone who sings like Katherine Hepburn while wearing miniskirt and fruit around her neck is alright in my book. But I think this is the end for her. We can only hope she will pull it out again and send home Anoop or Michael or one of those other boring turds.

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Surviving The Quincunx by Charles Palliser

2009-03-21T15:15:00.005-04:00

Yesterday, watching CNN, I saw a feature piece about a man who has been feeding the homeless daily out of the back of his truck in a Queens neighborhood for ten years. I found myself astonished that such a man could exist, that such selfless charity could be going on. Surely he must have some hidden motive, some personal failing out of which this commitment has arisen. He can't be just a NICE GUY doing a NICE THING for people in NEED. Of course, he can. He does. Nice people do nice things all the time with no hope of personal gain, no secret, devious agenda. I just had a hard time believing it.

I blame Charles Palliser, and his novel, The Quincunx, which I have been reading for about a month. This 800 page behemoth of a Victorian novel (neo-Victorian? 1989) drags its readers and main character through every milieu of horror, every site of human want and degradation, through the most wretched poverty, the most abject misery the 19th century had to offer. And of course, the 19th century offers plenty. Feel like you've been there, done that? After all, you've read Dickens, right? Seriously, this is Dickens on crystal meth. Imagine the nightmares of Dickens, but without the comfortable distance of Dickens' hyperformal language. And imagine that everyone, everywhere, is purely selfish, purely wicked, and does nothing for any reason but blunt personal gain. The protagonist of this novel, who starts out a boy and ends up a much thinner, much more suspicious boy, lives through every possible awfulness of the time, from agricultural slavery to being a knife-and-boot boy, to various murder attempts, and many, many, many betrayals. Everyone who appears to be trustworthy is false. Everyone who offers love is immediately killed or destroyed.

It is BAD. It is bad in early 19th century England. Very very bad.

However, I am glad I read it for two reasons.

First, if I'm ever tempted to be one of these people who says, "How dare the government take my money to give it to poor people? Leave that to the churches and to my personal charity!" I have only to recall what the churches and individuals of the time were able to do for the working class when the industrial revolution was just beginning, when common lands were being fenced and sold, when there were no legal protections for children, no laws governing labor, no laws governing housing standards, etc. Individuals and churches I'm sure did a lot for a lot of people, but it wasn't enough, given the grinding, irresistable motivation of people to get more money, more power, more property. You could read this book and come away saying, "Wow, the poor in this country really have it made." And I say that's a good thing. I don't want to have to step over dying people and starving orphans. Paying taxes will be just fine, thanks. The thing is, and this is what became clearer to me while reading this book, that without public education, school lunch programs, health care, and other entitlements, there truly is a caste system from which there is no escape. Without money, you can't get money, and you are just trapped. Palliser is a scholar, and he researched the book for 14 years. He's truly captured the period, and seeing it played out before you in such lurid and exacting detail is so much more compelling than reading about it in facts and figures.

The other reason I'm glad I read it is that it was a great read! I was completely fascinated by the time I was ten pages in, and the story just grabbed me by the collar and railroaded me right through to the end. It was almost un-put-downable and I spent many sleepy mornings having stayed up way too late the night before. It is *not* a morality book, although I've spent time talking about that aspect of it. I haven't talked about the plot at all, but much has been made of the mystery in the extremely elaborate, very intelligently wrought story that drives the book. Go here if you've read it and want to ponder all its intricacies. It involves an inheritance, a murder, and a whole lot of family tree.

If you do decide to read The Quincunx, make sure you have some time set aside to cope with obsessive reading. And it might be good to take this one on in the summer months, when you can go outside periodically and remember that life is good, that people can love, and that redemption is possible.