The National Book Awards Office Pool
I've refrained from commenting on this year's inevitable National Book Awards controversy because no one cares what I think, because I don't care what I think myself, and because, let's be real, it doesn't matter who wins the National Book Award. Of my 100 favorite books of all time, not one has won the National Book Award for fiction. I'm sure many of you can say the same.
The only way the public at large could be made to care about the "five women from New York," all of whom, I'm sure, are very good writers, is if their story gets optioned and that option then gets made into an animated film. While I appreciate the hard work of the many people who keep the temple of literature standing, and I'll pitch in where I can, I don't have any illusions that literature occupies a place in our culture any more important than, say, opera. It's necessary that books continue, but American Literature with a capital L only matters to an audience that's just large enough to keep it from collapsing.
I couldn't believe it when, at the beginning of the NBA ceremony, Nicolette Sheridan threw off her towel and jumped into Garrison Keillor's arms. It was the sexiest moment in American literature since Marilyn Monroe sang "Happy Birthday, John O'Hara," in 1957. ABC will do anything to promote Desperate Housewives. Thank goodness the FCC is helping to prevent American children from seeing a black man and a white woman possibly having sex.
Soon, TV is going to have to get subversive to escape the state censors. This British kids' show from the 1970s may point the way. Please don't drink milk while watching the video.