March 07, 2006
Painter of Light: A Portrait of Darkness (or, "Codpiece! Codpiece!")
I have always suspected that Thomas Kincaid is a fountainhead of pure, unbridled evil, but now I finally, finally have confirmation. If you are lucky enough to live in America and not know of Thomas Kincaid, he is the "painter of light" whose overpriced Christian schlock sells in, I think, malls, but also, like Pebble Beach and wherever else rich, white people without an aesthetic bone in their body can be found purchasing mass-reproduced "art" to match their wall-to-wall to carpeting. The best way I can describe Thomas Kincaid paintings is: imagine Oprah eating Dr. Phil, a Madame Alexander doll, an evangelical mega-church complete with Power-Point sermon, 839,459 Pixie Stix, then vomiting all that up into a gold-leaf frame and swishing so it will cake into vomity swirls of texture as it hardens. That's what his paintings look like. See:
But now the jig is up! According to the LA Times "Some former Kinkade employees, gallery operators and others contend that the Painter of Light has a decidedly dark side." It goes on about fraud and, I don't know, maybe money laundering, and all sorts of bad things, and blah di blah blah blah blah. "A three-member panel of the American Arbitration Assn. ordered his company to pay $860,000 for defrauding the former owners of two failed Virginia galleries." Right, whatever. This is the shit I live for:
It's not just Kinkade's business practices that have been called into question. Former gallery owners, ex-employees and others say his personal behavior also belies the wholesome image on which he's built his empire.
In sworn testimony and interviews, they recount incidents in which an allegedly drunken Kinkade heckled illusionists Siegfried & Roy in Las Vegas, cursed a former employee's wife who came to his aid when he fell off a barstool, and palmed a startled woman's breasts at a signing party in South Bend, Ind.
And then there is Kinkade's proclivity for "ritual territory marking," as he called it, which allegedly manifested itself in the late 1990s outside the Disneyland Hotel in Anaheim.
"This one's for you, Walt," the artist quipped late one night as he urinated on a Winnie the Pooh figure, said Terry Sheppard, a former vice president for Kinkade's company, in an interview.
The article goes on for a while about how Kincaid (someone stop me) paints himself as an upstanding Christian before coming back to elaborate on the Sigfriend & Roy incident-- even though you already know about that-- because it is just soo bizarre.
In testimony and interviews with The Times, Sheppard and other former employees said they often went with Kinkade to strip clubs and bars, where he frequently became intoxicated and out of control.
John Dandois, Media Arts Group's senior director of retail operations from 1995 to 1999, testified in a hearing that the artist was a sort of Jekyll-and-Hyde character, whose behavior worsened as the alcohol flowed.
"Thom would be fine, he would be drinking, and then all of a sudden, you couldn't tell where the boundary was," he said. "And then he became very incoherent, and he would start cussing and doing a lot of weird stuff."
Dandois, who left the company to become chief executive of a group of galleries owned by Kinkade's brother, Patrick, recounted that about six years ago the artist was so intoxicated during a performance by Siegfried & Roy in Las Vegas that people seated nearby moved away from him.
"I think it was Roy or Siegfried or whatever had a codpiece in his leotards," Dandois testified. "And so when the show started, Thom just started yelling, 'Codpiece, codpiece,' and had to be quieted by his mother and Nanette."
This is really too much. I think I broke my lung.
In an interview, Sheppard, who often accompanied Kinkade on the road, recounted a trip to Orange County in the late 1990s for the artist's appearance on the "Hour of Power" television show at the Crystal Cathedral in Garden Grove. On the eve of the broadcast, Sheppard said, he and Kinkade returned to the Disneyland Hotel after a night of heavy drinking. As they walked to their rooms, according to Sheppard and another person who was there, Kinkade veered toward a nearby figure of a Disney character.
"Thom wanders over to Winnie the Pooh and decides to 'mark his territory,' " Sheppard told The Times.
In a deposition, the artist alluded to his practice of urinating outdoors, saying he "grew up in the country" where it was common. When pressed about allegedly relieving himself in a hotel elevator in Las Vegas, Kinkade said it might have happened.
"There may have been some ritual territory marking going on, but I don't recall it," he said.
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March 01, 2006
"I Just Thought They Make Great Pussies Nowadays," Says Asia Argento
This will be my last J.T. Leroy post, I swear. I feel that once The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things is released into theaters, the J.T. Leroy will finally be allowed to die a natural death and go gentle into that dark night of the film canister forgotten on a shelf. It's easier that way.
Meanwhile, Asia Argento raved, raved like she had a lightbulb or two loose in the attic! Today's Gawker reports back from the premiere, director Q&A and after-party:
Argento gave quite a performance during the Q&A following the screening. When she was asked how the revelation that Leroy was nonexistant affected the movie's impact, she began a beautiful ramble. To heavily paraphrase: "What is truth? Am I telling you the fucking truth right now? How do you know what the fucking truth is?" She then talked about her personal experience with J.T. and how she had now idea he didn't exist until everyone else found out about it. "I mean, I slept with J.T. I touched his pussy. I just thought they make great pussies these days. I don't know. I couldn't see, it was dark. He said he was on hormones, that was why the boobs were there. I just thought they make great pussies nowadays." Move along folks, nothing to see here.
Posted by hissycat at 12:51 PM | Comments (8143)
February 28, 2006
What, You Were Expecting A Quilting Bee?
"Alpha Gamma Rho is all about integrity and decency" and goat fucking. Over at the Western Kentucky University chapter two weeks ago, amidst the run-of-the-mill homosexual antics fraternities are chock full of, bestiality put it a guest appearance: a noise complaint resulted in the discovery of a goat (a he-goat, if you care) kept in a closet, mired in its own excrement for the purpose of what fraternity men love to do most in small, dark, excrement-filled spaces.
Further support for my extremely complex theory of human sexuality-- sometimes called the "men stick their penises anywhere they think they'll fit" school of thought-- comes from yet another goat-related news item. It seems a Sudanese man, has not only fucked a goat but also taken the cloven-hooved beast as his bride:
Upper Nile: Tombe, a Sudanese man, has been forced to take a goat as his "wife", after he was caught having sex with the animal.
The goat's owner, Alifi, said he was surprised to find the man with his goat, and took him to a council of elders.
Alifi, Hai Malakal in Upper Nile State, told the Juba Post newspaper that he heard a loud noise around midnight on 13 February, and immediately rushed outside to find Tombe conjugating with his goat.
"When I asked him: 'What are you doing there?', he fell off the back of the goat, so I captured and tied him up".
Mr Alifi then called elders to decide how to deal with the case.
"They said I should not take him to the police, but rather let him pay a dowry for my goat because he used it as his wife," Mr Alifi told the newspaper.
The council also ordered Tombe to pay a dowry of 15,000 Sudanese dinars (about Rs 3,000) to Alifi, whom the considered the “father of the bride"."We have given him the goat, and as far as we know they are ill together," Alifi said.
Those elders went all Pee-Wee Herman on his ass. Like, "If you love that goat so much, why don't you just marry it?"
Ah, how wise the elders are in their infinite elderly patriamalarchy. The punishment must fit the crime and teach a lesson. Look now, what you're doing here-- now, we save it for the ladies. Got it, bud? If you're raping this animal, that means to me you think she is a woman. As long as you insist on pretending that sheep is your fiancee, I guess we'll all just have to see that you get married. Right away. That's right. Maybe next time you'll think twice before you use someone's sheep like a dirty woman again.
But have fun on the honeymoon!
Posted by hissycat at 07:19 AM | Comments (8115)
February 27, 2006
Sad
Octavia Butler died on Friday.
Posted by hissycat at 12:20 AM | Comments (1)
January 09, 2006
Never Trust A Writer
They're all a bunch of no good liars.
Posted by hissycat at 03:44 PM | Comments (12)
January 08, 2006
More Like JT SHEroy
The rumors appear to have been true. JT Leroy has been outed pretty conclusively-- in the New York Times, no less-- as an invention of Laura Albert, Leroy's guardian and long-time lead suspect. JT Leroy's stand-in is no hired actor, though! It seems JT Leroy has been played by Ms. Albert's partner's sister, Savannah Knoop. Way to go, guys!
Just this morning I was feeling blue, flipping through Steve's copy of McSweeney's No. 18 and feeling like I have no place in the world. See, as more and more names of people I know, names of people I went to school with, took classes with, am the same age as start to pop up on mastheads, it just becomes clearer to me how much I'm not a participant in the world I thought I wanted to be a part of. I realize the whole McSweeney's/ Believer/ n + 1 is very much where any young person interested in writing wants to be, but, I just don't. I want to, because I want to be a participant in a world of writers, but there is something so personalityish about those places that I just can't stomach. They all seem a little too cool for me. They seem cliquish-- maybe that's it; they just trigger some adolescent self-preservation mechanism that makes me averse to the idea of applying for an internship or submitting a story, even though that's ultimately self-defeating.
Ok, I do realize there isn't any direct connection between any of this and the JT Leroy hoax and I'm absolutly rambling for no other reason than to put off writing cover letters for job applications, but, I'm just saying, all the cool people in the cool club and all the celebrities who totally jumped on the JT Leroy bandwagon because he was so cool, don't you all feel like asses! I mean, not for liking his/ her books. That's neither here nor there. But people who got all wrapped up in the personna-- ha, ha! Trendy suckers!
Also, this is kind of funny.
Posted by hissycat at 04:51 PM | Comments (14)
December 22, 2005
The Secret To My Success With The Men-Folk
From an email I just sent to this guy, Steve, that I've been seeing lately and really like:
I am extremely ticked off with myself today. In a moment of weakness, I purchased a copy of the Believer. I know! I immedeately regretted it. I then bought Elle to make up for it. The writing in Elle is so much better.Yeah, I just wrote that. I'm so subversive it makes you almost want to crap your pants.
I am so good with the "sweet talk."
Posted by hissycat at 03:04 PM | Comments (11)
October 21, 2005
I Forgot To Mention
Elijah Wood has amazing skin.
Also, my ears are still ringing (just a little bit).
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I Spy A Hobbitt
Like, oh my god, girlfriends, you will totally flip out when I tell you who I saw tonight. Oh. Ma. Gahd. Sit down. No, really sit down. Can you guess? I'll give you three hints:
Elijah Wood! Elijah Wood! Elijah Wood!
I saw Elijah Wood! Like, ahhhhh!
Actually, I really did see Elijah Wood. I went to the Gogol Bordello concert tonight with Caroline, Zuzka, Tess, and Brett (yes, that Brett-- the one I just broke up with).
Brett, Zuzka and I stepped outside at some point towards the end of the lame-ass opener to have a smoke. Zuzka returned in search of a vodka shot, while Brett and I remained for cig #2. About three drags in, he walked by. I looked at Brett for confirmation. Stoned and drunk (did I mention who I was there with?), I couldn't be sure if I was halucinating or what.
"Yes," Brett said, before I could get a word out of my mouth.
"Is--?"
"Yes."
I looked over Elijah Wood, who was leaning against a lamp post, having a smoke, then looked back at Brett. "I just need to be sure," I said, "that you you see--"
"A hobbitt," said Brett. "I see a hobbitt."
We spread the news to our co-horts back inside. Gogol was taking for freaking ever to get on stage. After about forty minutes of waiting, I turned to Brett. "Elijah Wood must be taking a crap or something," I said by way of explanation. But, no. Tess (or someone) spotted him about ten yards behind us. His full denim ensemble was topped by a large yellow cowboy hat, naturally, as no doubt he chose the LARGE YELLOW HAT to avoid calling attention to himself.
Well kids, and here's the shocker. I mean, I know the kid's totally flamingly gay gay gay, but, man oh man, he sure does dance funny.
Oh right, and the concert was totally great.
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October 16, 2005
I Touched The Wrists Of Famous People
And not the kind of celebrity whose wrist might give me herpes, either.
Last night, at the Litquake party I got to slap paper wristbands on the wrists of really cool writer people. Actually, as it turns out, I'm an absolutely terrible wrist-bander. I must have given about 60 people unrequested forearm waxings, which was kind of, you know, awkward. And I'm not very fast at it, either, and the traffic kept bottlenecking, which made me only more flustered. But I did manage to reveal my identity to Stephen Elliot, who was very, very nice.
"Hi, I'm the girl that wrote about your shirt." He looked a little confused, but then he got it. "Oh, oh. You."
"Yeah, I'm sorry."
"No, that's ok, it was really funny. I'd never felt that famous before. But you know, you could have just come over and said hello."
"Yeah, I know, I'm sorry," I squeaked out. Then he patted my shoulder and moved along and I went back to banding. I saw him again, later in the night, after my shift had ended. He was standing near the bar drinking from what, judging from the elegant frosted glass bottle it was in, appeared to be cologne but which more likely was just water. I really wanted to go up and say something like, "I'm sorry I'm so creepy. I don't mean to be creepy. But, I do really, really like your stories." But of course I was way too shy. And creepy.
Oh, and some dude was wearing a t-shirt that said "I am JT Leroy," which totally made me giggle.
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October 13, 2005
Jokes
Set-up:
What is funnier(/ sadder) than a depressed, lonely person whose beloved cat has died?
Punchline:
A depressed, lonely person whose cat has died and whose beloved boyfriend has left (dumped) her.
Set-up:
What is funnier(/ sadder) than a depressed, lonely person whose cat died and whose boyfriend broke up with her?
Punchline:
A depressed and lonely person whose cat has died, whose boyfriend has left her, and whose boss has just given her (something like) her walking papers.
Set-up:
What is funnier(/ sadder) than a depressed, lonely person whose cat has died, whose boyfriend has left her, and who is about to be unemployed?
Punchline:
Nothing.
And who is sadder than her?
No one.
I live in San Francisco, should you want to hire me.
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Hello, Cruel World
I'm single.
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October 11, 2005
Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay
Yeah, duh, Harriet Miers is gay. The NYTimes yesterday reported than Ms. Miers is on intimate terms with Condilezzie Rice:
For much of the past five years, Ms. Miers, 60, has been a close friend not only of Ms. Veneman but of Condoleezza Rice, the secretary of state. Schedules permitting, the three have met for what people still call girls' nights out in Washington.
Girls night out, indeed:
"There's a lot of girl talk," said a friend of Ms. Miers and Ms. Rice, who asked not to be named because she did not want to be identified discussing the women's personal lives. "It's about life, not business."
Someone should really tell them, because I don't think they got the memo, that today is National Coming Out Day.
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October 07, 2005
Good News Continues
Target will soon be stocking vibrators. Yes, that Target.
The vibators are part of the Elexa by Trojan line of products and will be stocked in the 'feminine products' aisle, presumably snuggled between home pregnancy kits and Spring Rain Scented Douche by Eve. I would love to report more, but as I am work, there are limits on the kind of Googling I can do.
Alabama, cope.
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October 06, 2005
Condaleeza Dyke
Onion Slayer reports (via Sappho) proof of what we all always knew (at least all of us at or of Stanford): Condi is a homo. Apparently, in addition to the Stanford community, Fox News is in the know, too. James Rosen, in an interview, attempted to set Condi up with a lady-date:
MR. ROSEN: I think it's outrageous, frankly. All right. I close with a gift for you. You met this person once, I believe, but you really, I think, ought to know each other because this woman is, I think you'll have an interest in knowing her. She is one of our FOX News anchors in New York. Her name is Lauren Green. She is brilliant, she's beautiful, she's African American, she's single and she's a concert pianist in her spare time.SECRETARY RICE: My goodness.
MR. ROSEN: And she asked me to give you her CD and I promised her that I would.
SECRETARY RICE: That's perfect.
MR. ROSEN: And here's her doing a number of different classical pieces.
SECRETARY RICE: Well, that's special.
MR. ROSEN: So there you have it.
SECRETARY RICE: Thank her very much and I look forward to seeing her sometime.
MR. ROSEN: All right. She's going to want to hear from you.
SECRETARY RICE: And maybe even playing dual piano sometime.
MR. ROSEN: That would be great. Thank you, as always.
SECRETARY RICE: Thank you.
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October 01, 2005
Happy October
Yesterday evening at La Onda I heartily enjoyed listening in on a conversation among the two techies at the table next to me. Young, hiply attired, the guy was talking about applying for doctoral programs and the woman about life at the Google. I should mention that everyone I know at this point is young, hiply attired and talking about applying to a doctoral program and/ or about life working for Google. Anyway, despite all reasons to expect otherwise, I have become a person who likes gossip about Google and assorted other tech outfits.
I'm sure anyone who is anyone knows this already, but I hadn't heard it or if I had, I forgot. The woman, who seemed to have been with Google since close to its start (both she and the man had graduated from Stanford), was talking about classes she had been in with Sergei and how wacky he is, etc. "You know the really simple Google interface?" she asked her friend. "Do you know why it's like that?" "Cause it looks nice," tried her friend. "No," said the woman, "because Sergei never learned HTML."
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September 28, 2005
Uh-Oh
Looks like the Suicide Girls aren't happy.
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September 18, 2005
Authors Are So Crazy!
1. Tamara used to work at the Media & Microtext desk in Green Library. One afternoon, an older, professorly man approached her and requested to check out a DVD. "Do you have You've Got Mail?" the man asked, "with, you know, Tom Hanks?" The man handed Tamara his ID card, which Tamara swiped without thought. She had retreived said Tom Hanks DVD and was processing the transaction on the computer when she saw on the name of the Tom Hanks fan on the screen: Tobias Wolfe. In sputtering disbelief, she looked from the screen to the ID card to the man. Yes, it was Tobias Wolf. And he was checking out fucking You've Got Mail!
Ha ha ha.
2. I went across the street to Katz's this morning for a whole wheat bagel with honey-date spread, a large coffee, and the New York Times. I got up to get an apple juice and as I was sitting back down I noticed that the man next to me looked famil-- hey, that's Stephen Elliott! Well, I was about 88% sure it was him, but I couldn't look again because I didn't want to be rude or sad or uncool or creepy. I finished my juice, folded my paper and got up to leave. The tables in Katz's are long, all sticking out like ribs from one wall, lined up almost like in a cafeteria. I was sitting closest to the wall, so to get out I had to side-step behind everyone else at the table, including, yes, he who appeared to be Steven Elliot. As I passed him, I glanced down and saw printed on his white t-shirt, a few inches below his neck, the following lines:
"Happy Baby is surely the most intelligent and beautiful book ever written about juvenile detention centers, sadomasochism and drugs.
-The New York Times"
'No!' I thought, that can't be him. I mean, I was now about 90% sure it was him, but no, please no, please. He can't be wearing a promotional t-shirt for his own book, he just can't. As I go to drop my trash into the bin, I turn and take an impolitely long look. Oh man, totally Steven Elliot. Yeah, no question. And, like the dorky kid who wears his own bar-mitzvah party favor t-shirt to school, he is wearing a t-shirt upon the front of which is emblazoned with Happy Baby and an image from the book's cover and on the shirt's back is an excerpt from its review in the New York Times.
Posted by hissycat at 03:51 PM | Comments (22) | TrackBack
August 17, 2005
Therefore
 | Currently Listening Bright Yellow Bright Orange By The Go-Betweens see related |
Full disclosure: Nick and I attended the same high school. He was(and, for that mattter, is, and will always be) a year younger than me,and for most of high school, I didn't really know much about him,though I probably disliked him anyway, because he went to that highschool. My interactions with Nick were limited to: 1) A couple ofvicious, tooth-and-nail arguements at meetings for the schoolnewspaper; there was a particularly nasty back-and-forth after somemulti-cultural assembly; I guess we were discussing the issues itraised, etc. and somehow we got on the topic of multi-culturalism (ick,I hate that word) in the curriculum, whether we read enough works bywomen and minorities; Nick seemed to think we read too muchwork by women and minorities instead of the "classics" and "greatauthors" ("Hemmingway. And Henry James."), and I, of course, flewoff the handle at that, objecting to the notion that works by culturalminorities that we read in class should be restricted to certainquotas, that literature by privledges white men did not represent the'universal human experience' that 'classics' claim to offer, and, well,it got pretty nasty. Oh, now that I am remembering this, Iremember I think I did actively dislike Nick, at least for my firstthree years of high school. 2) Witnessing a frightening speechNick gave when he was running for school office; of course he won-- hehad the charisma of a young Hitler; he walked around the gym floorwithout a mike, gesticulating alarmingly, getting kids all riled upover the issue of soda machines and whatever.
But sometime in my senior year, my opinion of him started tochange. There was a school writing contest where I came in firstand Nick second; I got to read his story, and I liked it-- a lot-- so Idecided he was alright. I did an art tutorial with another girlin the senior class and, Paul, who was really talented and a yearyounger; I got to be friendly with Paul, and Paul always spoke well ofNick. Then Nick interviewed me for an article when I was selectedas class speaker for graduation, and I thought he was nice and smartand funny. In the course of the interview, he asked about mysummer plans. I told him that, because of a windfall in prizemoney that spring, I could afford to not make money that summer butspend my time writing a novel I had started. Well, that wasaround the time that Nick began writing Twelve. Nick was friends with an ex-boyfriend of mine, and as said ex-boyfriendand I warmed up to being friends with one another again, I got to knowNick a little better. He talked to me about writing something fora literary magazine he wanted to create, and we started correspondingnow and then, mostly about writing, how we felt about it, how it wasgoing, what we were going to do with our novels when we were done.
(In one email, Nick wrote me that it was his absolute dream to have hisnovel published by Grove press because Grove had published some authorshe admired-- of course, at the time, I had no idea who Nick's fatherwas, or that Nick had any personal connection to Grove; I think I hadsome vague idea that Nick's parents did something in publishing-- Iknew, for instance, that Nick had met Joan Didion and Fran Lebowitz,and I was envious and admiring of him for that; in one exchange, Imentioned how different it must be for him, then, to have grown upknowing people who had made it as writers than it was for me growing upthe daughter of doctors who discouraged me to think of writing as acareer choice; my models of grown-ups who chose to try to make a lifeout of a creative pursuit were my parents' friends and the parents ofmy friends from P.S. 41, people who worked very hard, who were verytalented and good at what they did but who had no recognition and livedpretty much hand-to-mouth.)
We continued our irregular correspondance through my freshman year ofcollege. I knew his book was going to be published, and I likedto read his descriptions of the wacky world of publishing, as he gearedup for the release of the book. He sent me a galleys copy, and Ithought that was pretty cool. That summer I was back to New Yorkand ended up hanging out with Nick and the ex-boyfriend. Duringsophmore year, my friendship with Jeff cooled off following an incidentwe need not discuss, and, as I fell out of touch with Jeff, byextension I also lost contact with Nick.
I'm not going to lie. I read that article. I am jealous of Nick McDonell. Notbecause of his celebrity or prestige. I can't say that I have anydesire to be part of that sleazy, macho, bullcrap world; sorry, butthat description of Morgan Entrenkin bragging with his mouth full ofexpensive salami made my stomach turn. I am envious of anyone whohas conversed with Joan Didion-- Didion's writing is extremelyimportant and dear to me-- but, in general, I don't aspire toparticipate in the high-brow hob-nobbing that goes on at theOld Boys Publishing Club-- oops, I mean Corporation.
I don't envy Nick for what he has exactly but for what he couldhave, for the abundance of choices that are open to him. What Ienvy most about Nick is that for him "writer" is a reasonable andrelatively secure occupation to pursue. From time to time, inorder to stave off overwhelming and paralyzing hopelessness, I'll tellmyself, "it's ok that I work a crappy job; I need time topractice my art, anyway, by writing long unread novels during the fewhours between work and sleep; I like my unexceptional life; it is good for me to struggle; it is better to wait until I produce something worthwhile and then seeif I can make writing into a career than to aspire to professionalmediocrity at a young age; plenty of excellent and much-read authorswork crappy jobs half their lives and don't publish a sentence until atleast middle-age." But I know that isn't true, at least notin this country at this time. Reading various reviews andmagazines, it is apparent that most new authors (at least the newauthors that are paid attention in reviews and magazines) are youngauthors, and they are good-looking, cool, and have some amount ofconnection. Those that don't have a relative or family friend somewherein the publishing industry are graduates of elite professional programswith MFAs from Iowa or Columbia. I don't have any ins, I won't beyoung for all that much longer, and I have neither the money or inclinationto move far away from my friends and my boyfriend and my new home cityto once again be a student working towards an unemployable degree(although, give me a few more years of dumb desk jobs, and I may feeldifferently).
Anyway, I was delighted to find the following email from Alex in my inbox this morning:
Dear god. I don't know if and how you got through it.
I was scarcely past the first paragraph, and already it was too hard to
continue--knowing how much you must want to stab him (and perhaps yourself)
in the face.
The headline is the worst part: perhaps you shouldn't "hate him because he's
young, good-looking, privileged, and impeccably connected." But you should
hate the fact that they left out 'therefore' before the phrase "about to
publish his second novel."
PS all your other friends from high school sucked, and i assume he's the
same way.
--Alex
I love Alex. I also love the fact that, at least without thesubject heading, it kind of seems like he is addressing me asgod. Alex briefly met some people I knew in high school, Nickincluded, and he is right: almost everyone I knew in high school was anasshole (myself included)-- not just jerks, either, the way mostteenagers are, but just a bunch of assholes. Anyway, I should saythat Nick was never an asshole, at least not to me. He's alwaysbeen kind, decent, and well-manered towards me. As intolerable asthey come off in that article, both Nick and his brother seem likedeeply decent people. In any case, I've always found them veryeasy people to be around, and I enjoyed time spent in conversation witheither of them.
To be honest, I wasn't as rageful as as could have been reading thearticle. When I first found out about Nick's new novel, I wasdistressed, notbecause he was getting a book published and I wasn't, but because, inthe time since he wrote his (published) and I wrote my (unpublished)first novel, he had managed to produce another one, and one that (byall reports) demonstrates a progression in architecture andscope. I was less upset about Nick's book getting published (Imean, of course itwould. No surprise there. As long as he completed it, itwould be published.) than the fact that he had managed to completeanother novel. I had written about 200 pages of a novel, decided thestory I was telling was lousy and dishonest, and trashed the project,never writing the three or four chapters that would have completed it(it still would have been completely awful, but at least it would havebeen acomplete) I'd written a handful of short stories, but so haseveryone, so what? My thesis, of course, was the largest writingproject undertaken during my college years, but, of course, that wasn'tfiction, and lots of people write theses, so, somehow, that doesn'tquite count. I felt angry and dissappointed with myself for nothaving been as productive. If I'd been a better, more focusedperson, I could have writen a second novel, too.
So in a way, it is consoling to learn that Nick "wrote his new novel, The Third Brother,at the home of an acquaitance in Hawaii. . . during what would havebeen the second semester of his sophomore year," and that he didn't,you know, write it at the library, in between problem sets and papers,or at the bright end of an all-nighter, or during lecture, or in hisstinking dorm room on days when he was too depressed to get out ofbed. It is still incredeably depressing to realize that if Nick'skind of privledgedness is what is needed to produce books, then I haveabout as much chance as an ice cube in hell, but at least the fact thatI didn't keep up isn't entirely a reflection on my sorry excuse of a work ethic. Nick didn't strain himself too hard, you know?
It is a pretty gross article. The little aside that Nick isdown-to-earth because "he is on a first-name basis with every buildingand grounds officer we run into at Harvard" is-- what the fuck isthat? It is so obnoxious and condescending. Like, wow, heactually knows the names of the help, what a saint, let's give that boya ribbon, a shining model for the noblesse oblige if I ever sawone. Please. If I wanted to feel totally patronized I wouldhave tuned into the president addressing "working folk."
Of course, it was Ariel Levy, not Nick, who seems to think thatincluding the amusing anecdote about Nick actually talking to theservants would somehow make Nick seem more, um, down to earth (perhapspalatable to the masses is the phrase I'm seeking here). But Nickdoes himself no favors by proclaiming "I've had absurdly goodluck." Excuse me? Luck is having your manuscript pluckedfrom the slush pile by a sympathetic reader. Luck is finallygetting a story accepted by a tiny magazine. Luck is encounteringa teacher or mentor who gives you guidance. Luck is an unknownwinning a fiction contest. But being born into a family ready tosupport you, materially and otherwise, in becoming a writer and alreadyimmersed in the publishing world and having your book published by yourfather's good friend, that is not luck. That, my friends, iscalled having it made.
And it's why it's hard not to want stabbing some faces when Nick isquoted as saying things like "I'm worried about not getting a fairshake because I've had so many advantages." What? Nick, Ibelieve you have gotten a more than fair shake. Because you'vehad so many advantages. The only people who ever get "shakes" ofany sort, fair or unfair, are people who've had so manyadvantages. It's a little sad (just a little, no need to call outthe string quartet) when Nick says, "But I'm not worried I can'tdeliver. I know I can write." Of course, he can"deliver." Of course, he can write. But that is all that isasked of him-- not that he write well or compellingly; just that hewrites; just that he delivers the product. I don't mean to saythat Nick doesn't write well or compellingly-- in any case, I generallyhate arguments for or against how "good" any writer or written workis-- my point is that with Nick, his literary merit is totallyirrelevant. All he to do is be good enough. He doesn't haveto be great, he doesn't have to be good; he just has to be good enough,to deliver a manuscript that can be prepped, packaged, and sold. He's twenty-one and hearing things like Morgan Entrekin's (quitefrankly, embaressing-- for everyone) stupid statement, "the besteveidence of how good Nick is is that 27 publishers internationallyhave brought his book. . ." Um, no. That's great evidencethat publishers see Nick's work as extremely saleable; it's certainly anice thing for Nick that they think that, but it is not evidence thatNick is good. I'd like to believe that Nick is decent andintelligent enough to realize this. I certainly don't pity Nickhis success, which, by all accounts, he handles like a champ, but I dosometimes think about how warped one could become by being absorbedinto a world where, at twenty-one, feedback on your work is handed youin the form of a profit margin.
It's always impossible to know what's going on behind ridiculous,extravagant articles in New York magazine, which, apart from someevents listings and reviews, is the gossip rag of Park Avenue. It's a stupid, annoying article, prompted, I'm sure, by stupid,annoying PR rats. The article just barely mentions the content ofNick's books at all, doesn't give any reason other than the author'scelebrity why this man is worthy of a lengthy article. The authordoesn't make any claims that Nick is doing something innovative ordifferent in fiction-- that is not the point. The article isabout the fact that he is "young, good-looking, privledged, [and]impeccably connected." There isn't any pretense that the articleis about Nick's writing or even Nick as a writer; it is about wealthand celebrity and Nick as a Hot, Young Thing.
I'm curious how much of this ploy is Nick's doing. My guesswouldbe that it's not-- that he's just going along for the ride as the PR department has afield day-- but who knows. By the looks of it, the PR department has a newstrategy: instead of touting Nick as a young, amazingly talentedauthor, as they did for the first book, they are emphasizing Nick'sprivledge and connections as a selling point. The whole "don'thate him because he's beautiful" schtick they're pulling seemscalculated to piss people off. Of courseif you promote him as being rich and connected, people will think he'sdespicable. Reading that article, in which the nepositiccharacter of his success is trumpted as a selling point ('ooh, look howrich and powerful Nick's daddy is. Nick knows all these famouspeople: let's list them!' Please.), I had to think that the PRdepartment wants people to be driven up the wall by Nick, they want tostir up controversy. Controversy sells, and it sells to drivepeople up the walls. Marketing doesn't give a damn if readers arebuying the books just for a snicker, or just to satisfy their appetitiefor scandal, or just to feel better by seeing how bad it reallyis. Marketing cares about selling books. As a society, welove all the people we can't stand. Ann Coulter. RushLimbaugh. Dr. Laura. Howard Stern. ParisHilton. Bush and his entire administration. We can't getenough. We throw our dollars and votes after them. I'mbetting PR is betting that with Nick McDonell, we'll gladly do thesame.
I find the New York article extremely tacky, I am deeply envious ofNick's opportunities, but I don't actually begrudge him his success/fame. He's a fine writer, so why not him? There arecertainly cases of nepotism I find more offensive if not downrightdangerous: Michael Powell, Murdoch Jr., Saul Bellow's kid (who wrote awhole book "defending nepotism" from, uh, something). WhetherNick deserves or doesn't, whether he is great or he isn't, whether heis worthy or he's not, ultimately, is all besides the point. AsClint Eastwood says in Unforgiven as he is about to shoot Gene Hackman(in the face), "deserve's got nothing to do with it."
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Posted by hissycat at 03:15 PM | Comments (26) | TrackBack
August 16, 2005
Unlike Posh, You Will Have To Read It For Yourself
 | Currently Reading Feminisms: An Anthology of Literary Theory and Criticism see related |
Check out the least surprising news of the week.
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Posted by hissycat at 12:57 PM | Comments (131) | TrackBack
August 12, 2005
Bloody Murder
I Can't Wait for the Movie
Bloodier than Leopold and Loeb! More salacious that Parker and Hume!
I'm really into True Crime. Especially when it involves 1)Complicated plotting 2) Elaborate psychoses and/ or folie a deux 3)Sex, Revenge, Jealousy, Money and whatever else is reeking of Scandal.
I'm so absorbed by this caseinvolving a 14-year-old boy who orchestrated his own murder viainternet chat-rooms under guise of an impressive array ofpersonnas. There will always be a special place in my heart forthe Hume-Parker case, but this definately beats that German guy whopaid someone to torture and murder him and eat his penis. Itdoesn't beat it in terms of gore-- the German sounds more gorey-- butin terms of the imaginitiveness and ingenuity that the boy used incrafting his own murder (I mean, the German essentailly posted aMurderer Wanted ad and then interviewed candidates for the position)and the sheer, impenetrable bizarreness of actions and motivations on the part of the boy (I mean, there's something slightlyhackneyed about overtly sexualized murders involving S&M perverts.. . like, I've already seen that Law and Order), the 14-year-oldtotally wins.
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Posted by hissycat at 02:50 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack