Yearly Archives: 2008

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Local lit talent neglected at this year’s book festival

This year the Virginia Festival of the Book assembled, as usual, a spectacular forum of literary luminaries from all over the world. Unfortunately the festival recruiters inadvertently overlooked a handful of Charlottesville authors. Here are the local writers who I think deserve to be featured in the festival next year. Recruiters, take note.*

1. Daniel J. Meador – Meador may be best known for being a professor emeritus at the University of Virginia School of Law, but he is also the author of three novels: His Father’s House, Unforgotten, and Remberton. Additionally, he wrote the memoir At Cahaba, a fascinating account of Meador’s childhood in an Alabama ghost town plagued by floods. The book is especially interesting considering its degree of visual detail, constructed purely from memory. Meador has been legally blind for several decades.

2. David L. Holmes – Recent recipient of the Thomas Jefferson Award at the College of William & Mary, Professor Holmes is also the acclaimed author of the 2006 book of American religious history, Faiths of the Founding Fathers. Always a professor first and a writer second, Holmes has still managed to make a literary name for himself in the field of religious studies. He is currently working on a sequel to FotFF in which he explores the poor church attendance of Ronald Reagan, the Quaker origins of Richard Nixon, and the spiritual lives of the rest of the post-World War II presidents.

3. John Grisham – Much like J.D. Salinger, this local recluse rarely gives interviews, publicizes his books, or leaves his Charlottesville estate, hence we are forced to speculate on what Mr. Grisham, a writer of obscure legal thrillers, even looks like. Is he young? Old? Married? Does he have UVA basketball season tickets on the floor of John Paul Jones Arena? We will never find answers to these questions until the Festival of the Book lures Grisham from his misanthropic hidey-hole.

4. Jocelyn Johnson – Every time I suffer from another hysterical pregnancy, I think of Jocelyn’s terrific short story Pseudocyesis (PDF). And as a special bonus, her husband Billy Hunt is the official photographer for C.L.A.W. – the Charlottesville Lady Arm Wrestlers.

5. Matthew Farrell – Farrell runs the Hypocrite Press, an independent local publishing company devoted to “the underground subculture of downtown Charlottesville.” Publishing the prose of playwright Joel Jones, the cult Robitussin saga Concerning Big Fun by Gus “The Gus” Mueller, a brand new book of C-Ville short stories, as well as Farrell’s own “literary-satirical” fiction, Hypocrite Press makes virtually no money, but it maintains its artistic integrity. “And isn’t that what’s important?,” says the girl who is holding out for a six-figure book contract.

* PS I have also cleared my schedule for the end of March, 2009.

Mas Tapas is racially delicious

In honor of the Spanish bacon dinner I enjoyed earlier tonight, and to make up for yesterday’s poorly written guts chronicle, I will tell the true story of a Mas evening two summers ago, witnessed pre-blog.

In summer, we sit on the patio at Mas, the trendy Spanish tapas restaurant two neighborhoods down. Everyone who first hears of Mas Tapas says, “Topless? It’s a topless bar?” It was only funny when I said it.

The restaurant was built on a run-down corner in the up-and-coming section of Charlottesville. Belmont was where the poor folks used to live before their neighborhood was gentrified. It was almost like rich folks started moving in so they could use the big city word “gentrified” without having to live in Brooklyn. Charlottesville struggles with a creative exodus to the five burroughs, but Belmont remains our haven of neighborhood stroller chic – an integrated six block radius within walking distance of downtown. Belmont is where houses climbed in worth by an average of $200,000 in two years, and where you still don’t want to get caught alone, sans pepper spray, in the middle of the night on certain streets. But Belmont is also where natives won’t bother you for hosting a keg party in the front yard of your renovated Victorian mansion.

So this Spanish tapas restaurant landed in the middle of Belmont and it was immediately hard to get a table on most weeknights. We arrived after 10 pm in the waning summer heat. The university was out on break, therefore we didn’t see the rich kids from the dormitories who had been turned onto Mas by a review in their school paper. When we arrived at the restaurant to meet our friends, recently engaged, we found out that we were celebrating the fiance’s birthday. They had already been sitting on the Mas patio for two hours, drinking sangria and eating bacon-wrapped dates.

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Fascinating piece of local news from the C-Ville Weekly

I am disturbed, bewildered, and perhaps a little inspired by a news item featured in this week’s C-Ville Weekly newspaper. Here’s what happened.

Best friends Jerald and Joseph were partying at Rivals Sports Bar & Grill one warm, average night last March. At Rivals they met their new buddies Sunshine, Big Mama, Candy, and “the Mexican.” The gang then caravaned downtown to visit the amply-stocked bars of the Atomic Burrito (RIP) and Miller’s. But Joe and Candy stayed in the car, presumably to hook up. When Candy passed out, Joe walked to the bar to meet Jerald, Sunshine, and the rest of his crew. But by then the crew had a new member – Joseph Ray.

As the night wore on, Joseph Ray and Joseph realized they didn’t like each other. On the crew’s walk back to the parking lot, this tension reached a violent crescendo. Despite Jerald’s best attempts to hustle his friend into a vehicle and prevent him from engaging in a drunken street brawl, Joseph Ray still managed to pull Joseph from his truck. Then “the Mexican” and Joseph Ray started “whooping” Joseph, who promptly curled up in a fetal position. Jerald saw that Joseph was being double-teamed so he ran around the truck and heroically defended his friend.

“If you know someone was a friend of yours,” Jerald said later, “you just ain’t going to let them get whooped up on without giving them some help.”

After Jerald broke up the fight by throwing Joseph Ray onto a parked car and elbowing him in the eyeball, the two best friends jumped back into the truck to make their getaway. That’s when Jerald realized that he had “a ball of guts” dangling from his body. Joseph Ray had apparently stabbed Jerald, causing his guts to dangle. Now the case is going to court.

Someone please alert John Grisham about the trial of the century.

In court, [Jerald] Gibson showed his scar. “I got stabbed right there and they had to go in and pull all my internals out and fix my insides.”

Jerald Gibson, I salute you and the lengths you go for your friends. I wish your guts a speedy recovery.

A book business insider discusses chick lit

I just found this Radar interview between Emily Gould and Sloane Crosley. Crosley is a New York-based book publicist whose first collection of essays, I Was Told There’d Be Cake, debuts next month. Sloane wins me over with her chick lit remarks reproduced below. Even though my first novel has only been published in my dreams, I still prepare myself mentally for the pink cover marketing blitz that will inevitably be attached to it (in my dreams). It’s hard to be a woman writing women these days without being branded a chick lit author, but Sloane has a healthy perspective on this lazy marketing strategy.

Radar: [Your story] made me think of your book as a sort of useful counterpoint to chick lit—like, “this is how it really is to be a single twentysomething girl in Manhattan; it’s not all madcap hijinx and Cosmos and love triangles” (though sometimes it is those things; rarely Cosmos). But you also must have been aware that you were treading into some heavily trafficked territory when writing about being a bad bridesmaid, etc. Are you wary at all of being lumped in with books on the pink shelf?

Sloane Crosley: It’s such a massive lump at this point. I might have been more worried five or 10 years ago when the concept was first being identified, coined, and marketed. But now it seems like if you just pick up a pen and have breasts (not that anyone I know is actually picking up pens with their breasts, in case that’s confusing), then people are predisposed to think what you produce as chick lit. And if it’s in the first person? Forget it. Since the stereotype has grown so widespread it’s almost pointless to be fearful of it. It’s out there, it sells a lot of perfectly good books to the people that want them, and there’s no getting around it. I know mine’s not the same, so hopefully it’ll be okay. For one thing, it’s the details of what an individual life is really like that can save a book from the Cosmo trap, especially in the essay format. Plus, it’s not like I have a giant martini glass on my cover with, you know, a miniature sparkling stiletto in lieu of an olive.

It’s funny, at Vintage we reissued Lorrie Moore’s Who Will Run the Frog Hospital? with a new cover, a decade after it was first published, and some tiny paper reviewed it as if it had just come out. It was fascinating because they condemned it as trafficking the same territory as the “pink shelf” books. And I thought, this is Lorrie Moore, damn it. How far have we let this thing get that there are to be no more plotlines about female friendships or the opposite sex or coming of age or self-reflection at all? I think the only way to avoid the label of which you speak would be to write a novel in which a woman sits in a room painted black, speaks to no one for 400 pages, and keeps a gun in one hand and a scotch-stained copy of The Executioner’s Song in the other. Even then, she’d probably have to use a pseudonym.

Everything an online social network should be

Congratulations to the brains behind the presumably fake Frrvrr.com.

Frrvrr uses cutting-edge technology to identify topics you might be interested in based on your browsing history, public records, health records, email activity, legal filings, and web profiles. Frrvrr then directs you to those topics and connects you with similar-minded people.

It’s enough to strike fear into the heart of every web surfer.

When you sign up, Frrvrr’s AvaTroll Accelerator™ will download itself onto your desktop and begin cataloguing your web history, or “webtory,” from the past eight months. Once it gathers all of your information, it creates a personalized avatar of you based on the snapshot of you gleaned from web usage and sites visited.

No one wants to look into that mirror. Frrvrr is the absurd conclusion to the booming personalization business. Technology will know you better than you know yourself. You’re not surprising anyone with your love for awfulplasticsurgery.com. That love was mapped out years ago when your web surfing algorithm incorporated your encrypted medical records. And incidentally, we think you’re gay.

Switching gears to another polemic

It was another big day for fraudulent memoirs.

I find it so interesting that authors keep lying about their real lives when they could just write fiction. Is there a huge difference between saying “I lived with a pack of wolves” or “I was a teenage drug pusher,” and “Jane Eyre lived with a pack of drug-addicted wolves”?

The fabricated memoir trend resembles the reality TV trend (can trends last a decade?). In reality TV, actual people become actors. The audience demands overweening drama. We* want reality to seem like the movies. And everything on the small screen is more compelling when it’s staged as “reality.” We are complicit in the lie, and yet we’re furious when we find out that the apparent spontaneity of reality TV is actually scripted.

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Funny hoo-ha

I realize that anybody who is anybody on the internet has already blogged today about the “Who Says Women Aren’t Funny?Vanity Fair article, itself a response to the VF article “Why Women Aren’t Funny” by Christopher Hitchens. [Full disclosure: Christopher Hitchens will always be a god to me because he devoted an entire book to putting down Mother Teresa. Who else would have the audacity to do that?] Nevertheless, I want to weigh in on this important debate contrived to sell magazines. Are women funny?

Let me start by saying that all those SNL hotties were ugly in high school. I lack the evidence to back up that statement, but I feel in my gut that it’s true. They were ugly and that’s why they cultivated their personalities. And I have to put that out there because a large portion of the latest Vanity Fair article, supposedly extolling the comedic talents of the fairer sex, is about how pretty these funny ladies are. Alessandra Stanley writes:

It used to be that women were not funny. Then they couldn’t be funny if they were pretty. Now a female comedian has to be pretty—even sexy—to get a laugh.

At least, that’s one way to view the trajectory from Phyllis Diller and Carol Burnett to Tina Fey. Some say it’s the natural evolution of the women’s movement; others argue it’s a devolution. But the funniest women on television are youthful, good-looking, and even, in a few cases, close to beautiful—the kind of women who in past decades might have been the butt of a stand-up comic’s jokes.

Of course female comedians are beautiful. Vanity Fair loves to take pictures of beautiful people. Vanity Fair gets to pick and choose who to put on its cover. Vanity Fair gets to slather the funny women in makeup and dress them in revealing “costumes” and Photoshop them into oblivion and then slap rubber chickens in their hands and pretend that their sexuality is not being exploited.

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Digging lately

In the tradition of ripping off McSweeney’s, here is a list of things I’m digging lately.

1. The movie Charlie Bartlett. It’s a little overly neat, but there’s nothing wrong with an hour and a half of poetic justice. It’s a charming film about a quirky high schooler, but it made my day like Juno didn’t. It’s funny and heartwarming, it’s got Robert Downey Jr. in it, and the kids actually act like kids for the most part. Gustin Nash, the film’s writer, is also adapting Youth in Revolt. I can’t wait.

2. This New Republic review of What Is the What by Dave Eggers. When culture critics mourn the death of the book review, I want to direct them to this fine piece of writing.

3. Bananas. They are so good. I must have a potassium deficiency.

4. It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. This FX show got so little publicity and so few viewers in its first season that the producers had to recruit Danny Devito in order to raise its celebrity quotient. Danny Devito. But it turns out he’s hilarious. Why isn’t Devito in more stuff? I think It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia will do for Devito’s career what Pulp Fiction did for John Travolta’s.

5. Taking out the compost.

5. My new C.L.A.W. t-shirt, designed by Thomas Dean. Get ’em while they’re hot. Next arm wrestling match is March 11th at the Blue Moon Diner.

6. Being off the sauce. It’s really not so bad once you get used to it. Last night I craved a margarita, but I just ate five pounds of tortilla chips instead. Alcohol has been one of my biggest expenses, and I am now free to spend this month’s savings on dental bills and car insurance payments. It’s a sumptuous reward for all my hard work.

7. Good & Plenty’s. Because I have a lot of siblings, I quickly learned to love relatively unpopular candies like licorice and Necco Wafers. This way, no one would get into my stash. I know it’s a Machiavellian tactic, but Catholics have to find some way to get ahead in their families.

CNN can even make book news tabloid-worthy

It’s no “Woman reunited with monkey,” but it’s still pretty sensational:

BRUSSELS, Belgium (AP) — A Belgian writer has admitted that she made up her best-selling “memoir” depicting how, as a Jewish child, she lived with a pack of wolves in the woods during the Holocaust, her lawyers said Friday.

I hate it when I can’t help blogging about something that I KNOW Leno and Letterman are going to monologue about, but honestly? She said that she lived with a pack of wolves? And that she and the wolves walked 1,900 miles to find her parents? And that Anne Frank was her lesbian lover?* And no one called her a liar until today?

*I made up that last one.

If you are remotely unstable, do not read this book

Justin Evans did not write A Good and Happy Child for mentally unhinged readers. Before you read this thriller, you need to be sound in mind and body, otherwise the book will mess you up. If you have graduated, like me, from your psychological helper person, or you never needed one to begin with, then you are allowed to read A Good and Happy Child. You will love it as only the sane can love something terrifying. If you have ever been visited by demons, witches, or have been prescribed anti-psychotic drugs, then stay away from this book. It will only make things worse for you.

Justin Evans looking boyish

Evans will appear at the Virginia Festival of the Book at the end of March. And don’t let his boyish haircut and eyeglasses deceive you – this man will make you pee your pants.