It's right here. Were I editing it, I'd try a draft where the second half was about 25% shorter, and I wouldn't introduce an element of Authority at the end. It gets too grounded in reality, I think--JH's best when he's in a sort of addled twilight.



Hey, did anybody else see that Discovery Channel show on the assassination of Julius Caesar last night? It posited that JC "suicided" himself because his epilepsy was worsening (and causing loss of bowel control, etc). He knowingly antagonized the Senate until they killed him. None of it's proveable--ancient historians are more storytellers than the dry recorders that we consider historians to be--but it was interesting.



And here's an interview describing what David Foster Wallace has been up to, lately.



And here's a new Strong Bad email...

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is here. Down near the bottom they talk about why American magazines are so terrible, which as any reader of this blog knows, is because they make their money by pleasing advertisers, not by pleasing readers. American magazines do what they are designed to do well enough, and as long as people continue to subscribe to them in spite of how boring and compromised they are, they're going to continue to stink. Andersen and the interviewer talk about overstaffing--taking their cue from Maxim's Felix Dennis. Sure, overstaffing's probably a problem--but only if the rest of the equation is sacrosanct. Why not move to Cleveland? $17,000/year to start goes a lot farther there, too. The solution is obvious, once you look from the bottom up, instead of the top down. Magazines are addicted to a certain type of prestige that their economics no longer justify, and haven't for years. I think this was why Spy never ripened into the institution it could've been.



Kurt's a very nice man, and deserves the kudos he gets (he knows his humor magazine history; check out the essay included with Gene Shalit's collection "Laughing Matters") but let's put to rest the idea that Spy was revolutionary. It was incredibly well-done, but at the risk of being overly reductive, Spy always struck me as Private Eye on glossy stock--a little wit, a little boarding-school snark, a little investigative journalism. What was new, as I remember, was Andersen's voice, which was so wonderfully "Senior explains the world to a favored Freshman." Spy was extremely well-written, pointedly observed, and excellently designed; it was also doomed from the start. Its insularity ensured that while the people who liked it would like it a lot, there would never be very many of them--and $5 is $5, whether it comes from Chloe from Soho or Bert from Sheboygan. When the post-Andersen editors saw the writing on the wall, and tried to broaden it out into a more general humor magazine, Spy died.



Spy hastened the arrival of irony as a bulletproof world-view (though that was coming anyway, thanks to the intellectual dead-end of political correctness). But it had no decades-long fixture like Richard Ingrams, no indulgent weirdo benefactor like Peter Cook, or a publishing model suited to its reality. The Eye is the quintessential clique-based, reader-pleasing, advertiser-unfriendly humor magazine--it's also fortnightly and on cheap paper. Spy couldn't face the downmarketness that its tight focus insisted upon. Now, if there had been an Internet, or they had done it like McSweeney's, perhaps the story would've been different.



None of this is Andersen's fault, and I'm only bringing it up by the way. And because there's a lot of puffery around Spy that covers up the fact that it never figured out how to thrive--editorial decisions made it samizdat, but it insisted on looking like Vanity Fair. This doesn't matter, except for one thing: as long as magazine people--on the editorial side, at least--buy the flattering but wrong idea that hipness/buzz/heat is the key, and not dollars and cents, we'll get more brilliant flameouts like Spy. And I'd like a decent humor magazine more than once a decade, thanks. And maybe if it could last...?



By the way, I'm sorry for not posting more regularly. I'm working on two new books. They'll be worth the wait.

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This "game" is strangely gripping...Keep poking...



And from a recent contest held by the Washington Post's Style section, here's one Jeff Brechlin's version of the "Hokey Pokey" as written by William Shakespeare:



Ye Olde Hockey Pokey

O proud left foot, that ventures quick within

Then soon upon a backward journey lithe.

Anon, once more the gesture, then begin:

Command sinistral pedestal to writhe.

Commence thou then the fervid Hokey-Poke,

A mad gyration, hips in wanton swirl.

To spin! A wilde release from Heavens yoke.

Blessed dervish! Surely canst go, girl.

The Hoke, the poke -- banish now thy doubt

Verily, I say, 'tis what it's all about.

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Went to see "A Mighty Wind" last night with my wife, and thought I'd pass along some thoughts for any of you so inclined. First, if you're a fan of "Guffman" and "Best in Show," certainly do go. It's not as laugh-out-loud funny as those two, and nowhere near the revelatory "Spinal Tap," but certainly worth seeing. And of course we want them to make the next one, right? Perhaps Kate's time at Second City has trained me, in best Pavlovian tradition, to stare at anything improvisatory with rapt amazement; whatever the reason I find this new style of comedy that Guest and co. are forging truly fascinating. So place what I'm about to say in that context, if you can; this sort of improvised-ensemble stuff could finally provide a commercial alternative to the endless high school/college comedies that Hollywood extrudes. That chance alone should be worth nine bucks, right?



Part of what makes A Mighty Wind so fun to watch is the relentless lack of glamor in its characters--and I don't mean typical Hollywood "he's an anti-hero, you can tell by his non-dimpled chin." These people are all old and wrinkly and strange-looking, just like normal people. And so from the outset, I'm much more invested in what happens to them. A Mighty Wind--you can read the story/synopsis elsewhere--was ultimately unsatisfying for that reason--the best of reasons? The natural arc of the main story, a love affair between Mitch and Mickey, seems truncated on purpose, or out of some sourness on the part of the filmmakers. Expanding on this theme, Kate wondered when Christopher Guest would stop "ritually humiliating his characters," that is, building up audience affection for them, then tacking absurd fates for them at the end. It's one thing to make the philsophical point that "in real life, most people don't change, and at the end of a larger pattern they are often just as deluded as when they began," but sometimes they DO change. And that's why we want to watch stories about them. So what's my take on "A Mighty Wind"? The same cold-bloodness that allows for such precise observation also makes the movie less satisfying than it ought to be, certainly less so than the first 3/4ths suggested. The focus on dogs--in all their sloppy untenable loveableness--in "Best in Show" warmed it up a few precious degrees. This movie is closer to "Guffman"--also a bit more clinical than it should've been--and while funny, ultimately less fun.

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For reasons unclear even to myself, I've begun to restrict my posts on this blog to actual humor pieces. (Actually, I know why: I'm writing two more books, and just am not that chatty, even when I'm not.) However, while I'm getting the next one ready--and signing the contract for the Catalan edition of Barry Trotter--there's an article in the New York Observer that anybody interested in book publishing should read. It's about how the numbers are jiggered for every book. Fair enough--it's their right to shave it however they choose, but it allows them to mask a larger problem: the industry's willful failure to publish books that people actually want to read, at prices they can afford. Did you know that "Everything Is Illuminated," last year's massive fiction bestseller, only sold 100,000 copies in hardcover? In a country of 300 million, something's very wrong here--pricing, distribution, or product--maybe all three, I don't know. Anyway, we can't start revivifying words-on-paper until we take a clear-eyed look at what it is now, and what it is now is a land of reduced expectations, infested with arcana, not worthy of all the good smart people who are in it.There's no reason that books have to be irrelevant, it's how we're doing them that makes them so.

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This article from Popular Mechanics collects the assorted screw-ups, close calls, and generalized mischief that nearly killed us all during the Cold War.



But we're much smarter now, right? Right?

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In a moment of cultural insanity that we will be hard-pressed to explain to our descendents, in the mid-90s America went crazy for cigars. Actually, unlike Pet Rocks, the reason for the cigar boom is simple: nicotine, a chemical so addictive that mouth cancer seems like a fair swap.



I smoked ‘em just like everybody else—I quit when I started looking like Burgess Meredith in “Rocky.” Somewhere along the way, I wrote this piece.



THE DIRTY DOZEN

Twelve Cigars to Avoid at All Costs

by Michael Gerber



Once the preserve of cartoon plutocrats and rumpled bookies, cigars now nestle between the lips of people who wouldn’t dream of haunting a boardroom or a racetrack. Even models are smoking them—which begs two questions: “Does Linda Evangelista need another, yet more powerful appetite suppressant?” and “How long before she blinks into another dimension?”



As more and more neophytes light up, I’m here to say that the world of cigars can be a dangerous place. Occasionally there comes one so revolting, so monumentally bad, that even experienced smokers seriously consider seppuku. StogieWatch, a human rights organization based in Miami, posts bulletins on new outrages to the cigarmaker’s art as they appear. I’ve reprinted their most recent list below; look, ye smokers, and tremble!



(PS: All comments are from actual smokers.—MG)



1. Bugs Y Daffy Reservo Especiale

Aesthetics: Cartoon characters on the label is awfully whimsical for a $12.00 cigar.

Flavor: “I feel silly saying this, but it tastes like string.”

Aftertaste: “More string, with undertones of burning rubber.”

Comments: “At first you think, ‘Oh, this is one of those “trick cigars.” But it never explodes. It just keeps on being bad, getting worse. I wish it would have exploded. I wish I would have exploded.”



2. Don Cojones Big Hombre

Aesthetics: Very sturdy construction. Titanium alloy in wrapper makes Big Hombre virtually indestructible. Meets all US military specifications for durability. Matte black, with silver accents. Definitely a two-handed smoke (7 lb, 3 oz).

Flavor: “Somewhat like sardines. Also somewhat like can.”

Aftertaste: “Lasted for three weeks. Went to see doctor.”

Comments: “This cigar was so full-bodied that it knocked me across the room…I’m considering pressing charges.” “After smoking this one, I didn't leave the bathroom for two days. I missed too much work and lost my job.”



3. Telemundo La Uncircumsizo

Aesthetics: The wrapper has the texture and color of old newspaper. In fact, it is old newspaper. Hemingway-style foot.

Flavor: “Sweet and woodsy—like pine-scented disinfectant.” “The heavy smoke envelopes you like a sack full of white-hot needles.”

Aftertaste: “Fierce, uncompromising, bullying, enforcer-like.” “So persistent, it’s hard to tell whether that's an aftertaste or yet more of your wardrobe ruined by the Uncircumsizo.”

Comments: “Name refers to the distinctive shape of the foot; I think it's very uncouth.” “Too Freudian for me, I get the willies when I light one up.”



4. Burly Rascal Demi-Corona No. 3 “Widowmaker”

Aesthetics: Pleasing, even color. Not-so-pleasing death's head on band. Occasional soft spots turned out to be tobacco aphids trapped inside during manufacture.

Flavor: “Smooth, slightly chocolatey—until you hit an aphid, then it goes to hell.”

Aftertaste: “Aphids, but maybe it was in my mind, because I’ve never eaten one before.” “A slight hint of raw eggs, which sent me right over the edge.”

Comments: “This perversion of the cigar maker's art, this calculated insult to cigar-lovers everywhere, should be taken off the market immediately.” “The FDA should be notified about this piece of shit…Heck, the FBI should know, too.”



5. Paul Gargantuan Double Carcinoma

Aesthetics: Well-made. Craftsman-like use of holy water. Cigar sputtered and whined a bit when lit; increased in volume to awful moaning until we were forced by stares of onlookers to put it out.

Flavor: “Incense, and baby’s blood, with hints of tannis root.” “Not as much a flavor as a sense of foreboding—can a tobacco product be cursed?”

Aftertaste: “I kept hearing the word ‘Doom, doom!’ over and over.” “My mouth had to be exorcised by Malaysian witch-doctor/oral surgeon.”

Comments: “The cigar finishes like a racehorse having a seizure: I had to hold it with both hands to smoke the last inch. This could be the cigar, or it could be my body’s way of telling me to stop smoking.” “It stays with you. It makes you do things.”



6. La Idióta Combusto

Aesthetics: Wrapper has tendency to unwrap itself completely without warning and with explosive force, causing cigar to disintegrate into pile of smoldering tobacco. Hot pieces of fine, firm ash spray everywhere.

Flavor: “The Combusto, like cyanide, tastes faintly of bitter almonds. Unfortunately, unlike cyanide, it does not cause death. The truly putrid aftertaste (lingonberries? motor oil?) will make you wish it had.”

Comments: “I had four of these babies fall apart and go down my collar (ouch!) before I could smoke one through. I’m still picking tobacco out of my chest hairs.” “Regular cigars don’t act like this; I don't know what they put in it, but it can't be street legal.”



7. Baffin Island Black Wasp

Aesthetics: Very black wrapper promises a full-bodied smoke—good luck if you can get any. Double-diamond—maximum difficulty.

Flavor: “Damned little.”

Aftertaste: “Saliva, with a little blood.”

Comments: “The draw was so tight that I burst a blood vessel in my brain. I am convalescing nicely, writing this by dictation. It is difficult to remember what I was tasting just before I blacked out, but I seem to remember something very like turpentine. Obviously not worth it.”



8. La Asino Cubano Neville Chamberlain

Aesthetics: At just 1.5 inches long, it's blessedly short. Wrapper is “fashioned from the finest English worsted.”

Flavor: “Mentholatum and chutney, with just a touch of rhubarb.”

Aftertaste: “None, due to frenzied post-cigar mouthwashing.”

Comments: “With a million other cigars out there, smoking this one on purpose is positively masochistic.” “A foul, acrid smoke more commonly associated with industrial accidents than with premium tobacco.” “Puzzling taste, very complex: Confusing, disorienting, debilitating, et cetera.”



9. Brown Recluse Private Stock

Aesthetics: Band portraying grinning poisonous spider is sure to rope in a few macho types. Fine ash that falls to ground with audible clunk. Varicose-veined wrapper. Oily and hard-to-hold.

Flavor: “Probably very similar to kissing a spider, if you could find its lips.”

Comments: “Its disgusting taste is perfectly complimented by smoke just as odious. Makes one think they did it on purpose.” “After a few minutes, I felt my throat closing up in self-defense.” “I told myself that I had to stop, or go mad. I stopped, and won’t smoke it again.”



10. Crikey & Sons Janus

Aesthetics: Half light brown, half black as coal, with a red ring in the middle (“The Danger Zone!”).

Flavor: “The first half is quite pleasant; nutty, woodsy—like smoking a varnished table leg. The second half is bloody murder, like some sort of raw medicine.” “The danger zone has a volcanic effect on the digestive tract.”

Aftertaste: “The two bottles of Pepto necessary to get you back to normal.”

Comments: “Janus, the two-faced Roman God, is eerily appropriate; this cigar is half great, half horrible.” “I threw up, which is saying a lot.” “Perfect for passive-aggressive gifts, backhanded swipes at your boss, obligatory presents to hateful people.”



11. Ernesto Bocattos Buttery Cube

Aesthetics: More suitable as a paperweight, or wrapped in duct tape for playing home run derby.

Flavor: “Hard to pin down: butter? Adhesive?”

Aftertaste: “Did not finish it—played home run derby instead.” “The more we smoked, the more we thought, ‘So this is why people don’t suck cellophane tape.”

Comments: We’re afraid this fledging company’s plucky attempt at creating a new shape, the ‘cube,’ is a monumental failure. Even if your mouth was big enough to comfortably fit around a seven-inch square of tobacco, the volume of smoke produced causes nausea, vomiting, double vision, and—we assume, were we ever to smoke one through— death.”



12. Cuban Show Me Lonsdale

Aesthetics: Veins on wrapper spell out “Beware!” as mandated by the Surgeon General. Very tightly-packed; equally suitable as some sort of nightstick.

Flavor: “Freshly-mown hay. Sweaty farmgirls.”

Aftertaste: “Rotten hay. Really unbathed farmgirls.”

Comments: “The latest ‘Genuine Cuban Cigar’ from the shysters in Cuba, Missouri is proof positive that the Better Business Bureau is for stooges.” “Unapologetic.” “Phobia-inducing.” “I hold this against the entire Midwest.” “It feels like your tongue is being scraped quite briskly, with a hobby knife.” “Smoking this cigar is one of the few things in my life that I truly, truly regret.”

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While I'm reading up for my next book I thought I would post some stuff from my archives. I hope you enjoy this one--early echoes of Lon Measly...



A HOROSCOPE FOR DOGS

by Michael Gerber



Aquarius—How many times have you told yourself to live for TODAY? There’s a plate of brownies cooling on the stove--why not knock them to the floor and eat them? So they’re molten. So they’ll give you diarrhea. So what? A moment of bliss is worth a night in “The Cage,” right? Here’s what the stars are saying loud and clear: don't let worries about the future keep you from realizing your wildest dreams today.



Pisces—Like Pisces, the fish, you are powerfully attracted to water. Drinking out of the toilet is only the most common way this urge finds expression. (You can thank retrograde Mercury for that tongue-stinging Ty-d-bol!) This week is a good time to explore the water-loving aspect of your personality further, so don’t be afraid of the hose.



Aries—It’s easy to get hung up on the Big Questions. Why does food smell like food? Why doesn’t the stick always move? Who knows? More importantly, who cares? Concentrate today on the little things: eating, sleeping, eating, sleeping, chasing birds, and sleeping. Sniff a butt or two. Go to the busiest street you can find and snarl traffic by running across it six million times. It’s true—the best things in life really are free.



Taurus—You are Taurus, the bull, which means people admire your stick-to-itiveness, but also think that you can be stubborn. Once you get an idea into your head…and with Mars in your sign, you’re even more likely to not let go of that chewtoy, arm, or get-rich-quick scheme. Some wisdom for all the Tauruses out there: chase your tail if you want, but don’t do it until you fall down.



Gemini—Question, Twin-Dog: isn’t life about enjoying whatever comes your way? If you are offered something wonderful, it’s foolish to refuse it—that opportunity make not come again. The stars say that if you see an unlatched porch door, seize the moment and run away! Your world is an abundant one: full of squirrels, half-eaten food, and dead things. All you have to do is bark “yes.” Go to it, Gemini—find your Heaven!



Cancer—Cancer the Crab hides his feelings behind a hard shell; a true Cancerian, your master can call you and call you and you'll just stare at him. This week, resolve to answer only to your real name, which is in some dog language no person knows. Warning: don’t eat on the 19th; the stuff in your dish will look like your food, but it isn't. Eat a hearty diet of sticks and bark instead.



Leo—Uranus cruises into view, which tells me that your testicles/ovaries are in great danger. There’s a neutering or spaying in your future (or an unfortunate accident, but the stars won’t get into that). Listen closely to any whispered conversations, then fight like a lion, Leo, for your gonads! In times like these, there’s no dishonor in being a “biter.”



Virgo—Saturn appears at week's end, so don’t do anything you might regret--or if you do, pin it on the cat. On the night of the 22nd, the planets’ powerful pull tells you the following: though everything appears absolutely normal, that there’s something terribly wrong in the back yard. Bark loudly and randomly until dawn, and wake everybody up about thirty times.



Libra—Love goddess Venus pops into the picture, which howls “Heads up, pup: Amour is in session!” Dawdle extra long in the park, and try not to lick yourself so much in public.



Scorpio—Dangers abound for Scorpio this week. Best to dig a hole under the porch and stay there. (Obviously you shouldn’t make any big decisions.) Pluto is in retrograde, which means that if you chase cars, you run a higher risk than usual of getting your collar stuck in the rear axle. P.S.—Don’t tangle with any bats you don’t know personally. Rabies…who needs that?



Sagittarius—Listen, Archer-dog: when are you going to take some time for you? Marking your territory, chasing the ball, rolling in something—you’re totally maxed! Planetary alignments say that you need a vacation. Here’s a thought: why not the Dump?



Capricorn—Gemini rising means great news, Goat-pup! Around the 19th, your vet will take the large plastic anti-biting ring off your head. Twin’s bad news is that it is too soon: you'll nibble an itchy spot on your side so incessantly, you'll ll expose an internal organ! (Oops!) Question: are you on your owner’s health insurance?



If Today is Your Birthday, Dog: It’s time to take stock. Resolve this year to do all those things you’ve been putting off—eat some tropical fish right out of the tank, finally catch that raccoon, fix the cat’s Little Red Wagon once and for ALL…With seven dog-years packed into every 12 months, it’s later than you think. And while this new attitude may not get you on Animal Planet, you’re guaranteed to FEEL GREAT!

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