Some Books Are Born
Now that the furor appears to be abating over my ostensible lack of parenting skills--and many thanks to those of you who've written in support--I will stir up another nest of wasps with my latest Bad Sex column. This time, perhaps people will express outrage that I took a date to revival house instead of an actual movie theater, or that...But perhaps I dream too high and fly too close to the sun.
Instead, I would like to announce the arrival of several excellent books in the world. The first is something I contributed to called Bookmark Now, wherein an enthusiastic young man named Kevin Smokler has assembled a group of essays by not-yet-gray writers, discussing what it means to be a writer in a post-literary age. I contributed something about fan fiction. Other contributors include Tracy Chevalier, Meghan Daum, Robert Lanham, Christian Bauman, Adam Johnson, Elizabeth Spiers, and many more.
The second, and I count this one as number 22 on my list of books read this year, is The Clumsiest People In Europe, by my good friend and former best man at my wedding Todd Pruzan. I couldn't be more proud than if my dog had written this book, so I can't be objective. Instead, let me quote Dr. Pruzan from a self-promotional email he sent out this morning:
"The book is a cranky, caustic, funny and unsettling collection of nasty writing about geography for Victorian children, written by Mrs. Favell Lee Mortimer and originally published between 1849 and 1854. I've written a brief introduction (which appeared in a streamlined version in The New Yorker in April) about Mrs. Mortimer and her writing, and supplied some interstitial information for this country-by-country screed. Otherwise, it's all Mrs. Mortimer, offering the perfect primer on why every country in the world really, really sucks (or did in the 1850s, at any rate)."
So there you have it. If you don't like this book, then you have a cold, cold heart. Pruzan is starving and is (off the record) about to be wed himself, so please support his cause.
Finally, let me recommend Tiny Ladies In Shiny Pants, by Jill Soloway, who I recently met at a top-secret retreat for Jewish hipster intellectuals. Jill is a producer and writer for Six Feet Under, and her writing is funny, charming, and provocative, and a necessary antitode to the anti-feminist backlash that has produced monstrosities like Ann Coulter, Paris Hilton, and She's Just Not That Into You or whatever the fuck that stupid book is called. Since Jill is a Hollywood person, let me pitch it like this: She's like Gloria Steinem crossed with Fran Leibowitz with a touch of Candace Bushnell and a pinch of Gilda Radner. Anyway, that's book number 23. If I didn't get blurbing assignments, I don't know if I'd make it all the way to 50.
Amare, I send this message: You are a man. Dunk wisely, and dunk well. Tony Parker is too pretty and he needs to crinkle his brow. Send the series back to San Antonio on Friday so I can actually attend a game.