A Writer Writes

It's been a good and bad week of writers. Let's start with the good news.

This is one of the best magazine pieces I've read in ages. I not only wished I wrote it, but I could see how it could easily appear in The New Yorker with a few minor edits. Great stuff.

Nora Vincent, a lesbian neo-con, hasn't been around for a while and I've missed her. I even mentioned her as a possible replacement for the repititious Maureen "Men are dumb because no one will marry me" Dowd. Now, Vincent has a book about her adventures dressed as a guy, called Self-Made Man. It wasn't a walk in the park, she tells us. Listen to Instapundit and his wife interview her here.

It was a very bad week for shallow, dishonest writers. First, James Frey took his lumps from Oprah when he admits that his drug rehab memoir was mostly fiction. (Duh, says most of the publishing industry who declined to publish the book when it was pitched as a novel).

But the writer dressing-down of the week has to go to Hugh Hewitt grilling of LA Times columnist/snarky lisper Joel Stein. He wrote a some-what brave if embarassing column that claims that since he does not support the war he refuses to support the troops. He does not wish them ill but neither does he admire them or the job they are trying to perform in hellish circumstances.

You have to admire Stein's bravery and I bet there are a ton of anti-war Lefties who wish they could say what Steine wrote. (A while back, a neighbor almost came out and wished for another attack on US troop as we saw in Black Hawk Down right before the election. It would be horrible, she said, but maybe it could help things...)

Hewitt did his usual shtick, which is to show that reporters and media members are reliably liberal and therefore anti-war/freedom/Bush. Stein's shallow answers and the realization that he could have been more precise is truly embarassing. Back to the gossip pages, Joel.

Mullets in Aisle Three

Here are three things I will admit to in this blog and nowhere else:

1. I am not looking forward to the day that John Updike dies. I check the obits for his name and I miss the man already. That said, I hope there's a few unpublished books in his desk that will see the light of day after he passes. Can you define selfish anymore pathetic and sweatier than that?

2. I daydream about flying a fighter jet, playing drums in a power-pop band and directing a film. It's called Ships at Night, about a young, callow naval officer who makes a critical mistake and his communication ship is captured by the Nazis. The senior officers are kept in captivity and tortured while the crew and the young, disgraced officer are sent on a humiliating PR mission around pre-war Europe to promote the might of the Nazis. They escape their captors and rescue their commanding officers and the damned boat too. They pick up a few refugees -- a family with a precocious girl and a mute boy and a young Jewish computer (what they called female mathematicians in the 30s) -- along the way and escape to freedom.

3. The last CD I burned to my Dell DJ MP3 player is Flashback: The Best of .38 Special.

Hold on Loosely, y'all!

Smile for the Camera

The public is eager to feast its eyes on two unpublished pictures. In celebrity-obsessed America, the first is the ultrasound image of Angelina and Brad's baby. In Washington, which has been called Hollywood for ugly people, it's a picture of the President shaking hands with scumbag lobbyist Jack Abramoff. Like the picture and video clips of Bill Clinton embracing his favorite thong-snapping, pizza delivery gal, reporters and critics want to show W. within 25 yards of the worst briber in, oh, as many years.

Does this prove guilt by association? Doesn't matter. The Anti-Bush Left wants to imply that because the President took a few pictures with one spectacularly bad man, he and his administration is the worst in history. No matter that the Commander-in-Chief has his picture taken with hundreds if not thousands of people each year.

I mean, Jimmy Carter had his picture taken with Yassir Arafat and Michael Moore. It doesn't mean that he's an anti-American demagogue.

Wait, on second thought...

Arrrrrr, Matey

It's been a weekend of depressing news: Two miners found dead in West Virginia, a whale dies as rescuers try to remove it from the Thames in London, and the parents of a kidnapped US reporter plead for their daughter's life. The only highpoint was something that should be from a movie: Sailors from the cruise missile destroyer USS Winston Churchill capture a pirate boat off the coast of Somalia.

Avast, ye hearties.

(Oh, and the official first draft of my freelancing piece is done, thank you).

A Little Victory Lap

Last night at the Incisive Media awards ceremony, Waters won Magazine of the Year. My publisher called from the London event and he was ecstatic. The New York office heard the news in real-time because a few of us were huddled around the speakerphone as a co-worker gave us the play-by-play. When our magazine was announced, the cheers shook the ceiling.

Congratulations to Eugene Grygo, colleague and cohort, for winning Scoop of the Year. Much deserved.

On Beauty and Gigolos

I finished Zadie Smith's On Beauty a couple of weeks ago and it's still swirling around in my head. She writes such great characters that even though they have their limitations and go their separate ways, you want them to remain together in the same household. And for a long book, you want it to be even longer. I avoided her White Teeth follow-up, The Autograph Man because it received some harsh reviews and seemed like a perfect example of the sophomore slump. Forget that, I'm getting it this weekend.

In the meantime, I'm reading Easy Riders, Raging Bulls, Peter Biskind's take on the new Hollywood generation of the '70s. It's a great book and I get to hop around -- this chapter here, that section there. I've heard a lot of these stories before but not in one volume and the portraits really stick out. Steven Spielberg seems like the ultimate loser schlub, which didn't jibe with the boy wonder coverage he received after Close Encounters. And Francis Coppola practically deserved his exile and stangnant career for his behavior before, during and after Apocalypse Now.

But my favorite character has to be Paul Schrader. I'm on a Schrader kick these days. I borrowed the Auto Focus DVD from the Briarcliff Library for the third time and played the flick with his voice over commentary. He's a so-so filmmaker but his stories are great. I read somewhere that a person would rather discuss his films than actually see them and he had a point. Schrader is intellectual, articulate and has a world weary view of the world around him. And he sounds like a mixture of Truman Capote and a high school gym teacher/teen minister. I am trying to find a DVD of American Gigolo with his commentary but no luck. Isn't that film 25 years-old now?