Today's Photoshop contest at Fark.com is unlikely New Yorker covers. Worth a look.

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I watched Stanley Kubrick's "The Shining" last night (switching channels when it got too scary--yes, I am a wuss). It's stayed with me this morning, and as I was poking around on the Internet, I found this essay on the hidden meanings of the movie which I found, frankly, pretty fascinating. And sobering.

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Here's an article from the San Francisco Chronicle. Yay, David Remnick! Yay New Yorker! I noticed that the article still linked the magazine's 17 years of unprofitability to the old "fusty" Shawn era. I'm not arguing that Shawn's magazine didn't exist in the dreary realms between "homework" and "unreadable," but the real money was lost after the magazine was sold to a massive magazine combine. It's amazing how nobody will admit that maybe there's more than one way to publish a magazine. Still, I'm a hard man, but fair: YAY! A strong New Yorker can only encourage friends of good magazines--and written humor!

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The History News Network has a page of resources regarding Iraq; I haven't read it all, clearly, but it looked worthy of passing along.

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Generally, I'm allergic to the whole McSweeney's scene, because I think there's such a high ratio of noise to signal, publicity to substance. But the pleasantly cranky literary website Moby Lives is running an enlightening exchange in its Letters section which I thought was worth pointing to. The writers, pro and con, discuss just how "indie" the whole venture is, what proportion it is a personality cult (selling books just like the biggies, on the celebrity of an author), etc, etc. My opinion, since you're reading my blog, is that whatever McSweeney's does can't hurt, and some of it is quite witty. But I'm very skeptical that it will have any impact in the long or even medium term on capital-P Publishing in the US. Its business model works because Dave Eggers has been anointed by the mainstream media, and if you've got that, you can do anything you like--success on those terms augurs little for Literature. And judging by the contributors, at this point it's old wine in new bottles--They Might Be Giants and David Byrne--as interesting and talented as these are, they aren't outsiders. Publishing books by established authors may be risky, or even laudable, depending on the book--but it's not widening who or what gets published, not in any meaningful way. But all that being said, God bless 'em, they do good, careful work.

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Crime novelist Patricia Cornwell's new book attempts to solve the mystery of Jack the Ripper. Here's a short AP story to tease you. If your interest is piqued in the case, there's an excellent website on it here.



Regarding last week's screed about "Stardust Memories," Matt Fogel wrote: "Along with your blogging on great 8 1/2-esque movies, you'd be a monkey to leave out "Sullivan's Travels." Preston Sturges is so frustratingly forgotten these days that the man who introduced both the auteur and irony to American film is just coupled by a few overstuffed critics with snappy dialogue and that is it. You cannot believe the film was made in 1940--its satirical bent, its ironic nature that comments on itself at every turn, and of course, the greatest self-justification for comedy by any funny person ever."



When I asked Matt to clarify what he meant by "self-justification for comedy," here's what he said: "The film is about a comedy director (his biggest hit: "Ants in Your Plants of 1939") who wants to make a 'serious' movie: a look at pain and suffering among the downtrodden. He winds up on a chain gang, and one night, the prisoners go to the movies. They see a Walt Disney cartoon--Pluto and the flypaper--and Sully can't help but laugh. He realizes that "There's a lot to be said for making people laugh. Did you know that's all some people have? It isn't much ... but it's better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan." At that moment, he also has Veronica Lake on his lap. Not too shabby."



Of course, in the version made on Earth 2, Sullivan concluded, "That Disney sure is great. I am in favor of extending the term of copyright to 5,000 years," and continued being serious. Anyway, Matt adds that "the new Criterion DVD is super-great: a wonderful documentary about Sturges' rise and fall, and wonderful and insightful commedy from Christopher Guest and Michael McKean, the former who took Sturges' style of sharp, ensemble comedy and made it his own."



My goal is to have this blog written entirely by others. On another topic, Barry Trotter continues to sell like slightly profane hotcakes--the UK publisher, Orion, just ordered another reprint...

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...but I'm glad somebody did. It's a campaign to buy President Bush a PS2, as a peaceful outlet. The site's reached its goal, but the text is still worth a skim.



In other news, aging Welsh sausage merchant Tom Jones says he's offended when female fans throw fresh, store-bought panties on stage during his act. He prefers worn ones, presumably showing signs of "enthusiasm."



And finally, Something Awful's got a nice series of Photoshops up with the theme, "Inappropriate Places for the Verizon Man." Some of 'em are pretty obvious, but it's worth a look.

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So my wife could send me things like this. And this.



"Dinsdale? Dinsdale?"

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The New York Observer has some interesting things to say about the young breed of star novelists this week.



Coming in 2005, "sheet computers." Bet they won't be compatible...

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This site is rather good.

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After a week in the icy exile of #11, Barry Trotter and the Shameless Parody has stormed back onto the London Sunday Times bestseller list! Okay, so maybe #10 isn't "stormed," but certainly some locomotory verb with an overtone of butt-kicking is required. The cats have heard the news and are demanding a brand of food with a lower percentage of fly ash. Fat chance, you rug-poopers!

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Wanted to pass along two movies worth renting, both of which I saw for the first time this week. The first is Stardust Memories, Woody Allen's 1980 followup to Manhattan. Now, following a movie as accomplished as Manhattan, which itself followed the sublimely hysterical Annie Hall would be a task for anyone, but Woody ups the ante even farther by making Stardust an homage to Fellini's 8 1/2. So the progression goes like this: really funny and somewhat personal; really funny and really personal; and then an attempt at really funny and really personal and really complex, too. I think he fails, but Stardust Memories still a hell of a movie. It would be any other comedian's masterpiece, a title I'd give to Annie Hall; as much as Woody is determined to show us his life, I don't think it's really that pleasant or meaningful--there's simply not enough growth or honesty there--so like the aliens say in Stardust, I prefer "the early, funny ones."



Stardust Memories follows the life of Sandy Bates, world-famous comedian, as he struggles to finish a picture, juggle his messy life, and address the big questions, all while being harrassed by adoring fans. Is Stardust Memories funny? Yeah. There's plenty of good Woody one-liners, even though they seem somewhat grudgingly offered.



The Critic Inside Me Who Never Rests had two comments. As much as I love 8 1/2--it's one of my all-time favorites--the Fellini-esque aspects of Stardust (and there are a hell of a lot of them) don't really work. It feels like a Woody Allen movie taking place in front of a Fellini background. First, the organizing principle of 8 1/2--the failing film--is pretty perfunctory in Stardust, so the entire weight of the movie falls on the internal struggle of the director; Stardust is even more self-absorbed than 8 1/2, and weaker as a result. And yet, for all the time we spend with Sandy Bates, we get very little sense of what in his background makes him who he is; unlike 8 1/2, which feels honest in a way that Stardust doesn't. Why does Bates pick barely functional women? We don't know. Why does Bates continue to appear in the public eye if the attention he receives is so off-putting? We don't know. That's because Allen doesn't know, or doesn't want to look. Instead he gives us jokes to distract us, like the magician that he wanted to be as a kid. If he used his background like Fellini does, as an insight to the man he's become, Stardust would've been a more satisfying experience. Instead, other people are the set-up for Woody's jokes.



Allen's profound alienation from other people and lack of faith in general doesn't gel with Fellini's techniques--when you see a strikingly odd face in a Fellini movie, you sense it is being celebrated, or at least presented for examination on its own terms; but in Stardust Memories, you feel it's being shown as "proof" that people are fundamentally ugly and misshapen. Which brings me to my second point: the fans in Stardust Memories are portrayed as nothing but a negative force--whether pompous or stupid, adoring or aggressive, they make Sandy Bates' life unpleasant. Shooting from the hip, I'd say that's because, if you hate yourself, anybody who thinks you're wonderful is clearly an idiot. Fan harrassment was not an issue in 8 1/2, even though Fellini was never more famous or powerful than he was then--in part because he didn't have American celebrity culture to deal with, but also because Fellini didn't trade his privacy for money. It's hard to have sympathy for somebody who had courted celebrity as aggressively as Woody did for 20 years. If Woody had gone from writing for Sid Caesar, to writing movies, then directing them, he would've had more privacy. If he'd even chosen the Harpo Marx route, and performed a physically distinct character...Whatever problems he had, were the very predictable result of his choices. Adulation requires attention, and if you need the one, you must put up with the other. It would've been nice to hear somebody say that to Sandy Bates. Stardust Memories is a very funny movie filled with unasked questions.



The second movie was Wes Anderson's Bottle Rocket. Don't have nearly as much to say about that--the Internal Critic W.N.S. was relatively silent. It was a pleasantly twisty plot, the Wilson brothers were great (whatever went wrong with Owen Wilson's nose should happen to more actors), and several scenes made me laugh quite hard. And there were people doing dangerous things with fireworks, which I always appreciate.

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Michael Cader's Publishers Lunch reports that National Lampoon is planning to release an updated version of its landmark 1964 High School Yearbook next October. (They must've read the comment in my humor list!) Their publishing partner is an outfit called Rugged Land. The Yearbook originally sold over 2 million copies after its release in 1974, most of which had beer spilled all over them, so it's time for a new edition. They plan on adding a special 39th Class Reunion section, which makes me very very very worried...Doug's dead, and there's no mention of P.J., which leaves Matty Simmons...well, I won't take sides in that whole pissing match.

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Apparently National Lampoon lives. Well, sort of--they've appointed a new executive. "Thirty years ago, National Lampoon was the first name in American comedy. We will keep reminding you of this, until all our former readers are dead." an official didn't say. No word as to whether Gus Van Zant has agreed to film a shot-by-shot remake of "Animal House" yet, but they're hopeful.

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Matt Fogel pointed me to this interesting discussion about the new oral history of SNL, Live From New York.



As you might imagine (and dread), I have a lot to say about SNL. My wife, ever the journalist, says I should start by revealing that my partner Jon and I wrote a bunch of stuff for the show back in '98 and '99, much of which was used on the air. Though Jon and I were interviewed, we were never hired. So I have some experience being simultaneously inside and outside the SNL bubble, as well as, yes, some personal irritation with what they do and how they do it over there at 30 Rock.



I haven't read the new book yet. Maybe it's great. It's certainly got a lot to live up to; Saturday Night: A Backstage History (which is listed in my list of Required Reading) is gripping, funny, and thought-provoking. I haven't felt obligated to read this new book for two reasons. First, Tom Shales has been such an SNL brownnoser--since the very first show--that I suspect his objectivity. Not about whether Charles Rocket sucked, but about the important stuff. Nobody would be allowed to write this book if he/she weren't a Friend of Lorne, and an F.O.L would be loathe to piss Lorne off by deviating from "SNL changed comedy and Lorne is a genius and too bad about Belushi and by the way isn't the current cast great?" What would they get from telling the truth except a fleeting sense of integrity, and people who value that overmuch don't make it in showbiz or politics.



Second, the power that SNL, and by extension, Lorne, currently have would really discourage anybody not already orbiting Planet SNL from saying what they really thought. Certainly there is gossip in the book--"So-and-so slept with so-and-so," or that old chestnut "Chevy was an asshole," but that's meaningless bullshit, and you can already get that from Hill and Weingrad's book. I heard somewhere that Lorne and his minions apparently hated it, which suggests that whatever Hill and Weingrad's flaws, fawning wasn't one of them.



I'm still waiting for the book--or even the magazine article--that says in big 72-point type, "SNL Sucks." Not in a "this cast is bad" or "X new comedy phenomenon is better" way, but pointing out that, by the measure that SNL constantly claims for itself, it's a dismal failure. It's not important, it's not influential, it changes nothing. Who comes away from SNL saying, "Gee--I never thought of it that way"? SNL's not even very "smart", except in the debased way that adjective gets tossed around in the entertainment business. It's about pop culture and repeating characters, and aimed at teenagers. Nothing wrong with that, Rob Schneider has to eat, too. But SNL claims to be IMPORTANT; it claims to have changed things, when all it really changed was TV and only incrementally at that. (Censors are more lax, now.) SNL may be the only place for topical sketch comedy on American TV, but being the prettiest girl in your homeroom doesn't make you Miss America.



Whatever satirical nuts SNL once had, it lost after the first cast left in 1980. Lorne's romantic method of doing the show--live, in a mad rush--encourages poorly written sketches, sloppy performances, and the kind of unrelenting pressure that encourages sick behavior and, in some cases, kills people. So it's not satirical (nobody there wants to change anything--and why would they? They're young, famous, and rapidly getting rich) not even very good comedy--I guarantee you'll laugh more duirng an hour and a half of Second City or Improv Olympic or UCB, than while watching SNL--and surely the cast knows this. They're a talented, funny lot. But working for SNL has the same effect as playing for the Cubs. There are a thousand reasons why this might be so, but that's the real story here, not "Jane Curtain and John Belushi really hated each other."



Unevenness aside, SNL would still be worthy of attention if it were truly taking risks. But SNL is risk-free; the method is risky, but the material is utterly tame.(On purpose--I've seen what they cut in dress rehearsal--not that any of it is particularly biting.) Don't underestimate the power of the herd instinct in comedy, which works simultaneously down from the top and up from the bottom--networks are risk-averse, and audiences prefer the familiar. What happened in the early days of SNL, as liberating as it might have felt then, apparently didn't change anything. Is Operaman any smarter/more influential/more important than Arte Johnson's pidgin German on Laugh In? Of course not, and it's no crime simply to be funny. The equine corpse I'm walloping is that the reality of SNL simply doesn't justify what people always say about it, and if you don't know the history of American comedy, you might be inclined to believe the hype. SNL's an uneven, occasionally funny, topical sketch comedy program. That's fine, as far as it goes. Which is not far enough for hagiography.



This critique isn't new--ask anybody in comedy, before they get the gig working there. SNL is just as shallow, formulaic and stifling as whatever it once considered itself to be replacing, and probably worse because it refuses to go away. Carol Burnett (fine show, for what it was) aired for what? ten years? SNL is 27 and counting. SNL is Carol Burnett that thinks it's something more, and whatever flaws old show biz might've had, at least it wasn't so insufferably smug. Carol Burnett wasn't changing the world, making you think, or speaking truth to power. And neither is SNL. SNL's not the heir to Bruce, Pryor and Carlin--maybe it never was, maybe it couldn't've been. But its apologists always say it is, and here's why that's bad: as long as SNL can further the lie that it's a pirate ship, when it's really His Majesty's Pleasure Barge, we'll never have anything truly sharp, truly satirical, truly energetic in its place. I recognize that the first iteration of SNL did inspire and delight people, and that's what makes the show since, so frustrating. As long as the lie is believed, the best comedic talent will continue to be lured by the swindle that you can have it all--money, fame, mainstream success, AND still be a rebel. You can't be a rebel without paying the price--that's what makes somebody a rebel. You know where to find rebels in a business as merciless as show biz? The unemployment line--or maybe, if they're as lucky and skilled as the first cast was, on some weird-ass late-night slot where a desperate network has nothing to lose--but certainly not on SNL circa 2002.



Sorry, folks--got a little carried away there. I'll report in when I've read the book.

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I've added the Postwar section to my list of the best humor. Take a look! Tell your friends!

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This is extremely funny. After it loads, click on one of the phrases to the left, and let the action begin. Flash, I salute you. Stong Bad, I salute you also.

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Lots of stuff to put up today. First: if you've read one Dave Barry column, you've read them all, but this one talking about kids and newspapers was quite funny. Note to Dave: if you don't want your material to be used in classrooms, talk about 'golden showers." It's worked for me.



Carol Channing has revealed she is part black. Jesse Jackson is demanding an apology.



In the spirit of my list of the best humor books, Ed Park writes in with a few more funny books for your consideration:

"Diary of a Nobody," by George and Weedon Grossmith

"Afternoon Men," by Anthony Powell

"Dog of the South," by Charles Portis

"Amazons," by Cleo Birdwell (Don DeLillo).





And finally, in honor of Congress rolling over for Bush on Iraq, here's an excerpt from a 1933 speech given by Major General Smedley Butler, the MacArthur of the US Marines, whose honesty and devotion to his country--and not "super-nationalistic capitalism"--foiled a coup attempt in 1933.



"War is just a racket. A racket is best described, I believe, as something that is not what it seems to the majority of people. Only a small inside group knows what it is about. It is conducted for the benefit of the very few at the expense of the masses.



I believe in adequate defense at the coastline and nothing else. If a nation comes over here to fight, then we'll fight. The trouble with America is that when the dollar only earns 6 percent over here, then it gets restless and goes overseas to get 100 percent. Then the flag follows the dollar and the soldiers follow the flag.



I wouldn't go to war again as I have done to protect some lousy investment of the bankers. There are only two things we should fight for. One is the defense of our homes and the other is the Bill of Rights. War for any other reason is simply a racket.



There isn't a trick in the racketeering bag that the military gang is blind to. It has its "finger men" to point out enemies, its "muscle men" to destroy enemies, its "brain men" to plan war preparations, and a "Big Boss" Super-Nationalistic-Capitalism.



It may seem odd for me, a military man to adopt such a comparison. Truthfulness compels me to. I spent thirty- three years and four months in active military service as a member of this country's most agile military force, the Marine Corps. I served in all commissioned ranks from Second Lieutenant to Major-General. And during that period, I spent most of my time being a high class muscle- man for Big Business, for Wall Street and for the Bankers. In short, I was a racketeer, a gangster for capitalism.



I suspected I was just part of a racket at the time. Now I am sure of it. Like all the members of the military profession, I never had a thought of my own until I left the service. My mental faculties remained in suspended animation while I obeyed the orders of higher-ups. This is typical with everyone in the military service.



I helped make Mexico, especially Tampico, safe for American oil interests in 1914. I helped make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City Bank boys to collect revenues in. I helped in the raping of half a dozen Central American republics for the benefits of Wall Street. The record of racketeering is long. I helped purify Nicaragua for the international banking house of Brown Brothers in 1909-1912. I brought light to the Dominican Republic for American sugar interests in 1916. In China I helped to see to it that Standard Oil went its way unmolested.



During those years, I had, as the boys in the back room would say, a swell racket. Looking back on it, I feel that I could have given Al Capone a few hints. The best he could do was to operate his racket in three districts. I operated on three continents."



Smedley, where are you when we need you?

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For years, I've wanted to create a site where people looking for something funny to read could go to browse. Here's my first batch, covering 1900-1945. Let me know what you think!

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More proof that anything can become an entertaining website. A British man is collecting and posting statements from people about what they believed as children. Whether you believed "there was a witch in the loo that used to look at my bum" or not, it's great fun.

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...about the Maryland sniper, and he said, "We're so convinced that we've got everything figured out, we're getting ready to go bomb Iraq so it becomes more like our society, when we've got snipers running around." To which I thought, "Yeah, Jon, but our snipers are the best in the world."



Recovering Lego-addicts like myself will marvel at this Lego harpsichord. The best I ever did was a spaceship using those rare, clear slanty blocks. Cool-looking, if I do say so myself.



Fark.com has a funny Photoshop contest going. The theme is, "Things that never happened in classic video games." Here are a few I especially liked:





And:

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Just checked out A.O. Scott's review of "Comedian," the new documentary starring Jerry Seinfeld. While I was, and remain, somewhat impatient with Seinfeld--infatuation with trifles is no way to live your life, no matter how sharply written it is--this documentary sounds fascinating. I was a fly on the wall in a room full of comics chatting backstage, when I worked with Alan King on a PBS special, and it was incredible to get a glimpse inside that bizarre, always insecure, equally invigorating and grueling lifestyle.



If anybody sees it, write me what you thought, and I'll post it.

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Australian scientists, obviously, have discovered that lemon juice is an effective contraceptive. It also kills HIV. And makes your sheets smell citrus-y and refreshing.



Meanwhile, my wife has this to say about the Zehme article I posted earlier:

"Last graf of the Zehme profile: Deano? DEANO? WHAT? Am I nuts? When referring to Mr. Martin by his rat pack nickname, doesn't one usually spell it Dino?



Huh? Huh?"



Kate will put up with a lot (viz: me) but disrespect to Mr. Martin is one thing she won't countenance.

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This Friday's Photoshop contest from the humor site Something Awful takes on classic produce labels. I love old produce labels, and wish advertising still looked like that. I am a freak, but I hope a loveable one. There's some slightly dirty stuff here, but it's great for taking one's mind off the so far lackluster performance of the Team of the Red Death, my St. Louis Cardinals.

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Here's an interesting profile of Bill Zehme, comedian biographer extraordinaire (and fellow denizen of Roscoe Village). The first couple of paragraphs are overly mannered writing, but keep reading and it calms down.

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Tom Michael sends in this post-9/11 status report on American comedy by Will Durst. We've all been reading pieces like this since about February--"For a while it seemed comedy was dead, but it really wasn't, and now it's back and more irreverent than ever!" says the guy who makes a living doing standup/writing sitcoms/doing monologue for Letterman--and while it's not fresh, all you comedy folk might enjoy it.



Durst talks about how Chaplin cut Hitler "down to size" in The Great Dictator as an example of the usefulness of humor. Which brought to mind Peter Cook's comment about the splendid job the satirical nightclubs of Berlin did in preventing the rise of Hitler. We should be careful when we assign power to comedy--it may simply be entertainment, and in some cases, anesthetize us to something that needs more direct action than satire.

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Yep, college newspapers are definitely sexier than they used to be. Here's NYU's paper on the Brazilian wax...Maryland has nothing on Illinois, when it comes to gun freaks--were the recent sniper murders an anti-gun provocation?...Slate has an interesting history of TiVo (sadly marred by the phrase "Joe Six-Pack", which should merit an immediate burn-to-the-ground rewrite. As always, I prefer to blame the editor)...

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The New York Observer has a lovely post-mortem of the Friars' Club recent roast of Chevy Chase. In it, they talk about the fact that today's comedians, by and large, suck. Like, I would wager, most of today's comedy writers. Just our luck, right? More comedy than ever before, sucking worse than it's ever sucked before. I think I'll go have a Green River.



BTW, the Cards lost. Which anybody who cares probably knows already.

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My friend Wall just sent me a link to a really funny site: www.oddtodd.com. We've all been there, for fucking sure. If you click on the cartoon, be warned, it's loud.

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I know, I know, I should be working, but I stumbled across this website and had to pass it along. Along with being a useful who's who, it's a monument to the misery that is publishing. Note how the process seems to be set up to generate guilt on the one side and rage on the other...There's gotta be a better way...

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...Bowling for Columbine, is reviewed in this week's Village Voice. From the review, I gather the documentary suffers from the same faults as its star--interesting, entertaining, necessary...and in love with itself and its point of view. We won't shoot him into the Sun. For now.



Blog-Plug: College pal Pete Delevett is now a columnist for the San Jose Mercury News. Check out his archive at www.peterdelevett.com. (Damn it, I bought up peterdelevett.org, .net, .gov, .mil., .us, and .tv--how was I to know he would pick .-fucking-com?) Anyway, you may have outwitted me this time, Pete, but I still enjoyed your piece about the stand-up comic with the disfigured face. Have I ever showed you my chicken pox scars?



A Judge Denied...a Florida man's request to change his name to "God." It appears the Vietnam War is to blame.



And finally...fans of the novelists William Gaddis and W.G. Sebald should read Ed Park's article in the latest Voice Literary Supplement. I'm avoiding that article about the perils of writing your second book, so I can go Attack the Monster with confidence. (And no, "attacking the monster' is not a euphemism.)



P.S. That, by the way, is why this blog isn't very funny. I'm writing about 2,000 words a day on a comic novel. Frankly, if I used all the jokes up on this blog, none of you would enjoy the book. We can hope that people besides my blog-buddies will read it, but I'm not taking any chances...

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First of all, sales for Barry Trotter and the Shameless Parody continue to climb; the book's still at #10 in the London Sunday Times HB fiction list. The redoubtable Simon also tells me that we're going back for a five-figure reprint (#3), so Kate and I are flying high.



I was surprised to see the NY Times do a number on Dave Eggers' latest. In his defense, I can't imagine the pressure that being that kind of egghead heartthrob puts you under. I'd wilt. Luckily there is no danger of this happening.



In yet more meaningless literary asskicking, the WSJ's critic lambasts David Remnick's New Yorker in favor of Tina Brown's frothier predecessor. Where Brown offered "a chocolate bar," Remnick serves up "a compacted stick of low-fat granola."



He's probably right, Brown's magazine was probably more fun to read--but so what? Absent (as usual) are questions like: "If it's not as sinfully delicious, why does Remnick's version have more readers and lose less money?" "Didn't Talk show the limitations of Brown's approach?" "Will The New Yorker ever survive, much less thrive, without Si Newhouse propping it up?" "Why has it lost money consistently after being run by Conde Nast?" The reason nobody asks these questions is, nobody cares enough to rock the boat. The real cultural heat has been in TV and movies since at least 1975. Print people are as big a bunch of sluts for celebrity as the rest of us--so they turn it into a horserace between Tina and Remnick, while the magazine itself withers as an enterprise.



Unless everything I've read is incorrect, The New Yorker prospered for decades under the ultra-conservative financial stewardship of the Fleishmann family (who often turned down ads, either for tone or space constraints) and the equally old-fashioned, celebrity-phobic editing of William Shawn. Its consistent losses since 1987 suggest that maybe not every magazine can thrive (even if we only define that in its strictest, financial sense), using the standard economic model for American magazines. (Quickly, this is: break-even at the newsstands, sell subscriptions at deep discounts and flood your target demographic's mailbox with direct mail, to pump up the "rate-base"--how many people you can guarantee will see a given ad--and then make whatever profit solely on advertising.) The drive for advertiser-friendly content is the primary force at such a magazine, and whether it's Brown's whole-hearted embrace or Remnick's prickly cheek-peck, it's clear to me that The New Yorker doesn't really fit.



American magazines are rapidly becoming one big magazine, because they all are trying to appeal to the same funding source: big money advertisers. Editors are important, yes, but it's obviously the people who sign the checks (the bosses and the advertisers that pay the bills) that set the tone at a place like Conde Nast. Until they're financed differently--on the reader-driven European model, where circulation is king, perhaps--American magazines will be a creative and cultural graveyard. (Ever wonder why Maxim didn't happen here? Or why Tina Brown is British? Audience-driven art forms encourage creativity and risk-taking--advertiser-driven art forms, don't.) Scratch that--they'll simply be ruthlessly conventional, mindlessly pleasant, and completely flavorless, a tabula as rasa as possible, so the advertiser's message comes through loud and clear.



Meaningless literary ass-kicking over.

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Shoot Bill O'Reilly into the Sun? It's a proposal that smells like genius to me.

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Hit by meteorite, English girl says, "Next time I'll stay inside reading scatalogical spoofs of beloved children's characters." Wise beyond her years, I'd say.

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Or, more accurately, on a recent biography of Peter Sellers. Fascinating, troubled man--who I'm glad I won't have the chance to meet, stammer out a compliment to, then be abused by! Palin's right of course that Sellers, Spike Milligan and the other Goons were the progenitors of modern British comedy (along with Peter Cook), and anybody who hasn't listened to The Goon Show or watched "The Ladykillers"--not to mention "Dr. Strangelove" or "The Party"--is in for a treat. Here's a link to the bio's page on Amazon.



One quibble, though--Palin writes, "...nothing in the book fully explains the flip side of Sellers's genius -- the violence and abuse directed toward his four wives and three children, the tantrums, the lashing out at good friends, the manipulative deviousness, the unreliability and the sublime selfishness that grew with his wealth and recognition." Sounds like some sort of addiction problem to me. If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck...



Speaking of Peter Cook--and when am I not, ask my wife--a new collection of his best material has just been released in Britain. It's called "Tragically I Was an Only Twin." I haven't gotten it, yet, but when I do, I'll let you know what I thought.

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The Cards won, making Kate's life a lot easier, and I found this review of "Basket Case," one of the midnight movies I remember watching when I was 14, and had nothing better to do. Squeezing pimples, eating frozen pizzas, and watching this kind of crap--it got me through the 80s. I would like to formally, abjectly apologize to a certain ex-girlfriend for dragging her to the premiere of the sequel (titled "Basket Case 2," of course) at the Waverly in Greenwich Village back in 1991. There was a fight down front, I remember. We were in the balcony, so we just hooted and threw popcorn until the cops came. Loads better than the film--no, I can't call it that--the movie itself.

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In my eternal quest to be even-handed, here are two more reviews of Red Dragon, neither very positive. One's from the Village Voice, and the other's from The New York Times. Thus armed, you can make your decision.

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Every Friday, the site www.somethingawful.com holds a Photoshop contest that pushes the bounds of bad taste--in other words, it's usually pretty funny. This week they take on Norman Rockwell. The H.R. Giger one is my favorite.

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Literary curmudgeons such as myself might enjoy this interview with gadfly B.R. Myers, who thinks insider authors like DeLillo, Proulx, Auster and the like are relentlessly-hyped frauds. Agree or disagree, but anybody who's passed through the attitudinal realms of NY publishing will recognize he's on to something.

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I'm a fan of the book, so I was pleased to read Roger Ebert's positive review of the movie.

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A self-described "Trottermaniac" from Britain, Simon Stevenson, has created an online quiz to determine which Hogwash House the that horrible senile Picking Cap would put you in. Check it out. If you think you've been put in the wrong House ("There's no way I'm Silverfish! I HATE Dorco!") you can plead your case directly to Simon.

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Preparing my mind, body, soul, and whatever else I can muster for today's Cards game. First pitch is around 4pm (EST? CST? Anybody know?). I know you'll be watching with me to see if Thanatos is more powerful than Curt Schilling.



The human race consists of the dangerously insane and those who are not." - Mark Twain



Walter, we knew ye a lil' too well... Jack Shafer's post-mortem beat-down of Wally Annenberg is worth a read.



Talk about your Presidential Palaces: As of 1980, there were more than 75 secret Presidential Emergency Facilities built for use during and after a nuclear war. Well, at least we know Dubya has nothing to worry about.



This week's Savage Love is a classic of common sense, and good for a laugh as always. (Adult themes, as they say in Annenberg's TV Guide.)

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In addition to disparaging the book Barry Trotter knocked off the Sunday Times' list, Rob Schlaff sends the following ketchup entry: "America’s original non-biodegradable food product." Wait, I thought that was Twinkies.

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Tom Michael sends in this site. He writes, "'This site is dedicated to a very talented man who happens to be King.' I hope to be described as such someday." He says you can keep the persecution by Pol Pot part, though.

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Any creditors reading this blog will be happy to know that Barry Trotter and the Shameless Parody is once again slated to be listed number #9 on the Sunday London Times list. The better news is that it sold 40% more books! Apparently T. Clancy, D. Steele, S. King and all those other fly-by-nights clogging the first eight spots decided to pour their substantial personal fortunes into withstanding Barry's onslaught. Well, I'm here to tell them (and you) it won't work! Barry is the parody of the People--just ask The Morning Star--and the will of the People is stronger than the blood-soaked sales-and-publicity machines of the running-dog imperialist lackey combines! Sell resolutely, Barry Trotter!



In other news, my thanatos-powered Redbirds licked the D-backs and their Big Eunich. I don't feel sorry for them, even though they have to deal with rock scorpions.



And also, if you're planning to sell a kidney to fund your college humor magazine (I'm talking to you, Mollie Wilson), don't: a new study says donors stay broke.

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