Outclassed

Last night, I recalled one of the main reasons I no longer update this blog.

It's because I don't think the world needs to hear from yet another person who wants to Be A Writer. I think I've talked before about the distinction between someone who writes and someone who just wants to Be A Writer, with visions in their head of their name on a book and a big party to celebrate the launch of their book, but no clear idea of what would be IN the book. I hate those people, and I hated that every time I posted in this blog I felt more like one.

Initially, when I was running a reading series and doing crazy stuff like reading at KGB, I thought I'd probably inspire myself to get some substantial work done if I knew I was accountable for it in a blog. All that really happened was the occasional "still not writing anything good" post, and the odd essay that five people a month stumbled upon while Googling for information about Bert McCracken's tattoos. (Two and a half years later, it's still my number one google hit. Clearly, I need to run into more celebrities.) So I went back to LiveJournal, where I felt like it was slightly more okay to blog three lines about what I had for breakfast since I didn't have any pretensions there that I was some sort of big-shot writer type who was actually writing for public eyes. (Which is very odd considering that LiveJournal is just as public a forum as anywhere else. You could probably find my LiveJournal page within ten minutes if you really wanted to.) And I shied away from any sort of insinuation that I was ever going to Be A Writer, which included not actually, well, writing.

I miss the process a little bit, though, and have been jonesing to at least start something big again. With that in mind, last night I attended two free sample classes sponsored by Gotham Writers' Workshop, on Sharon's invitation.

Honestly? It wasn't so bad. A bargain at twice the price, I'd say. The teachers were certainly better than the guy I had when I took novel-writing at the New School, and they did a couple of exercises that felt pretty good and made me want to work more.

But as is often the case with writing classes, an unreasonably high percentage of people in the class were of the "I want to Be A Writer" school. In fact, possibly the most egregious example of this that I've ever seen popped up during the Q&A for the Fiction Writing class.

"So if we take your class," he said in his best Brooklyn whisper, "at the end of it, does Gotham Writers' Workshop have agents with publishing house connections that will look at our stuff and help us get published?" His tone conveyed more than a little entitlement, and I got the sense that he wasn't going to bother with paying money for a class unless someone could guarantee that he would be handed a check for ten times that amount once he was done.

Sharon and I had to look straight ahead at the teacher and the blackboard, because if either of us turned to look at each other at that point, we both would have fallen out of our chairs with hysterical laughter, and we were trying to be nominally polite, or at least confine our snark of our fellow prospective students to written notes. The teacher, to her credit, was much nicer to this guy than either one of us would have been on our nicest day, telling him that no, Gotham Writers' Workshop is only about learning how to write, not how to become the next Dan Brown.

It happened again in the Screenwriting class. (Which, by the way, the teacher was excellent, but I'm pretty sure I never, ever want to write a screenplay.) The instructor mentioned Juno screenwriter Diablo Cody, and a hand shot up right away. "How did Diablo Cody get noticed by Hollywood?" the girl asked. "Was that before or after she published her memoir?"

Everyone wants to Be A Writer, kids. Everyone wants the book party and the Oscar and the write-up in Publishers Weekly and the soft-focus black and white photo on the dust jacket. Writing, on the very superficial surface, looks like the ultimate way to make your living. You can sit at home in your pajamas making up stories and sometimes you can go to Barnes and Noble and people will wait in line for your autograph. Sounds good to me, too! If I could take a class that would give me that life at the end of it, I'd sign up in a heartbeat.

I know, however, that such a class does not exist. Unfortunately, the majority of people who sign up for writing classes do not. Thus, most useful things you could learn in a writing class are superceded by all of the idiotic pipe dreams of would-be Tom Clancys who spend more time daydreaming about how they're going to spend the earnings from their bestseller than they do actually, you know, writing it.

It's taken me a while to realize this, but when it comes to writing, I don't think there's anything I don't know how to do that can be learned in a class. That's the main lesson I need to take away from the various classes I've tried. That and the fact that the only writing worth reading has come from people who were writing because they had something to say, and not because they wanted to Be Writers.

From now on, I'm going to try to find things to say in this blog. I will keep the talk of writing to a minimum until I have actually written something (that is, not a blog entry).

And if you are still thinking of taking a writing class somewhere in hopes that it will help you to Be A Writer, I suggest stopping by this website. It should have some good pointers for you.

I Have Lusted In My Heart For a Jimmy Carter Autograph

I just got back from Barnes and Noble in Union Square, where former President Jimmy Carter was scheduled to sign books tonight. I was ushered into a short-seeming line among the fiction shelves, where I entertained myself by rereading Our Endangered Values, pulling out copies of books I've reviewed for Publishers' Weekly and seeing if anybody's quoted me on their dust jackets (none yet so far), and rehearsing what I'd say while President Carter signed my books (settling on some boring thing about being honored to meet him and stuff). Finally, after two and a half hours of waiting, my excitement at meeting one of my heroes not even close to waning... about half of the people who'd come to the signing, including me, were herded away from the line and told that President Carter was leaving, and had stopped signing.

I'm not sure I have ever been more disappointed in my life. I think I was less disappointed when my backstage pass connection failed to come through at the last minute at the last Elvis Costello show I went to. I was 30 feet from my favorite living ex-President, and all I could do was stay in line while irate Barnes and Noble employees repeatedly cautioned us to keep moving, down the escalator, and home empty-handed. I pondered waiting outside by his car with the scary political wingnuts to try and snap a paparazzi photo as President Carter left the store, but decided that was beneath me and took a brief constitutional through the park to calm my nerves before getting on the train to home.

I haven't stopped being bitterly disappointed, though, and I would love to know who's responsible. Clearly, somebody sucks. A lot.

Who exactly sucks? Well, I'm not entirely sure.

It's certainly not President Carter himself. The guy is not exactly young these days (though he's plenty spry), and all that signing does tend to wear one out. It's not his fault he's so awesome that hundreds of people showed up wanting to meet him.

Possibly it's President Carter's "people" - but it can't be easy to coordinate a circus like this one, what with the crowds of fans, the odd non-fan, the Secret Service guys, the police escort, and whatnot.

It's probably not even Matt and Maria, the event planners for the Union Square Barnes and Noble. I go to a lot of events there, some even more heavily attended than this one, and most of them have been pretty smooth, with everybody getting what they wanted. Nevertheless, I will be calling them tomorrow to let them know how disappointed I was. (The assistant manager on duty, whose name is, I believe, William - fortyish, slouchy, crazy-ass sideburns - gave me their number. He was extremely nice about the situation, and assured me that they'd be happy to receive my feedback.)

Barnes and Noble itself is a contender, but they suck for so many other reasons, it hardly seems fair to single them out for this one.

So I don't know. I do know what would have made the evening better, though, and I'm putting it here in this very public, google-indexed forum so that maybe the right person will see it and put it in their to-consider file.

This event, and other big-time signings, needs wristbands. Big time. You know how big record stores like Tower and Virgin have those in-store artist appearances? Everyone who buys the album gets a wristband. Perhaps you don't even need a wristband to attend the reading or the Q&A portion of the evening. But only the people with the wristband get the signature, thus virtually guaranteeing that everyone goes home happy.

And really, I'm not a person whom it is hard to send home happy. The Carter event was poorly publicized, and the B&N website didn't even say what would be happening other than "author event," and I went anyway, figuring it was a win-win, whether it was just a reading, a reading and signing, or just a signing. I would have been happy to stop in a few days prior and get a wristband. I would have even paid full cover price for the book to do it. (Instead of picking up the book for half-price at the Strand, which I'm not proud of, but I admit I've done a few times before - like a couple of weeks ago with Jeffrey Toobin's book.)

I know B&N is capable of distributing wristbands, because I know they had them for the Harry Potter release. They need to realize that Harry Potter is not the only book out there for whom there's a clamoring throng. In fact, they need to start considering that the more they do to encourage order among the clientele for any and all clamoring-throng-type books, the happier everybody will be. Situations vary with each individual author and their publicity team, but one would think that everyone goes home happy in this situation - the author can limit the number of books they have to sign, the fans are guaranteed an autograph, and the store employees are not stuck herding thousands of irate customers around a circuitous obstacle course where they may or may not get a reward at the end.

Seriously, Barnes and Noble. Wristbands. Think about it.

I'll slice you up like you's a cherry tree

In this past Sunday's New York Times, there's a big article about nerdcore, the white-kid rap movement featuring songs about things like Star Wars and Dungeons and Dragons. And it's about time nerdcore got its due, really, because MC Chris is a frackin' GENIUS.

But I submit that there's something out there even more cutting-edge - even nerdier than nerdcore, if you will. The next great hip-hop movement? Historycore.

I've been skimming around the interwebs in search of (non-protest) songs about U.S. Presidents to make a themed mix CD, and I've run into this fantastic new trend in the process. Whether it's extra credit projects for some kids' social studies class or some really bored, really knowledgeable, really nerdy folks, there seems to be a preponderance of rap songs with history as their subject matter (to varying degrees of accuracy, of course).

I refer you to this (which is very funny but not work safe if your workplace frowns upon profanity):


I also saw this recently, if you'd like a historycore interpretation of the Reformation.
And yet more historycore here.

And, of course, the original historycore rap video that started it all: the brilliant "Washington" by Cox and Combes/Creased Comics.

Amazing, Amazing, Amazing

It was in 1995 that I first became aware of what I maintain is the most astonishing thing about the Internet - its ability to connect people based on a pop-culture obsession. No matter where your interest lies, it's possible to find a community of people who are just as devoted to it as you are - and, often, about a billion times more devoted to it. Forget the wide-reaching implications of a lightning-quick global information-dissemination service - the best thing about the Internet is the way it finds you people who, like you, can share theories on anything from the symbolic meaning of the four-toed statue on last season's Lost finale to who makes a better couple, Kirk/Spock or Spock/McCoy.

Ever since discovering that you could meet people through the computer, I've benefited from this quality of the Internet in two ways. One, I've found real-world friends who share my love for things like literary fiction and Elvis Costello, and two, I've found places to enthuse about things my real-world friends just aren't into.

(Had I been on the Internet back when I was thirteen years old and fantasizing about marrying Christian Laettner, I assure you, I might have turned out a whole lot less healthy than I did.)

Either way, I came of age in surroundings where my favorite things were so esoteric and/or unpopular that it still, a dozen years later, never fails to astonish me when I come face to face with a whole cadre of folks who not only know about my pet interest du jour, but have loved it so much they have nuanced opinions and theories about it. I doubt it will ever fail to astonish me.

And, indeed, that's how I felt last night when I visited a bar in Midtown for TARcon to attend a gathering for fans of "The Amazing Race": astonished.

While I've enjoyed an episode or two from previous seasons, this season, the "All-Stars" edition, was the one that really hooked me. For weeks, I shared theories with fellow enthusiasts on various message boards in the absence of having any real-life friends who watched the show, but every Sunday night I watched the show itself alone, usually while doing laundry. (Sometimes I'd luck out and find someone else in the laundromat who was watching it, and we could share a few cheers or jeers at the appropriate teams, but usually I was flying solo.) I loved the show for its explorations of global culture; its frenetic pace; and the way different teams, with their different relationships, interacted under pressure. It's one that looks like it's a hell of a lot of fun, but I know I'd be terrible at it. Even as I fantasize about sky-jumping off of the Macau Tower, or learning how to throw a Maasai weapon at a target, I know that the stress of navigation and the pressure of the race would make me absolutely terrible at it. So I have that much more respect for the contestants on this show.

And last night, I actually got to tell several of them as much, which was in itself almost as cool as connecting with fellow fans. (I didn't take many photos, but up at the top of my entry is a camera-phone shot of second-place finishers Dustin and Kandice, which I nabbed while they were filming a segment for Fox Reality.) Watching the finale in the company of other people who cheered and laughed (and booed) in all the right parts made even what I considered a disappointing outcome seem like great entertainment.

When I felt like I'd performed my fair share of sycophantism, I made my exit and went home to collapse. It was an amazing end to an amazing day.

And TARcon wasn't even the most amazing thing I did all day. Stay tuned.

High pizza pie in the sky hopes

There's a pizza place somewhere in Brooklyn that I've often thought about trying. It looks like it's been there awhile - always a good sign of a pizza place, especially a decently-sized one. Other than that, there's not much special about it. The fixtures are well-worn, but clean. It's your garden-variety slice-a-torium, with a high turnover on plain pies but some other options that look interesting. And it's always buzzing with a healthy amount of activity. As opposed to a DiFara-level amount of activity.

So recently, Kip and I gave it a shot. No, it wasn't bestowed upon us in a glow of heavenly light by a chorus of angels that all look like Dom DeMarco, but it was pretty damn good. The crust was nicely crispy, the sauce was neither too sweet nor too salty, and the toppings were all fresh and perfectly balanced.

His slice, one of those stacked-to-high-heaven pizza/pasta mutant hybrids:

Mine was a little less complicated, but it had all the things I love, including lots of fresh basil:

I'd have to try a plain slice to give you a final verdict on the place, of course (I haven't earned my pizza-nerd wings yet, though six years in New York has taught me that generally speaking you don't need to put lots of stuff on your pizza), but I think I've found a winner.

Where is this wondrous Brooklyn pizza haven, you ask? Well, I ain't telling. If years of living near DiFara has taught me anything at all, it's that you should keep your secret hole-in-the-wall pizza places to yourself, lest they turn into mob scenes full of pseudo-cognoscenti who believe that there is no good pizza without suffering. (Okay, that and "when the health inspector comes over, you should probably clean the 'visible evidence of rodent activity' off of your work station before he notices." Seriously. WORK STATION. Like, where the food is prepared. If my stomach wasn't already tired from the gymnastics it did when I realized I'd eaten at that Taco Bell by the West 4th Street subway, it would have done some more.)

But I promise you, if you're tired of long lines, cruel treatment, Chowhound snobs, and caving into hype, there is still good pizza to be had out there, if you're willing to look for it.

Besides, pizza is kind of like sex - even when it's bad, it's still better than most things.

On that note, I'm off to Patsy's with my coworkers. And after work, Crocodile Lounge.

Original Recipe Literature

Over on the Television Without Pity boards, there's a topic in the TV Potluck forum called "New Rules for TV" where we decide what would never be allowed on television again if we ran the networks. (Example: sitcoms with fat, stupid, bumbling husbands and their smart, thin, beautiful wives would no longer be allowed if TWoP were allowed to be in charge of programming.)

So if I ran book publishing, this would be my new rule for novelists: no more passing off fan fiction as literature.

You hear that, Alexandra Ripley? You started it, you know.

Actually, I don't believe the onslaught of truly awful violations of classic literature began with Scarlett. I don't even hold Scarlett up as a prime example - it was what it was - a mass-market paperback with an embossed cover and a ridiculous premise, that made a decentish miniseries featuring Colm Meaney, and having Colm Meaney in your miniseries could make anything good. It didn't pretend to be anything it wasn't.

But when it comes to more egregious instances of pretending a book is on par with classic literature just because it's a takeoff on actual classic literature, Gone With the Wind was definitely involved.

I'm talking about one of the worst books I've ever read - The Wind Done Gone. Sure, it created a buzz when it was released, and the idea that Rhett was secretly in love with a former slave resurrected some great debates on the way the original handled race issues. But the problem with The Wind Done Gone was that it was bad. Bad bad bad. Everything Scarlett did, the protagonist, Cynara, did better. Cynara had Mary Sue written all over her. The internet is full of fan fiction that's basically a retelling of the original movie/book/TV episode with an all-new, all-awesome, all-gorgeous protagonist inserted into the middle of it. (While browsing fanfiction.net recently, I found some fan fiction for my favorite TV show, Lost, which basically rehashed old episodes but supposed that Ewan McGregor was stranded on the island with the regular cast. And it was miles better than The Wind Done Gone. MILES.)

So in the wake of this particular novel, it seems like there are all sorts of classic tales being retold from a different point of view, and sequels written by people other than the author (usually because the author is dead and therefore can't protest). Some are great, this much is true. John Gardner's Grendel is a particularly neat spin on this concept. I haven't read it, but I hear Wide Sargasso Sea is great. And with children's literature, in particular, there are some brilliant new takes on old tales, from authors like Gregory Maguire, Jane Yolen, and Jon Scieska. But most, to me, just come off like the author wishes he or she had written the original, and lacks the writing chops to come up with characters half as good on their own.

People, there is no reason we need new versions of Rebecca, or Pride and Prejudice, or Huckleberry Finn, or Little Women. (A trip to any Barnes and Noble will show you that need them or not, we have fan fiction novels, from major publishing houses, for ALL of these.) What the world does need are new universes full of well-developed, multifaceted, brilliantly flawed characters who make us love them, visualize their lives, and speculate for ourselves on what happens to them next.

Anything less, in my opinion, isn't too far above all those smutty stories involving Kirk, Spock, and extended shore leave.

It's no wonder J.K. Rowling keeps threatening to kill off Harry Potter.

He Was Delicious

Sure, he had perpetually low approval ratings, there was that sketchy business with the Warren Commission, and he told NYC to drop dead. But as a lifelong Presidential trivia buff, I always thought Gerald Ford was an awesome dude, and not just for the schadenfreude value of watching him hit his head on Air Force One or seeing Betty attempt to give Barbara Walters a tour of the White House while totally wasted.

Mediocre president? Sure. Cool guy? Hell yes.

With that, I bring you...

Ten Cool Things About Gerald R. Ford

1. He was an Eagle Scout. The only President who was one, in fact. Note that this was when the Boy Scouts were all about camping and tying knots (and not so much the right-wing nutso Jesusy stuff). I think this was back in the days when they'd do things like leave you alone overnight on an island with nothing but a pocketknife, a dixie cup, some string, and a live chicken (which I'm pretty sure you're not allowed to do anymore). Do NOT fuck with Eagle Scouts. They are hardcore.

2. When he was younger, he was HOT. Granted, ever since Kennedy, being telegenic has been something every President needs to be, and with the exception of the Bushes and Nixon, I'd probably have hit every one of 'em at 22. But Ford was hot enough to actually make money from his hotness. How many other presidents were on the cover of Cosmo?

(If you want to see the cover in question, I found it here, although the blogger who posted it says that the Ford Museum and Library can neither confirm nor deny that this is actually him. I find it sort of suspicious that these photos are as hard to track down as they are. It makes me want to take a trip to the library and spend an afternoon in the periodical room. I spent so many happy hours of my childhood digging through old magazines looking up random shit. Maybe I was a librarian in a previous life.)

(Also, here is photographic proof of Ford's attractiveness circa 1933. Rawr.)

3. His smarts and work ethic, not fancy connections, got him where he was. And he wasn't afraid of work, either. In undergrad, he washed dishes at his frat house for pocket money. Dude turned down offers to play pro football in favor of law school. To pay for it, he worked as an assistant coach for the boxing and football teams. And of course, there's that modeling stuff. Contrast that with most every other recent high-profile political figure - think anybody in the Bush dynasty has ever washed a dish in his life? (I must say, Clinton's blue-collar roots went a long way toward endearing him to me as well.)

It doesn't escape my notice, though, that hardworking, down-to-earth everyman Ford wasn't really trying to be the President. He took the job because it was his duty, not because he'd spent his entire life propelling himself to this one office. His main objective in politics wasn't really to Be The President, it was to make the world around him a better place. And I guess I think that's cool, too. Lord knows we'll never elect a guy like that.

4. He survived two assassination attempts. In three weeks. And took no bullshit for it. Rivaling John "If I kill the President maybe Jodie Foster will go out with me" Hinckley in their utter bizarreness, Squeaky Fromme and Sara Jane Moore's attempts on Ford's life barely shook the guy. He continued to make public appearances in the aftermath.

(Oh yeah, and Mr. Hinckley? Even if that sort of stuff DID impress her, you're totally not Jodie's type, if you know what I mean.)

5. He remained friends with the guy who kicked his ass in the '76 elections. Whenever I used to hear about the Ex-Presidents' Club as a kid, I always had this mental picture of Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter sitting around with tea (or scotch) and reminiscing. (And, of course, fighting crime together.) Jimmy Carter is awesome. Ford saw past partisan differences and even the fact that Carter stole his job and maintained a close friendship with him. Actually, in general Ford was a pretty easygoing guy, which was how he got appointed to the office of Vice-President in the first place - Nixon deliberately picked a guy with a clean record whom he knew everyone liked, so as to avoid further Agnew-esque ruckus.

6. He appointed John Paul Stevens to the Supreme Court. I heart John Paul Stevens. Ford said of Stevens, "He is serving his nation well, with dignity, intellect and without partisan political concerns." For those of you playing along at home, Ford's a Republican, and Stevens has become known as one of the most reliably liberal votes on the bench. In a world where it is fashionable among Republicans to refer to any left-leaning judge as "activist," it's refreshing to think that a President once appointed a judge on the basis of his potential objectivity and not whether he'd toe the party line.

7. Betty's willingness to admit a problem led to help for addicts everywhere. Betty Ford is arguably a bigger household name than her husband, thanks to the establishment of her eponymous clinic (which has become shorthand for drying out). Plus, Betty has been an outspoken advocate for women's rights (especially abortion rights), breast cancer research, and the arts. I realize this is her coolness at work here and not his, but I think being married to Betty makes Gerald cool by association.

8. He maintained a sense of humor. You just don't see Bush Sr. making jokes about vomiting on Japanese dignitaries, or Bush Jr. joking about falling off the Segway (yeah, remember that? that could have been a lot funnier!). But whether he was hitting people with golf balls or stumbling over his own feet, Ford was quick with the self-deprecating wit. "I know I am getting better at golf because I am hitting fewer spectators," he famously said of his golf game.

9. He was left-handed...but only when sitting down. He batted, golfed and wrote on chalkboards right-handed. (Hey, not only do I know all kinds of weird shit about presidents, I know all kinds of weird shit about left-handed people.) He was also quick to joke about his left-handedness, and seems to have been as weirdly fascinated by his handedness as I am with mine.

10. SNL was funnier making fun of Ford than any other president. And I'm not even talking about Chevy Chase's brilliant impression here, even though I maintain it's the best Presidential impersonation ever done on SNL. (And possibly the only one that influenced voters come re-election time.) No, I'm talking about this sketch. "Today you're not gay, you know.. but then one day you wake up, you like men, and Gerald Ford dies, and we're screwed. Everyone's hearing about it from Dan Rather!"