Hey, There's A Dead Guy in the Living Room

Guest Post--Classics, Inc.

(NOTE FROM JOSH: I was sitting down to write this evening when the Boy, two days done with Middle School but not yet a Freshman, tells me to step aside. “You’re tired,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

Clearly he has been. And he’s not shy about discussing it. I hope I miss the train to Weenieville.

JG)

Classics, Inc.

By Joe Newman-Getzler

                What is a “classic”? Depending on whom you ask the answers could vary wildly. For some, a classic could be a book like Murder on the Orient Express, a movie like Casablanca, or a song like “Let It Be”. To others, a classic could be a book like Diary of a Wimpy Kid, a movie like Johnny Dangerously, or a song like “Boom! Shake the Room." This need not only apply to books. The term “classic” can also be applied to anything from a good joke to a memorable sports play. But what, indeed, is a classic? And how does it unify these many different things?

                To most people, a classic is merely a thing that stays in their head for a long time, usually for a positive reason. But to some, the name goes much deeper than that. A classic means a piece of cultural significance, something considered a great thing that all should love and cherish for its greatness. Typically, there is a predetermined set of “classics” for any kind of genre or type. For example, if you want a “classic” book, the names that’ll probably come up would be books like Animal Farm, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Catcher in the Rye, or Gone with the Wind. A “classic” movie? You’d probably see names like Citizen Kane, Some Like it Hot, or Singin’ in the Rain. But should we have our classics defined for us? Or should we form our own opinions on what is classic and what’s not?

                This is a question that has been troubling me for a while now: what’s a classic and what’s not? The reason this has been rumbling through my mind is because lately I have been trying to give myself a “classical” film and literary experience. Summer’s just begun, and now that I have gobs upon gobs of time to spend, I want to fill them with great books and great movies. For the former, my family has been supplying me with tons of great books like To Kill a Mockingbird and The Catcher in the Rye. And yes, they are great. But I will admit, my standards for classics are pretty low. The whole school year was peppered with classic books in my English class, like The Woman Warrior, The Chosen, Animal Farm, you name it. But my ideas of classics are Dave Barry is Not Making This Up, Bugs Bunny: 50 Years and Only One Gray Hare, and There Is No Dog. And yet, Mom and Dad say not to read those over and over. Read The Hobbit. Come on! It’s only 500 pages long, you wuss!

                Movies are another area of “classics” that drive me crazy, though for a different reason. While I would consider myself a rather decent film lover, there are still so many movies I haven’t seen that I feel pressured by myself to watch. Seriously?, I ask myself. You haven’t seen Citizen Kane? Jaws? The Dark Knight? You, sir, are on the train straight to Weenieville. And even my gym teacher’s let into me about my lack of film exposure: he spent 10 minutes telling me how I simply must watch The Empire Strikes Back in order to truly deem myself a Star Wars fan (BTW, I’ve only seen A New Hope and Return of the Jedi. That fact led to not only the aforementioned monologue, but another about how I should watch the prequels because, yeah, they suck, but I MUST have the complete Star Wars experience.) And yet, I also feel that there are a great many films that I truly love and yet many don’t even think of in the same league as “classics.” Seriously, does nobody but me consider UHF a classic? Charlie and the Chocolate Factory better than the Gene Wilder one? I feel so lonely.

                It’s times like this when I start to think about how subjective a term “classic” is. Can only what has been previously called a classic be a classic? Can others come up with their own “classic” films to share with the world? That is my hope. While, naturally, classic books and movies are to be revered and respected, they aren’t the only good books and movies out there! I wish more people would realize that. And YES, I am going to watch The Empire Strikes Back this summer. But the prequels? Hmm. Maybe. But for now…keep on readin’.                                                                                                    

The Greatest Thing Over The World

Josh Getzler

Every night, my wife and I record BBC World News and watch during dinner. We find that it’s the only broadcast that actually reports news, rather than hours of political commentary of one stripe or the other.

And every night, after the half hour is over, we look at each other and say “the world is coming to an end.”

Except last night. Last night, there was a long report about Commander Chris Hadfield, a Canadian astronaut who spent five months living on the International Space Station. While he was there, Commander Hadfield, who is 53 and trim and effortlessly charming, Tweeted about life in Space. He didn’t talk only about the elevated scientific experiments he was performing, but how to eat spinach or brush his teeth in zero gravity. It’s amazing, riveting journalism in 140 character chunks.

Commander Hadfield returned from space last week, but before he did, he performed his piece de resistance—he recorded a music video of himself singing a slightly rewritten version of David Bowie’s 1969 song Space Oddity (Major Tom). Of course in the original, Major Tom loses contact with Ground Control and presumably hurtles off into the abyss. It’s brilliant, but ultimately depressing. In this version, Commander Hadfield sings about strapping into his pod and coming home, his time in space complete and successful. The video has been viewed millions of times now. Even David Bowie himself retweeted it, approvingly.  

What’s remarkable about this video is that it is completely, whole-heartedly positive. Space, in HD, is gorgeous. Stunning. Commander Hadfield is not commenting on President Obama’s troubles or chaos in Syria. He’s just making music, in space, floating in his tin can. It’s brilliantly uplifting. And in this time of war, famine, global warming, tornadoes in the Plains, political and religious strife worldwide, the idea of unbridled joy is even more overwhelmingly rejuvenating. Take a look. And enjoy your day.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=poZCINzxzrQ

PS--Back to books next week--thanks for the suggestions last week!

Perfection

Josh Getzler

 

Last night I began a column about the power of a Kindle Daily Deal on book sales, but assorted children needed attending to and I had to leave it. I realized as I was thinking about it though, that the end of the story isn't told yet--I want to see what kind of tail we get on it before discussing the results, so let's wait a week.

 

In the meantime, I had a long back and forth with my cousin Matt Resnick today. He posted on Facebook about having listened to "The Perfect Album" today, and asked what his Friends thought it was. A number of people weighed in--Rubber Soul, Aja, Beethoven's Ninth, Born to Run, Pet Sounds. And it got us into questions of perfection and what makes a perfect album. Is it production values (at which point you could make a case for Boston or Paul's Boutique) or an individual's opinion on genius of songwriting or concept or music (Freewheeling Bob Dylan, perhaps, or Dark Side of the Moon or Sinead O'Connor's The Lion and the Cobra, or the Smiths' Queen is Dead or Purple Rain or Bob Mould's Workbook or...you get the point.)

 

Of course, this is an impossible argument, as much as it's fun to do. I have perfect albums that the artists themselves don't even think is their best work (I like U2's War better than Joshua Tree, REM's Reckoning better than Out of Time, and I can listen to Terrapin Station or American Idiot for days and days). It also changes by genre--you can't compare Tannheuser to Rumours, really, or Candide to London Calling.

 

It's clear that you can do the same in books (and we do here all the time--how do you compare Pride & Prejudice to Moby Dick, or Wolf Hall to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo). Even within genres, a cozy is different from a police procedural (mostly) is different from a spy novel. Your idea of perfection might be The Corrections; your friend's could be Crime and Punishment or Harry Potter (but which one? Heh!) or Love in the Time of Cholera or Foucault's Pendulum or Easy Rawlings. But it's always a good time.

 

Oh, and Matt was listening to Kind of Blue. Hard to argue there... 

Waiting To Buy Tickets At Tower Records

Josh Getzler

When I was in high school, there was an enormous Tower Records store on 66th Street and Broadway, right in front of the subway station I used to get home from school. I spent a serious amount of time in Tower Records, learning about Jimi Hendrix and Depeche Mode, Prince and The Replacements, browsing the racks of LPs and reading liner notes, which were their own metaliturature.

No, I’m not going to spent the next 500 words mourning the death of the record store (though I could) or comparing the slow death of Tower Records to what appears to be a similar death spiral of retail Barnes and Nobles stores (again, I could). But I am going to discuss, somewhat wistfully I suppose, another aspect of the Tower Records experience that is gone and which I miss: The Ticketmaster line.

I was talking to one of the guys I share my office with the other day, and mentioned that tickets for a particular concert I wanted to see had sold out at the price I wanted to pay. And I said, in a kind of throwaway line, that pressing refresh on the Live Nation website was nowhere near as much fun as it had been to wait on line for tickets to, say, Jethro Tull or Rush or the Kinks in eighth or ninth grade.

Actually, it wasn’t that much fun to wait. You had to line up around the Tower Records store up Broadway to 67th Street, then around toward Amsterdam, and couldn’t get in until the store opened at 9 in the morning. It was cold and boring and the smell of stale weed gets old. I didn’t do it often. But there was still a shared sense of community with other teenagers to wait to get tickets to a show, and you’d talk about how you hoped they’d only play Old Stuff because the new album sucked and did you see them the LAST time they were in New York—no, not the Friday night show, I heard that was terrible, but the Saturday night one when Joey Ramone came onstage for the encore and, well, looked like he was going to fall over but he was SO COOL!

And then the door would open and you’d go in and wait some more (but warm, now) and you’d hold each other’s places to (finally) go to the bathroom and talk about how you hope that they would just open the stupid register already because last time they sold out the first show in 11 minutes, but you’d get it and pay the cash you collected from your friends and get your tickets and bounce out and start the countdown to the actual show (and maybe buy the new album and see if it really did suck).

Then the next week, you’d walk past Tower Records and see another line of teenagers, for another concert, maybe dressed more metal or punk or new wave and you’d ask some tired kid “who’s coming?” and either nod approvingly or shrug, and get on the subway.

Look, it’s way more efficient to buy tickets (or books or albums or…toothpaste) on line than it is to wait all night on Broadway or shlep to the grocery store. Tower Records is out of business (a whole other column), replaced by Raymour & Flanagan, and nobody is waiting up all night for a new sofa. Teenagers meet on YouTube and Instagram to talk about whose songs suck, and take videos on their smartphones when they’re actually at the concerts. There are great advantages to our virtual world. But somehow that conversation the other day brought me back to the excitement and enthusiasm of an adolescent community experience which has gone the way of Joey Ramone sightings and liner notes.

Ruminations on CSN and Tony Gwynn

Josh Getzler

So it's 11:34 and I'm in danger of missing another week's blog day. This time it was not a Jewish holiday and not a conference and not a literary reading, but a Crosby Stills and Nash concert. I was skeptical when we bought ticket--the last time we saw them was 10 years ago, when my wife was pregnant with child #3(who got a great in utero contact high), and they were OLD. But terrific. And we left happy and satisfied that we'd gotten to see them, kind of like when we saw Tony Gwynn in the last year he played for the Padres and we'd shlepped out to Shea to see him just so we could say we saw him. But I digress.

So CSN (without Young, or Tony Gwynn for that matter) was back, at the Beacon Theater (very appropriate now, and Winchester Cathedral was perfect there, just saying), and they are now at least seven years past OLD. And they were fabulous. OK, so after nine months of touring (this is the last set of shows) Stills is finished and could barely croak out Love the One You're With. But the surprise MVP was David Crosby, who could have been MVP for being able to stand at this point. But he has a voice like an angel (still), and was thin(ner) and fit(ter), and the group wisely centered the playlist around his proggy stuff. So we got Guinevere and Winchester and Deja Vu and Stills could play guitar and all the happy fogies like us got to sit back and relax.

As we were leaving we both realized that the upshot was this: We spend so much time listening to top 40 these days because of our kids, it was nice to go to an old school rock concert with black t-shirts and guitars and Hammond organs and singers who allowed themselves to be ragged.

Of course, we're also kind of excited that next week brings us Ke$ha's new album. (Don't be a hater, now!)

 

Inviolate time

Josh Getzler

In this new world of constant accessibility, where the ability to receive (and therefore deal with) emails, text messages and phone calls on the subway, in bed, walking down the street...everywhere and at any time, it is increasingly difficult to come up with boundaries, with unreachable time. I was thinking about this at Starbucks this morning, between meetings, when I was "just checking my email" for a half an hour, the ice in my coffee melting as my stress level rose. I suddenly thought that it would be wonderful to Turn Off for a while, just enjoy the coffee and decompress. Then I pressed Send--I've been too busy for too many days, with too much upcoming busy-ness to take that particular half hour to smell the coffee.

For so many of us, this compulsive attention to communication is both freeing and shackling. We are no longer tied to a desk to do our jobs or our homes to talk to our families and friends. But we are also, then, always available, and sometimes don't want to be. It can become manic. Annoying to spouses and kids. Unhealthy.

I have two times each week where I am offline; one through ritual, one through choice. Both are vital to my mental health for different reasons. The first is that I observe the Jewish sabbath. As such I don't do many of the activities that make up my week, including talk on the phone and use my email. What I do is rest--read, walk, spend time with my family and many friends, and generally recharge my batteries. If I didn't have those 25 hours each week, I would have burned out several times by now. 

My other inviolate time is from 3:30-4 PM every Friday, when I take a drum lesson in between my daughter's and my son's. He's the family drum pioneer, starting more than two years ago. We got an electronic drum kit, so our grouchy downstairs neighbors would have less to complain about. And I found myself, almost every night as I went to say goodnight to him, idly picking up the sticks and tapping until my wife wanted to kill me. Finally I approached Joe's teacher, the amazing, ever patient Brad Meehan, and asked if he would take me on as well. While I played bad Talking Heads covers on guitar in a band in high school, I'd never played drums except on my steering wheel.

I loved it immediately. I was not natural. I took forever to learn a new beat, a new song. I never have time to practice (the neighbors are glad). But it's a half-hour a week of joy for me, when I don't need to think of the manuscripts teed up on my kindle, or the submissions I need to make, or the follow-up calls, or the bills to pay. Over the last year and a half I've learned Green Day and reggae, salsa and backbeat. My youngest daughter (the true pop star in the family--she dressed as Ke$ha for purim, god help me) decided to join the party, and now Brad deals with three of us every week.

For me, the drums have become a vital anchor to my week. I'm incredibly off-kilter when I need to miss time, particularly when it's unplanned. And if one of the kids can't make it, and I get an extra 15 minutes of playtime, it's like a snow day in elementary school. I don't need to practice two hours a day to achieve that happiness, either (though I'd be a LOT better!). Just that half-hour a week.

And last Sunday (sorry FB friends for the repeat), I got to play on a real set, on a real stage in a rock club, at Brad's students' recital. I did a Cowboy Mouth song from the late '80's, Jenny Says, right after Joe's Footloose and before Ita's California Gurls (and three after the 4 year old did We Will Rock You!). Here's a link. 

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=3549405728288

Am I ridiculous? Possibly. But ecstatic--if goofy--and far away from the responsibilities and pressures of daily life. And that's healthy.  

But is it Art?

Jeff Cohen

Here's how oddly my mind is working these days:

Ben's post on Friday (and if you haven't read it yet, go and do so now; I'll wait) got me to thinking. The video of Harry Crews discussing what is and is not "art" really stirred all sorts of feelings in me. 

I agreed with everything he said--particularly about not enjoying writing, but loving having written--until he started defining what he did as being an "artist." Now, I'm not arguing for a moment that Harry Crews isn't an artist. 

What I'm saying is that I'm not an artist.

In the tradition of other great cowards, I'm going to qualify that statement even further: I am not suggesting that what I do isn't art in the broadest sense. In other words, I'm not saying that other authors who write the same kind of book as I do are not artists. I make no such claim for anyone other than myself.

All I can say for sure is that when I'm writing, which is most of the time, what I'm doing doesn't feel like creating art. It feels like a job, a craft. Sometimes it resembles a magic act, pulling out certain tricks that will get the point across. Other times it's a question of allowing the characters enough freedom to do what they're going to do and not getting in their way too much.

In any event, typing away with "Feel the Sun" by The Goldbergs in my headphones doesn't really seem to be the sort of solitary, solemn, serious and immortality-seeking activity art is "supposed" to be.

Part of this statement, of course, is tied to the fact that I can't really tell you much about art. I'll go to museums with my wife because she loves them, but I'll tell you the truth--I get nothing out of it. We went to Rome in 2006 and saw works by Raphael, Leonardo, Michelangelo and probably another Ninja Turtle, and while I admired the craft as something I sure as hell couldn't do, the emotion of it, the story, the message the artist was trying to communicate, all that was lost on me. Some of them were very pretty, though.

The same is true of the works I've seen by Picasso, the operas by... anybody, the great novels of Melville, Hemingway, Hawthorne and some Dickens (he could spin a tale). It's a mystery to me. There are things universally accepted as classic and artistic, and I'll prefer to watch Raiders of the Lost Ark again or re-read Flanagan's Run by Tom McNab. Or listen to The Goldbergs.

I fully accept that this is a failing of my own. I've seen many great paintings (living near New York will help you do that), and never viewed one that I didn't feel would have been better if it could have moved. I wanted the rest of the story. One frame out of a movie, no matter how brilliantly composed, never really reaches me.

This, I'm guessing, infuses my view of my own work. I read over things I've written, and I have ego enough (believe me) to enjoy them when there's enough distance between my typing "THE END" and the reading. I think I'm pretty good at what I do. I think more people should read my books. I think I fill a need.

But art? What the hell is art, anyway?

P.S. OLD HAUNTS by E.J. Copperman will be published in 29 days. I don't feel like it's art, but maybe you have a different definition. I hope it's a good story well told.

P.P.S. Pitchers and catchers report in 41 days.

Theatre, Writing, and Pictures of My Dog

Jeff Cohen

New York: One day we Garden Staters are going to be condescended to one time too many, remember you live on an island, and cut you off. I'm just saying.

First of all, for those who have been asking, we went to see THE ARTIST on Christmas Day. It was very good, different (clearly), inventive. My life did not change in a significant way, but I enjoyed it, and that's enough. Later in the week we went to see Lysistrata Jones on Broadway. Fun, breezy, very well performed. Not getting nearly enough press.

On to new business:

*I'm writing something new, without a contract, just for myself (until I finish it and send it to Josh). Not a mystery, not like anything that's come before. And it's scaring the living hell out of me. (No, it's not horror. It won't scare YOU...)

*I've been listening to music lately by Paul Melancon and The Goldbergs. Leave it to me that my "new music" is five-to-eight years old.

*Far too many of the artists I listen to are now dead. Last year I lost Gerry Rafferty and Phoebe Snow. To go with George Harrison, John Lennon, Jim Croce, Eric Woolfson, Harry Chapin, Harry Nilsson, Elliot Smith and Cass Elliott (among others), that's just too much. This is part of getting older, and like most of getting older, I could do without it.

*I can't wait for Wednesday, just so I won't have to hear about Iowa again for another four years. Except when my wife talks about her college years.

*On January 1, the New York Times printed a special section on the Oscars. Dear New York Times: That's too soon. I can still remember who won some of the awards last year.

*I won't be going to Malice Domestic this year. I'm sorry about that; I wish I could go, but it's not possible. The travel budget won't allow it, and it happens to fall on the weekend of my 25th wedding anniversary. I like being married more than I like being an author, so I'll be back at Malice in 2013. Probably not as the guest of honor, but that's understandable.

*Winter break is just long enough to get used to having the kids back home. They they go back to school and we go through the whole "empty nest" thing again. It's cruel, in a weird way.

*Dear Dick Clark: Retire.

*I've been digitizing family photos, and therefore have been looking through every picture we've pretty much ever taken. What's interesting is how the dog has aged. His snout is now almost all white. It's a preview of coming attractions for my beard.

*Where's Old Zealand? (If this is to be believed, it's an island off Denmark.) 

*To Whomever is in charge of weather: What we're getting in the Northeast right now is just fine. Don't change a thing. Until April.

*Just to mention it: OLD HAUNTS by E.J. Copperman will be published five weeks from tomorrow. A to-the-second countdown can be found here. But who's counting?

*Pitchers and catchers report in 49 days. 

*Getting ready to teach again, starting next week. I always get nervous ahead of time. Isn't that odd?

*Got an amplifier for my acoustic 12-string as a gift. Had no idea how frightening it would be to actually hear what it sounds like when I play.

*I don't understand the animosity toward the Post Office. Who else is going to carry something of yours across the country for 45 cents?

*My son's enthusiasm is persuading me that I should take a look at DOCTOR WHO. Not sure if or when I will, but his opinion is usually pretty valid.

*Josh Getzler is a really good agent. Shannon Jamieson Vazquez is an incredibly talented editor. The readers I hear from are enthusiastic and intelligent. I am really lucky.

*For those who responded: My son Josh's film SCAVENGERS has exceeded the budget amount he was hoping for--we're blown away by the response. Thank you all. Shooting will begin right after OLD HAUNTS publishes in February.

No, These Are NOT Opinions.

Jeff Cohen

1. Best Enterprise captain? Kirk.

2. Best band? Beatles.

3. Best Bond? Connery.

4. Best director? Hitchcock.

5. Best team? Yankees (I'll allow for bias here, plus 27 championships).

6. Best Yankee? Gehrig. Seriously. Look up the numbers; they're frightening.

7. Best computer? Apple.

8. Best state? The one you live in.

9. Best religion? No such thing.

10. Best political party? Independent.

11. Best American president? Lincoln.

12. Best stand-up comedian? Cosby.

13. Best television comedy? The Dick Van Dyke Show.

14. Best writing method? Yours.

15. Best American novel? That's a stupid question.

16. Best novel ever? See previous answer.

17. Best movie? There are literally hundreds.

18. Best Beatles album? Rubber Soul.

19. Best Marx Brother? Harpo. 

20. Second best (very close to being best) Marx Brother? Groucho.

21. Best Marx Brothers movie? Any from ANIMAL CRACKERS to DUCK SOUP.

22. Best current screenwriter? Aaron Sorkin.

23. Best screenwriter ever? Bill Goldman or Ernest Lehman.

24. Best action movie? RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK.

25. Best STAR WARS movie? STAR WARS. No, there's no such thing as A NEW HOPE.

26. Best sport? Baseball.

27. Best sexual position? In favor.

28. Best actor? Bogart.

29. Best actress? Not sure there's just one. Hepburn (K.), Jean Arthur, Blythe Danner... I could go on. 

30. Best TV drama? The West Wing.

31. Best Hitchcock movie? NORTH BY NORTHWEST.

32. Best ice cream? Why, is there a bad one?

33. Best current TV show? The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

 

I'm sure no one disagrees. Right?

Odds, Bodkins, and Even Odder Bodkins

Jeff Cohen

I've figured out how to fix the economy, and it can't possibly fail: Let's turn the financial stewardship of the country over to the people who run the New York Yankees. Think about it: Every year they spend money like drunken sailors, and still manage to make a profit so huge they can continue to do so for the foreseeable future. Isn't that the kind of leadership we need?

A word of warning: Don't expect coherency this week. That said, let's on, shall we?

What's a bodkin, and what makes them so odd? (Hint: the picture to the right is of a bodkin.)

Okay, here's the deal, people: Whether you think the country went to Hell in a handbasket in 2008 or the beginning of this month, the fact of the matter is that there will probably still be a United States of America in four years or so. Will it be perfect? Of course not. Could it be better? Hell yeah. But is the end coming? Not anytime soon. Cool your jets.

When I see reviews of a book or a movie that uses the word "devastating" or the word "shattering," I wonder what those critics think we look for in entertainment. "Let's go out tonight, honey--I understand this movie will completely shatter me emotionally and leave me a devastated wreck." "Sounds great; I'll get my purse!"

Bill Maher, whose opinions I share more often than not but whose persona leaves me somewhat cold, called out Jon Stewart for not being biased enough at the Rally to Restore Sanity. That's sort of like Dr. Sanjay Gupta complaining that Gregory House is unfairly cold to his patients. It wasn't a real political rally, Bill!

People ask me if I prefer they buy my books on paper or in e-book form. If you want to read my book, I don't care if you buy it as a series of adorable samplers. Just buy the book!

I'm cranky because it's no longer baseball season. I'm 53 years old and the lack of the Yankees on my TV screen every night unnerves me. Can therapy help ?

I have a story in the current issue of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine (it's called THE GUN ALSO RISES, and starts on page 130, but hey, no pressure). Now, I'm aware that Alfred has been dead for quite some time now, and that he never really had much to do with the magazine even while still breathing, but having my work in anything with his name on it is a kick. I have been a Hitch fan since I was about 11 years old.

Is it ominous that reading my own writing makes me sleepy?

I practice regularly and try very hard. I enjoy the experience and I have improved. But the fact remains that I could take lessons and work day and night at my playing for the next 20 years, and I would end up as a decent amateur guitarist who can't just make the instrument make whatever sound is in my head. I remind myself of this whenever I read writing by people who do something else for a living because that other thing is what they're good at.

I'll get rid of my landline when they make a cell phone that sounds as clear and is as reliable as a landline. Or when they stop making landlines.

Every year my family goes to a movie and for Chinese food on Christmas day. The jockeying for choice of movie usually starts around Labor Day. This year, nobody's so much as suggested a title yet. Uh-oh.

By the way, on a holiday note: Chanukah starts on DECEMBER FIRST? Whose idea was THAT?

And when Santa Claus starts showing up in TV commercials before the end of the World Series, something has gone seriously wrong in this world. I realize I'm on the outside looking in, but Christians, you need to scale back. Having a 12-month holiday season would not be a healthy thing.

On the topic of baseball, this is the time of year when free agents are being wooed. They will tell you it's not about the money. It's about the money. They will tell you they have to consult their families. It's about the money. They will tell you it's always been their dream to play for this franchise. It's about the money.

They will take the money, and then some of them will be truly awful no matter what they're paid. But it was about the money.

And just to clarify--if publishers were waving tens, in some cases hundreds of millions of dollars in my face to write a book, I will tell you directly--it would be about the money. Yes, it would. And I'd be happy to cash the check.

I'm done with The Office. It's become a show about people who are serially unpleasant to each other for no discernible reason. Enough. I've just freed up 22 minutes of my week.

You should take a look at The Good Men Project Magazine. Not only is it a terrific idea that sends its revenues to excellent causes, they let me write for them on occasion, as well.

I'm writing two books at the same time, and I've never done that with two novels before. One's a spec book, so naturally I'm closer to finishing that one. And it's always exciting when you're coming in for a landing. Hopefully I'll be able to do that twice in the next six weeks.

Pitchers and catchers report in 91 days.

Why Isn't Everybody Talkin'? (Slightly revised)

Jeff Cohen

Thanks to the miracle that is Netflix, this past weekend I was able to watch John Scheinfeld's wonderful documentary Who Is Harry Nilsson (and Why Is Everybody Talkin' About Him)? I've been a loyal fan of Nilsson's since roughly seventh grade, so I knew the answer(s) to the title question(s). But it was a joy to hear his friends describe the singer/songwriter whose two biggest hits as a singer were on songs he didn't write and whose biggest hits as a songwriter were on songs he didn't sing.

It got me thinking about the art of entertainment, and how some of the greatest practitioners of that art are considered second-class in their fields because they are not "serious" enough.

If only I could have a friend/who'd stick with me until the end/and we would stay away from crowds/and signs that said 'No Friends Allowed.'

Nilsson, who was what one survivor describes as "a singer's singer," had a voice that defies description, except to say that he could sing anything and you'd want to hear it. As a songwriter, he was incapable of writing something boring. He loved melody, but he soared in harmony. One critic reviewing an album of his complained that Nilsson had not credited all the wonderful background singers who had added so much to his work. Nilsson hadn't credited them because they were all him.

Harry Nilsson was asked to write a song for the film Midnight Cowboy, and he came up with a true classic that really fit the story and the mood of the film. The producers opted not to use "I Guess The Lord Must Be in New York City," but instead took the already-recorded and released track they'd been using as a filler on the footage: Nilsson's cover of Fred Neil's "Everybody's Talkin'."

I'll say goodbye to all my sorrow/and by tomorrow/I'll be on my way/I guess the lord must be in New York City.

Nilsson wrote songs for the Monkees ("Cuddly Toy") and Three Dog Night ("One"), both of which he had recorded himself. He covered songs written by members of Badfinger ("Without You," Nilsson's biggest hit single) and an entire album of standards (A Little Touch of Schmillson in the Night, considered "the best make-out album ever made"), before that became a rite of passage for aging pop singers.

He wrote songs for children and for adults. He played keyboards, guitar, drums and who knows what else. He personally lifted songs by Ringo Starr and many others with his background vocals. He was a friend to all four Beatles, at least two Monkees, both Smothers Brothers and most anyone else involved in the music business in the 60s and 70s especially.

You gotta have soap/to wash your sins away/and you gotta have hope/that's the price you gotta pay/and you gotta give love/or your love will walk away/and you gotta stay loose/it's the only way to stay.

Harry Nilsson wrote a fable for children that resonated with adults. The Point was a brilliant rumination on being different and why people fear what is different. It was also, Nilsson liked to say, the longest pun in history, and it was born, according to its creator, as a result of recreational drug ingestion of one kind of another.

Nilsson was a very serious ingestor. He was clearly an alcoholic, used a good deal of cocaine and in the words of one of his friends, "Whatever was around, Harry would take it." Eventually, this and his lifelong addiction to nicotine conspired to attack his heart, and ended his life at the age of 52. He had seven children, and left behind two ex-wives and a loving widow. 

Sit beside the breakfast table/think about your troubles/pour yourself a cup of tea/and think about the bubbles.

During his career, Harry Nilsson created a great many wonderful songs, probably even more wonderful recordings, and one indisputably great album. Nilsson Schmilsson, which held his aforementioned biggest hit single "Without You," combined Nilsson's enormous singing and songwriting talents with those of probably the best pop music producer of the time, Richard Perry, and in one of those odd accidents that happen every now and again in entertainment, the combination at that moment was absolutely perfect.

From "Gotta Get Up," the first song recorded and the album's opening number, to "Jump Into the Fire," which was a little too long but that was okay, this was a record--yeah, vinyl that RCA insisted was thinner and better, and you had to flip it in the middle--that demanded to be listened to whether you were a fan of the artist or not going in.

There was a time when we could dance until a quarter to ten/we never thought it would end, then/we never thought it would end.

During John Lennon's fabled "Lost Weekend" in Los Angeles in 1973, he and Nilsson collaborated on some binges of legendary proportion, and also on the Nilsson album Pussycats. But during the recording process, Nilsson ruptured a vocal chord and kept the information to himself, concerned that Lennon would halt the sessions. His voice recovered eventually, but never completely.

Around this time, Nilsson met his third wife Una, and embarked on a love affair that lasted to his death in 1994. They had six children together, and although Harry would still go off on his drinking and drugging escapades, the couple had a fairly stable family life.

I'm gonna wake up every morning/come home every evening/just jump into bed/and lie there and laugh with my wife.

Harry Nilsson is not a member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame; he has never even been on the short list for inclusion. Although his music remains fresh and accessible, he is not mentioned as one of the more influential artists of his time. His prodigious songwriting output is not recognized for its intelligence and originality. His voice, which was universally considered among the best ever to sing popular music, is not mentioned in the same breath as Frank Sinatra's or Paul McCartney's.

There are those who will argue that aside from Schmilsson, Nilsson never made a whole classic album, and maybe they have a point (although Harry comes damn close). But I'll contend that Nilsson isn't considered a great artist because he made it seem too easy, and because his art was too entertaining. He was too good at what he did to gain recognition for the genius he brought to it.

Those who do the best work to please an audience are often overlooked until late. Until late in his life, Alfred Hitchcock was considered a director of vulgar entertainments and never received a competitive Academy Award. Groucho Marx accepted an honorary Oscar as well--when he was in his eighties. Charles Dickens was not considered a great novelist until he was dead. Crime novelists like Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler were not recognized for their style and technique until after they died. In his lifetime, Vincent Van Gogh sold a grand total of no paintings to anybody but his brother. 

Why is it we don't value people who care about giving us their art and hoping we like it?

This documentary came at just the right time, maybe. If the world is ready to recognize Harry Nilsson, this should be the moment to do so. How do you start a Facebook campaign? Anybody?

Turn on your radio, baby/listen to my song/turn on your nightlight/baby, baby I'm gone.

 

By the way: If you've read this far, thank you. But you might also want to take a look at the issue of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine that is officially available tomorrow: It contains a new Aaron Tucker story, "The Gun Also Rises," and I'd love to hear from Aaron's loyal fans again. What do you think? Don't hesitate to let me know!

Opinions Guaranteed To Annoy You

Jeff Cohen

In no particular order:

 

The Ten Funniest Comedies Ever Made

1. Duck Soup
2. Young Frankenstein
3. Horse Feathers
4. My Favorite Year
5. Bringing Up Baby
6. Tootsie
7. A Shot in the Dark
8. The Producers
9. Singin' in the Rain
10. Sullivan's Travels

NOT:

1. Some Like It Hot
2. There's Something About Mary
3. The Hangover
4. The Pink Panther
5. Look Who's Talking
6. A Day at the Races
7. Knocked Up
8. Dr. Strangelove
9. It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World
10. Caddyshack

The Ten Best TV Shows Ever

1. Hill Street Blues
2. The Dick Van Dyke Show
3. The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (first two seasons)
4. The West Wing (first four seasons)
5. Homicide--Life on the Street
6. Star Trek (NOT the third season)
7. NBC's Saturday Night (Live)
8. M*A*S*H (first four seasons)
9. Sesame Street
10. The Daily Show with Jon Stewart

NOT:

1. The Sopranos
2. I Love Lucy
3. Star Trek--The Next Generation
4. Law and Order
5. All in the Family
6. E.R.
7. Seinfeld
8. Lost
9. Murder, She Wrote
10. Mad Men

The Ten Best Mystery Novels Ever Written

1. Yeah, like I'm going to list those.

The Ten Most Overrated Movies Ever Made

1. Gone With the Wind
2. The Wizard of Oz
3. The Hurt Locker
4. Titanic
5. Citizen Kane (dies after its terrific first hour)
6. Lawrence of Arabia
7. Schindler's List
8. The Empire Strikes Back
9. Vertigo
10. Guess Who's Coming To Dinner

(You should have seen the "Most Underrated" List I deleted because even I didn't agree with it.)

 

Unrecognized National Treasures

1. Gene Wilder
2. Jim Croce
3. Phoebe Snow
4. Laraine Newman
5. Susan Werner

Recognized, But Treasures Nonetheless

1. Jon Stewart
2. Paul Simon
3. Robert B. Parker
4. Derek Jeter
5. Carole King

Greatest Acoustic Guitar Performances

1. George Harrison--"Here Comes the Sun"
2. Maury Meuhleisen--"One Less Set Of Footsteps"
3. Paul Simon--"Peace Like A River"
4. Phoebe Snow, Jimmy Vivino--"Big Leg Blues"
5. Paul McCartney, "Blackbird"

 

Go ahead, feel free to argue. I don't even agree with them all myself.

Today Is The First Day Of The Rest Of Your Book

Jeff Cohen

I've posted before here about Writer's Block and what a fraud I think that concept is. I'm not about to go back on that now, but I will admit to having slowed down my output lately, and I know why.

I'm in the second act.

I learned about writing stories by writing screenplays, so I still deal in the concept of acts. In the first act, you establish your characters, their world, and your premise. In the third act, you provide resolution to all the conflict and leave your characters where you have intended them to be (or where they have driven themselves during the process when you weren't paying attention).

Then, there is the dreaded Second Act. This is a devious, twisted, nasty little beast that takes up the bulk of your story. The middle areas, where nothing is established and nothing is resolved. The part of the narrative that requires you to keep juggling balls in the air, keep the reader riveted to the page, and never actually solve any of the problems your characters have, because then the story would be over. 

Second acts are, by definition in the screenwriting bibles, twice as long as either of the other two components of your story. So you're keeping the story's end at arm's length, and you have to do so for twice as many pages as you used to set things up (when you were overcome with inspiration) or wrapping things up (when the light at the end of the tunnel can be seen clearly).

I hate second acts.

On top of the reasons I've listed above, I am intimidated by my second acts because I know this is where the reader should be getting the most bang for the buck. The big sequences, the biggest laughs, the biggest thrills, the shivers up the spine, all that stuff will be in abundance in the middle section of your story. Why? Because as you're not resolving the story, you have to keep the attention of your reader, and that means showing them shiny plot points, colorful character shadings, and attractive hints of where your story is going--even if you don't know.

So yes, second acts intimidate me, especially when I'm in their early stages, as I have been lately. But I'm back on the 1000-word-a-day diet, this time for two separate stories (so really 2000 words a day), and I'll hit those deadlines.

I've long contended that the "cure" for "Writer's Block" is to write something. Anything. Even if you think it's lousy, write it. You can fix it later. You can't fix nothing later--there isn't anything to fix. Sometimes, you'll surprise yourself and write something good, or at least decent, when you're just trying to hit the quota. Other times, you won't--but you'll have something to fix later.

So that's what I'm doing. I get stuck, sure. But I never have Writer's Block. You don't, either.

 

Cassette-to-Digital Conversion Project: I promised a couple of weeks that I'd report on the latest in my ongoing effort to digitize every sound I have ever recorded in my life. But this cassette thing is trickier than the LP project I undertook for the first seven months of this year. The cassette converter itself is run off power it takes from the computer via a USB cable, with backup batteries installed. But the speed of the cassette is suspect to me--it all sounds too slow. It is possible to hook the thing up to a DC power source (not included, natch), and I have been unable to find one. Nor am I absolutely positive this would solve the problem. I think it's possible the thing just can't handle 90-minute cassettes. 

Still, I've managed to convert a few cassettes to Mp3s, but not nearly at the rate I was converting LPs. For one thing, it appears that the bulk of my cassette collection was, at some time or another, discarded as useless (or lost somewhere in the house, which is possible but unlikely--we don't have that much room that isn't visible).

So music cassettes are not plentiful. I have found mostly interview cassettes I used in researching my two non-fiction books on Asperger's Syndrome, which I probably don't need more than five years after the second book was published. I do also have some cassettes of telephone interviews I conducted for Hollywood Scriptwriter magazine, and I am going to convert those, since I'm really impressed with a lot of the people I interviewed.

At this moment, I've converted a total of 10 cassettes in the two weeks I've had the cassette converter. These include America's greatest hits, of which one or two are great and the rest boring; a Little River Band album that had a couple of good songs on it; ELO's Discovery album, which has not improved since I didn't like it in the 70s; Best of the Doobie Brothers, which includes more best than not; a Poco album with one interesting song ("Crazy Love") on it, the soundtrack to Paul McCartney's film (oh, yes) Give My Regards to Broad Street and a Pablo Cruise album. This is what's left after most of one's collection is lost or discarded.

And the first part of my (long) interview with the brilliant screenwriter William Goldman (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Marathon Man, The Princess Bride), which is well worth having preserved.

Welcome to Orientation

Jeff Cohen

Welcome! So you've entered the publishing process and now, things look a little scary. You've heard about agents who have tiny hearts, editors who only buy one book a century, bookstores that won't buy anything without the name "Patterson" on the front cover, and cover art with unnecessary cats. So maybe you're a little overwhelmed as you enter the business for the first time.

We know it's hard to do, but relax. Things aren't as difficult as they seem. They're worse than that, but you have talent, you have determination, and you have something nobody would have predicted before--a support group of other authors who, instead of viewing you as the competition, will try to help you through the rough spots. 

Here's your orientation check list. Pay careful attention to it, and make sure you don't take the points out of order. Check each one before moving on to the next. And above all, good luck! Because you're gonna need it.

Orientation Checklist

1. Don't write a lousy book. Oh yes, we know you've turned very cliche on its ear, punctured every expectation, and written the most original book since the King James Bible. But first of all, no you haven't, and second, it had better be readable, too. 
2. Show it to people who don't love you already. Your mom thinks everything you do is terrific; she's still bragging about your fingerpainting skills from kindergarten. You think you're going to get objective criticism from your spouse? Who might want to, you know, keep living with you? Find readers who know you, but won't care about dashing your hopes and pointing out the rough spots. Friends don't let friends write bad.
3. Don't believe what you've heard about agents. They like reading good books, and will champion good books. If you think agents are mean to you, maybe you have to go back to Step #1.
4. Talk to your editor. Don't write 350 pages of something and then have the editor who bought it based on a 50-page proposal tell you that it's not what you'd agreed up. Maybe you don't need to send out 50-page chunks for perusal (the editor probably doesn't have that kind of time anyway), but at least keep in touch.
5. You're not perfect. You will receive criticism and edits from your editor (you'll recall "edit" is part of the job title). They're not always right, but they often are. Get over yourself. Sometimes, things need fixing.
6. Don't always do the easy thing. Yeah, you can fix problems with one word or one sentence--but is that the best way to do it? Sometimes it is... and sometimes it's not. Be objective in deciding which this is.
7. If you have a great premise, remember that sometime soon, you'll be stuck in the middle. And whether there are clowns to the left and you and jokers to the right, you still have to get through it. Plan ahead. That doesn't mean you have to outline every last plot point until you're blue in the pencil. It means you have to have at least an exit strategy. Know where you want to go, and then see if you end up there.
8. You don't have to do EVERYTHING your editor says, either. Sometimes, you'll find that you like your original idea just fine, and you don't see the problem. Yes, be open to suggestion. Yes, put in the work when there's a real problem. But if you think the way you wrote it the first time really does work the best, stand up for your work.
9. Have a cover suggestion ready. If you don't, you can't really complain when the artist comes up with something, you know, else. When you're asked, don't say, "Oh, I don't know. That's not my area of expertise." Think ahead.
10. Help other authors when they need it, if they ask or not. At least offer. This is a good fraternity/sorority. Don't screw it up by being selfish.

All right, you're on your way--now get out there and conquer the publishing world!

By the way: If you REALLY want the final update on the LP-(and singles)-to-Digital Conversion Project, click here. The list is complete, until I add more.

Catch This Phrase, Buddy!

Jeff Cohen

Stephen King wrote a column for Entertainment Weekly magazine (remember magazines?) a while back in which he divided the world into two kinds of families: Those that employ catch phrases from popular culture, and those that don't.

My family definitely falls into the former category. So I think Mr. King would find us passable, or something. (Steve, if you're out there reading this, first of all, hi! But also, feel free to drop on by sometime and we'll swap catch phrases.)

A good catch phrase is one that serves two purposes, at least: 1. It helps to clarify a current situation through a reference to a fictional one everyone involved will remember; and 2. It creates unity among those who "get" the reference, thereby bonding them together (and, better, excluding those who don't). That's my theory, and I'm sticking to it.

Here are a few of my family's catch phrases:

1. When one of us believes another has, perhaps, gone a little heavy on the salt or something at dinner: "Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?" 
2. When a situation takes a turn in an unfavorable direction: "Could be worse. Could be raining."
3. When we're planning a family activity (even an errand we have to see to together): "We're not going there. We just put it 'round we're going there."
4. When some detail of the day needs to be coordinated: "I have a plan. A very famous plan."
5. When someone uses the phrase, "Whatever it is," it is necessary in my family to respond, "I'm against it."
6. I don't think there's a family left in America that can ask the question, "Is it safe?" without employing a German accent.
7. By the same token, words like "bump," "room," and "solved" are all to be said with a bad French accent.
8. When pointing out something incredibly obvious: "What hump?"
9. When a bon mot falls flat: "It's a joke!" (Bad Scottish accent necessary)
10. When someone orders a BLT at the diner: "You can't! There's Jews here!"
11. When getting a little agitated: "I'm hysterical! I'm wet and I'm hysterical!" This can be followed by "I'm in pain, and I'm still hysterical," if the situation is really grim.
12. When being asked to do something you don't usually do: "Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a (fill in the profession)!"
13. When disappointed: "You make me sad. Come, Patsy!"
14. When in need of a hug: "Firm embrace!" (This is best said with a slight Brooklyn accent.)
15. And of course, whenever sitting in a swivel chair and turning to face someone: "So, Meestah Bond..." (Best when pretending to stroke a cat.)

What are some of your catch phrases?

1. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid 
2. Young Frankenstein
3. Help!
4. Help! 
5. Horse Feathers (We are all Marx Brothers fans, and I could have added six or seven more from the freres, including "Atsa fine," "Get tough," "Upstart!" "Chevalier, eh?" and "              ", which quotes Harpo.)
6. Marathon Man. Duh!
7. The Pink Panther series
8. Young Frankenstein, again. I could have added "Behind ze bookcase," "werewolf--there wolf!," or a horse whinny, but I was exhibiting restraint
9. The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson (whose Scottish accent is anything but bad)
10. My Favorite Year
11. The Producers (1968)
12. Star Trek (another candidate: "You canna change the laws of physics!" and in this case the Scottish accent really does have to be bad)
13. Monty Python and the Holy Grail
14. A specific reference to Mel Brooks's appearances on Mad About You as Uncle Phil
15. I won't insult your intelligence.

The LP-to-Digital Conversion Project is over. Probably. I still have to check with my brother and my mother to make sure I didn't leave any stragglers with them when I moved out of the house 30 years ago. But if you want to see a list of all the albums now converted to CD in my collection, click here.While there, feel free to hit "follow" and find out when there's a new post. Next week, I'll post all the singles already converted.

The Fifteen-per-cent Solution

Jeff Cohen

Changing agents, I have discovered, is a difficult thing to do. Not long ago, I parted company with the agent who has represented me for four years and six books. We split by mutual agreement, and I have nothing but complimentary things to say about my previous agent, if you're interested. But that would be a private conversation, not one I'm having with myself here today.

Finding a new agent--and you have to break ties formally before a new agent will discuss your situation--is tricky. Granted, I know a number of you DEAD GUY fans are still trying to latch on with your first agent, and that is admittedly more difficult a task. Once you're published, you have a track record, experience and published books you can mention, all good selling points for prospective representation.

That doesn't mean, by any stretch of the imagination, that even a published author who parts with an agent and has no immediate prospect of another doesn't wake up at three in the morning wondering what the hell he might have just done. Trust me.

But the Agent Hunt is something universal to all writers. It helps when you start with a track record and some friends you've met along the way. People who know your work are especially valuable, because they might know agents who respond to that sort of thing. And authors who write in your sub-genre might also be helpful (there are many generous and giving people in this business). But that does NOT mean I'm saying you should get in touch with Stephen King because you wrote a horror novel or Donna Andrews if you write humorous cozies--contacting people you don't know, who don't know you, isn't going to get you an agent. It'll get you, at best, an email from an author you don't know. At worst, if you don't quit, it can get you a restraining order.

Online lists can be helpful. Predators and Editors is a decent place to look for lists of names, and Publishers Lunch, with a list of recent deals and the principals involved, can help. Compile a REALISTIC list of those you'd like to contact.

Write a killer cover letter, but don't lie. Don't say you're published if you haven't been. Don't say your novel, MURDER CAN BE MURDER, is the logical successor to Raymond Chandler, Agatha Christie and Charlaine Harris all rolled up into one, because let's face it, it's not. DON'T send the 700-page manuscript to every agent on a list. In fact, don't send it to ANY agent until they ask for it.

If you get a response, be polite, quick, and accurate. Send what the agent asks for, not what you think they should have. If the agent says, "send the first three chapters," and you know something GREAT happens in Chapter Four, send the first three chapters. Of course, there's nothing I can see wrong with deleting the breaks between chapters three and four and THEN sending the first three chapters. If your mind-blowing plot twist comes in Chapter Thirty-Eight, however, this ploy is, at the very best, ill advised.

Be patient. Sending an email every day after you submit your material--even if you don't directly ask why you haven't heard back yet--doesn't make you an aggressive marketer; it makes you a pest. Don't be a pest.

In my case, a chance encounter between two people--an author who's a friend and an agent who happens to live in the same building--led to a flurry of emails, a submission, and what do you know, a change in representation. So now I have to come up with something else to wake me at three in the morning. 

Don't worry--I have a stockpile of such things.

LP-to-Digital Conversion Project Update: It's the end of the line, children. I got through the (considerably fewer than expected) singles in just a couple of days. And I'll publish the list thereof next week, promise. Suffice it to say some were classics, some 
 were obscure, and some were just plain embarrassing. But they are now all preserved for posterity until the next technological breakthrough hits and I have to turn them into corn chips, or something. Next week: I'll sum up the project.

P.S.: If, by any chance, you are associated with, or know of, a company in the film/TV/post production business which might be interested in extremely low-cost help (in other words, work for college credit or minimum wage) for six months, please don't hesitate to get in touch (see here for email directions). My son,the film major at Drexel University, is scheduled to begin his co-op--a major part of the program there, getting the student actual workplace experience--in September. He's still looking, with special interests in (but not limited to) editing and writing, and is open to suggestion. Suggest.

Spenser Vs. D'Artagnan

Jeff Cohen

I have tried a number of times to read two books that, in theory (I was going to say "on paper," but that seemed self-contradictory, somehow), I should really like. I haven't been able to get through more than one chapter on either one.

The first is A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole. Heralded by any number of reviewers, friends and people who have actually read it as hilarious, the story concerns itself with Ignatius J. Reilly, an overweight 30-year-old in New Orleans in the 1960s who lives with his mother and, well, doesn't do much. The plot, such as it is, revolves around his trying to find a job, without tons of success.

For me, Ignatius's superior attitude, apparently meant by the author (who committed suicide 11 years before the book's publication) to be satirical, is merely obnoxious. While intelligent, Ignatius believes himself to be superior to most of the people he meets, while exhibiting no obvious evidence to back up that idea. Again, humor being as subjective as is possible in humor interaction, you might fall over laughing at this, but from my point of view, that's not a comic hero--it's a pain in the butt. I've read the first chapter maybe eight times. Never read the second. The forward, concerning itself with the efforts of Toole's mother to have the book published posthumously, is more interesting to me than the novel itself. Your mileage may vary--a LOT.

The second book I can't get myself into is The Three Musketeers, by Alexandre Dumas. And if I have to tell you the plot to THAT one, there's not a lot of point in reading further. Suffice it to say it's not about a candy bar. 

I am a huge fan of the story, having seen most of the movies made from the novel (especially the Richard Lester version in 1974, which is excellent). And I'm a real sucker for most of such stories in which swashes are buckled. Yet, I can't get myself past the archaic-feeling language (translated from French) and the massive tonnage of details Dumas feels compelled to provide. Much as I want to experience D'Artagnan and his friends through their creator's own words, I just haven't managed to bridge the chasm of time. I'm still trying with that one, though.

Which brings me to Robert B. Parker.

Parker, whose Spenser novels reinvigorated the detective genre in the late Seventies and Eighties, died in January, probably while writing three or four more books all at once. He was tireless, prolific and very good at what he did, to the point that maybe he got TOO good, and overextended himself. The later Spenser books are, essentially, retreads, and the other two series Parker wrote, featuring Jesse Stone and Sunny Randall, are variations on Spenser.

But his prose was spare and to-the-point. No time was wasted in a Parker novel. Long digressions on the fragility of life or the glory of a summer morning were for other writers. The supporting characters (although many women I know detested the love object Susan Silverman) are interesting. The backstory... well, there's not much backstory.

For all the comparisons to Raymond Chandler, Parker didn't write that much like his idol. Chandler, although I'm very fond of his work, never met an adjective he didn't like and occasionally went so overboard in his description that you forgot what was going on in the scene. Parker eliminated all that, so that when he finished a novel Chandler left behind, it sounded like a writer with multiple personality disorder had started it, then channeled a Spenser novel into the 1940s.

What I'm saying is that just because a writer or a novel is widely accepted as brilliant or, worse, "classic," every reader will bring his/her own taste to the reading. Some people can't stand Parker. They're not wrong. Some people don't like my books. They are, in fact, wrong, but you can't talk them out of it. It's not worth trying.

So--what "great" book can't YOU manage to finish? (No points for Moby-Dick, because NOBODY ever finished that one.)

LP-to-Digital Conversion Project Update: Believe it or not, boys and girls, I actually reached the end of the line this week. Sort of.

Having gotten through the Three Dog Night catalog (or at least the portion of it I actually owned) convinced that a Greatest Hits album would have been enough, I moved on to a little-known band called Toby Beau (kinda famous for a minor hit called "My Angel Baby"), yet another album I accumulated as an arts writer--or arts editor, because I did both at various times--for the Rutgers Daily Targum, my college newspaper. Frankly, the raised album art is probably better than the record, but they had a few enjoyable tunes, notably "Moonshine."

That said, quick one-album appearances by Jennifer Warnes and Sonny Boy Williamson led to two very different comedy albums, one by Robin Williams, the other a collection of TV monologues delivered by Flip Wilson. The Williams album, Live at the Met, is probably his best work, a truly virtuoso performance at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City, that has a through-line reaching from sexual desire through parenthood, and is touching and hilarious often both in the same second, showcasing Williams's amazingly quick mind. 

Flip Wilson was a comedian whose TV variety show made him a surprise superstar, which isn't easy to be. He told stories, and told you they were stories, and played characters, particularly Geraldine, a spunky black woman (Wilson was African-American) who didn't take any crap from anybody. Just in the gestation period when his album The Devil Made Me Buy This Dress was recorded, Geraldine would end up taking over Wilson's act, which was unfortunate, because he was better than a one-note comedian.

Then, it was on to the Stevie Wonder catalog (again, those albums I owned and did not already have on CD). The surprise pick in the bunch was Hotter Than July, an effort that didn't offer passel of the big hits Innervisions or Talking Book did ("Master Blaster" did reach #5 on the singles chart), but held together nicely and never failed to entertain. Nobody knows how to write a tune that will catch your attention, or to put it over brilliantly, better than Stevie. Nobody. Check out "All I Do" and "Happy Birthday," his (successful) plea for a holiday celebrating Martin Luther King Jr., and you'll know what I mean.

That brings us to the end of the albums, but don't fret--there are still plenty of singles to convert, and that's a REALLY interesting bunch. See you next week.

A Class Act

Jeff Cohen

There are few people who are truly irreplaceable, at least professionally. Even if Uncle Jim is your favorite, the guys down at the pipe fitting plant can probably find someone else to do the job, even if s/he doesn't do it as well. Yes, it's sad when a favorite writer, actor, director, or artist passes on, because there won't be more of their work, but at least what already exists will continue to exist.

But Bob Sheppard was, and remains, truly irreplaceable. There won't be another one like him ever again, and that's a shame.

Sheppard, who passed away Sunday a few months short of his 100th birthday, was the public address announcer at Yankee Stadium (the real Yankee Stadium) for 56 years. Think about that--56 years. That's impressive enough even before you remember that George Steinbrenner once fired three managers in a single season, which lasts only six months.

Sheppard wasn't flashy and he wasn't entertaining. He was just really, really good at what he did. A teacher of speech and language, he made sure that every player's name he announced was pronounced perfectly. Not correctly; perfectly. When he introduced Jorge Posada (in his first game) as Jorge Pasado, Sheppard was mortified, apologized to the catcher the next day, and never repeated the mistake. When he saw a simple Anglo-Saxon name like Steve Sax, he was disappointed; there was no melody in that.

Nicknamed "the voice of God" by virtually everyone, Sheppard performed what seems like a simple job with class and precision, and paid attention to the details. He didn't "root for the home team" in his announcing; he didn't spice up the home players' names. He simply told his audience (whom he famously welcomed to Yankee Stadium before every game) who was batting, then went back to the book he was invariably reading between hitters. By all accounts, he bolted for home (surprisingly quickly for a man in his 90s) immediately after the last out was recorded.

But new Yankees--and opposing players coming to the Stadium for the first time--would wait to listen to Bob Sheppard introduce them. Many reported goosebumps. That didn't happen anywhere else.

At tomorrow's baseball All-Star Game (usually the snoriest night of the baseball season), there will be one genuine highlight. Sometime in 1997, when it was clear that Sheppard actually wouldn't last forever--the Yankees had just assumed he was immortal--Derek Jeter asked that a recording of the man introducing him be made, and that it be played in every game Jeter played for the Yankees, no matter how many years into the future that might take him. And in Anaheim tomorrow, when Jeter comes to bat in the bottom of the first inning, it will be Bob Sheppard who announces him. Good on you, Derek. You're a class act, too.

Mr. Sheppard, wherever you are or are not now, you will be sorely missed. Not many people are irreplaceable, or perhaps, every one of us is.

LP-to-Digital Conversion Project Update: James Taylor began the week. Now, since the earlier albums in Mr. Taylor's canon (his Apple album, Sweet Baby James, Mudslide Slim and the Blue Horizon) are already included in my CD collection, we skipped those, but still found some gems. 

One Man Dog is not one of them. It should have been--James hanging out with some great musicians in a cabin, making music. But the songs (aside from One Man Parade and Don't Let Me Be Lonely Tonight) are uninspired, sort of like the work of a man shoehorning certain elements into his work to make it more commercial, and failing. Hmmm...

On the other hand, Gorilla is one of my more fondly remembered Taylor albums, and one I was really looking forward to in this project. It did not disappoint. Working with then-wife Carly Simon, friends like Graham Nash and David Crosby, Taylor produced a smooth, enjoyable work that maybe doesn't have the same painful heft of earlier (and some later) works, but sure does boast songs you want to hear more than once: Mexico, Lighthouse, the title song among others. If you haven't listened for a while, take a try. You'll smile.

By the same token, In The Pocket is trying a little too hard to make you smile, but JT is a very strong album that actually branches into a few musical styles and finds interesting lyrical points of view ("I'm just a bartender/and I don't like my work/but I don't mind the money at all"). And the find of the week might be Dad Loves His Work, an overlooked album that has some really interesting work (Hour That The Morning Comes, Stand and Fight) on it.

Following the most famous Taylor, because these records are being converted alphabetically by artist name, came Kate Taylor, who made a couple of really enjoyable albums with her older brother, and Livingston Taylor, whose lengthy career has included some strong albums (3-Way Mirror) and some slogging, but the occasional gem (Pajamas, Loving Be My New Horizon). Alas, I have no Alex or Hugh.

A collaboration between Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee provided some rollicking blues, but lasted only the one album, and now, we're on to Three Dog Night, which probably could have been limited to a greatest hits album without losing much (beyond their hilarious cover of Randy Newman's My Old Kentucky Home).

The stack is getting pretty short, friends, but then there are singles to be considered. Seven months in, we still have some time to go.

Cohen's Not-So-Famous Quotations

Jeff Cohen

"We cherish our friends not for their ability to amuse us, but for ours to amuse them." --Evelyn Waugh.

"He deserves Paradise who makes his companions laugh." --The Koran

"A censor is a man who knows more than he thinks you ought to." --Granville Hicks

"There is only one success--to be able to spend your life in your own way."  --Christopher Morley

"The difference between life and the movies is that a script has to make sense, and life doesn't." --Joseph L. Mankiewicz

"Thanks to the Interstate Highway System, it is now possible to travel from coast to coast without seeing anything."--Charles Kuralt

"One day the people of the world will want peace so much that the governments are going to have to get out of their way and let them have it."--Dwight D. Eisenhower

"A conservative is a person who does not think anything should be done for the first time."--Frank Vanderlip

"In spite of the cost of living, it's still popular."--Kathleen Norris

"The least questioned assumptions are often the most questionable."--Paul Broca

"Never mistake motion for action."--Ernest Hemingway

"Is it progress if a cannibal uses a knife and fork?"--Stanislaw Lem

"You can pretend to be serious; you can't pretend to be witty."--Sacha Guitry

"When the writer becomes the center of his attention, he becomes a nudnik. And a nudnik who believes he's profound is even worse than just a plain nudnik."--Isaac Bashevis Singer

"'The freedom of any society varies proportionately with the volume of its laughter."--Zero Mostel

"Men do not quit playing because they grow old; they grow old because they quit playing."--Oliver Wendell Holmes

"A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between he does what he wants to do."--Bob Dylan

"If criticism had any real power to harm, the skunk would be extinct by now."--Fred Allen

"Boredom is rage spread thin."--Paul Tillich

"I don't want to achieve immortality through my work... I want to achieve it through not dying."--Woody Allen

"Television--a medium, so called because it is neither rare nor well done."--Ernie Kovacs

"If I was two-faced, would I be using this one?"--Abraham Lincoln
 

"Don't listen to those who say, 'It's not done that way.'... Michelangelo would have painted the Sistine floor, and it would surely be rubbed out by today."--Neil Simon

"Style is self-plaigirism."--Alfred Hitchcock

"The difference between reality and unreality is that reality has so little to recommend it."--Allan Sherman

"My main reason for adopting literature as a profession was that, as the author is never seen by his clients, he need not dress respectably."--George Bernard Shaw

"I think, therefore Descartes exists."--Saul Steinberg

"You can no more win a war than you can win an earthquake."--Jeannette Rankin

"A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down."--Edna St. Vincent Millay

"I don't necessarily agree with everything I say."--Marshall McLuhan

"I quote others only the better to express myself."--Michel de Montaigne

"Whatever it is, I'm against it."--Groucho Marx

LP-to-Digital Conversion Project Update: This week began with a task I'd been dreading--the two-disc set of the Star Wars soundtrack by John Williams. As with most film soundtracks, this sounds like more fun that it actually is, and in this case once again, it was proven that the only music with the power to surprise after all these years is the whacked-out jazz number played in the Cantina by an all-alien band. Fun stuff. The rest? Just exactly what you remember, for two discs.

Later, things got more interesting. A strange coincidence of the alphabet determined that Star Wars would be followed by Stealers Wheel, the duo of Gerry Rafferty and Joe Egan (along with various side musicians) best remembered for "Stuck In The Middle (With You)," lovingly resurrected by Quentin Tarantino as the perfect music by which to cut a man's ear off in "Reservoir Dogs." Stealers Wheel had itself some catchy little hits (notably the aforementioned "Stuck..." and "Star"), and paved the way for Rafferty's solo career, during which he would periodically dust off one of the old standbys from his days with Egan and speed it up, slow it down or change the key. Interesting, but hardly rousing. Stick with the greatest hits album, if you can find it. Shockingly, it's called "Stuck In the Middle (With You)."

A quick side trip into comedy followed, with two albums by David Steinberg, an aggressively intelligent comedian who nonetheless has made a tidy living for himself directing television sitcoms. Steinberg made references to great philosophers, foreign filmmakers and the Old Testament, but wasn't above the occasional sex joke. Not a great ad-libber, his delivery relied on his reciting each line exactly as he'd rehearsed it, but more often than not, it worked. Good luck finding anything but "Booga Booga" still in print.

And if that weren't weird enough, the next stop was with Cat Stevens, (born Steven Giorgiou, later Yusuf Islam), who went from the top of the pop charts to the top of the no-fly list in only a couple of decades. Stevens, who had a lot of interesting hits in the folk/rock area in the Seventies, converted to Islam, dropped out of the music business, and even after expressing shock and sorrow at the 9/11 attacks, was denied entry into the United States in 2004 when on his way to meet with the suspected terrorist Dolly Parton (?). The list was subsequently reviewed and he was allowed into America in 2006, although one assumes Dolly had moved on to something else by then. Musically, he's a sort of one-note songwriter who does manage to grab the attention, a singer with an unusual scratchy voice that somehow works, and a lyricist who, well, probably should have collaborated with someone else. Stick with the Greatest Hits.  

The week ended just starting in on the career of James Taylor, which might take a while. But since much of Mr. Taylor's work already exists in my collection on CD, we might breeze through a little quicker than one might suspect. Stay tuned.

There's light at the end of the tunnel, kids--only 36 albums remain!

One last quote: "We hold these truths to be self-evident--that all men are created equal."--Thomas Jefferson. Seemed appropriate, although I'd amend that to "all people." Even Jefferson can benefit from a good editor.

Obsession, Not By Calvin Klein

Jeff Cohen

This week, my daughter starts training for her summer job, working as a counselor at a camp for children with developmental disabilities and autism. So I'll be driving her to and fro this week (the bus starts next week), and I'll have a lovely library engagement Tuesday night at the Warren Township Library, a birthday dinner for two friends Wednesday night, and after that, I believe it'll be the Fourth of July weekend. Oh yes, and there are two newspaper assignments to get out the door, as well.

So naturally, what I'm thinking about is the Amazon sales rank and PublisherAlley numbers for NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEED. 
 

Obsession? You say that like it's a bad thing. The fact is, any author who tells you they're NOT obsessed with the performance of a book, especially a first book in a new series, is either lying or delusional. We're more than concerned--this is our job, and not taking it seriously would be considerably more odd than hovering over every piece of information we can get, no matter how arcane or incomprehensible.

Watching an Amazon page for your book is an especially bizarre practice. The numbers are not the least bit explicable, acknowledged throughout publishing to be arbitrary and meaningless. And we watch them like a lioness watches her cubs, which I assume is pretty closely.

(Amazon reviews are another whole post--DEED received one this week that gave the book three stars, after which the reviewer acknowledged in the first line of the review that she hadn't read the book yet. No, I'm not kidding.)

Publishers Alley is a service that gives you apparently up-to-the-minute sales figures of any book you want to watch, based on Baker & Taylor's figures. Again, they're not easy for us goofy creative types to understand, but they do at least show hard sales figures; you sold this many books and this many were returned. Hard numbers. I look at that at least once a day, too. Still no idea what it's telling me, but I like it when the sales numbers go up.

Does it make logical sense to obsess over these things? It might if I comprehended their meaning, but using my present brain, no. Still, I'll continue to do so, and any author who tells you they don't is lying. Period.

LP-to-Digital Conversion Project Update: One more Phoebe Snow album (the strange but occasionally wonderful "Rock Away") was followed by three albums recorded by New Jersey's patron saint, Bruce Springsteen. Now, as a loyal Jersey boy, born and bred, It pains me to say this, but I've never been a tremendous fan of the Boss's music. I think Springsteen is a remarkably cool guy, but all his songs are about leaving suburban New Jersey for a better, bigger life in New York City, and that's exactly what I'm not about. I love New York, but I'm of the "wouldn't-want-to-live-there" school, cliched and unwashed though that might make me. I did like the "Born to Run" album, which just burst energy, and "Born in the USA" (I guess I like albums with "Born" in the title), and Springsteen's live cover of "Jersey Girl" is tremendous, but a lot of the other stuff just didn't strike me musically. So take your shots--I know I'm wrong, but I can't help it. 

After Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuce came Ringo. Richard Starkey has, believe it or not, made some enjoyable solo albums in his time (and no, I'm not saying Ringo is better than the Boss, so calm down). You have to accept him for what he is, which is an entertainer who likes to have a good time and pass it along, and then you can appreciate what early albums like "Ringo" and "Goodnight Vienna" are trying to do. Later stuff, when his fellow Beatles were no longer helping out quite so much, are considerably more checkered affairs, but "Stop And Smell The Roses" was fun. 

After that, a very odd album of "Star Trek" talk by Gene Roddenberry and some of his cast, the ultimate Targum album (meaning I received it for free as a reviewer for my college newspaper), soon to be followed appropriately enough by the soundtrack album (a two-record set!) of "Star Wars."

In Defense of the Apostrophe, and Other Lost Causes

Jeff Cohen

I've been teaching writing--screenwriting, to be specific--at the college level for a number of years now (the number is six), and I have learned a lot. Some of my students say they have, too, and that's nice. I try to get across to them such basics as story structure, good dialogue vs. bad dialogue, character development and the importance of opening strong.

But I can't get them to use apostrophes correctly. I just can't.

The current generation seems to believe that if a word has an "S" as its end, it must therefore have an apostrophe before that "S." As is: "Bean's are really legume's." What?

I'd like to blame texting, but this scourge has been coming for a long, long time. Try to remember the last time you went through a whole day without seeing an abused apostrophe. Try to remember the last time you made it through a week without seeing something like this: 

I always want to call up the business and ask something like, "Your fresh organic salad's WHAT?" and then hang up. I guess that would be rude.

Now, I'm hardly the first to notice such lapses. Remember the book Eats Shoots and Leaves?  You thought it was going to change things, right? I'm teaching college students whose parents are dropping tens of thousands a year, confident that their kids are taking a WRITING CLASS, and I have to point out to them, on a regular basis, that they don't know how to use an apostrophe.

Meanwhile: Thanks to everyone who has posted a review or comment about NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEED on Amazon, BN.com or just as an email to E.J. Copperman, the author of said book, who is, as loyal readers of this blog will recall, a CLOSE PERSONAL FRIEND of mine. Publishers do care what you think (perhaps not as much as what you buy, but they care), and your kind words do make the author feel quite privileged as well.

One interesting note: A few reviewers have said they especially enjoyed finding out who the author of NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEED is because they had assumed--given that the narrator is Alison Kerby, a recently divorced single mom--that the author was a woman. And they said this added to their enjoyment. 

I take that as a great compliment, but it is a little strange. Shouldn't any author be able to write any character convincingly? Isn't that the craft involved here? Do you really prefer to read books written only by people who are the same sex as you? 

Discuss, and show your work.

LP-to-Digital Conversion Project Update: Where last week we had gotten through very few albums, culminating in the work of Allan Sherman, this week went faster, possibly because the music was more enjoyable throughout, and partially because many of the records are already duplicated in my CD collection, and didn't need converting.

We began the week with the work of Simon and Garfunkel, who showed up together at a Yankee game a few nights ago, which my daughter pronounced "adorable." I had to convert only two in the collection, as I had the five original studio albums already on CD. The two oddities I had to make digital were the original film soundtrack of The Graduate, 
 which was something of a revolution in its time--popular music was not as ubiquitous in films as it is now.

The S&G music on the soundtrack (there were many instrumental tracks by Dave Grusin that show off how generic film music could be in the 60s) consisted mostly of previously released songs, the hits up to that time, "The Sound of Silence," "Scarborough Fair" (repeated in full after being played through once, for no discernible reason) and so on. The "Mrs. Robinson" on the movie soundtrack is clearly a filler, because Paul Simon had not finished writing the song yet (and was considering calling it "Mrs. Roosevelt" until director Mike Nichols insisted otherwise). It's an odd record, and a sign of things to come.

One of the things to come was the sublime "The Concert in Central Park," a recording of just that, when Simon and Garfunkel reunited (one of many reunions that were supposed to be one-time-only events). Despite my distaste for live albums, this one has a special place because 1. I was there, along with 500,000 of my closest friends; and 2. This shows off both artists beautifully, and makes you long for the recording reunion that almost happened, and then didn't.

Carly Simon's long career was, whether anybody wants to admit it or not, at its peak when she was married to James Taylor. I don't know if her husband was an influence artistically or not, but the run of albums she made then were her best work, hands down. After that, Simon got to sounding like a child of privilege (which she is) singing about "everyday" events like sitting for a oil portrait. But put on "Playing Possum,"  or "Hotcakes," or "Boys in the Trees," and you have something. The sad fact is, Carly never seemed to get as much fun out of the music as she did posing for album covers.

Carly's sister Lucy put out a couple of albums in the 70s, when it was apparently the law that anyone whose last name was "Simon" was required to be a pop singer. Lucy's songs ran the gamut from stupefyingly dull to really quite nice, and there were two or three on each album that were worth the price of admission. Check out "From Time to Time to Time" on Lucy Simon or "Please Say Yes" from "Stolen Time."

Paul Simon's solo career has been an amazing journey, and while most of it was in my CD collection already, the live album "Live Rhymin'" was not. I was at that show, too, at Carnegie Hall, but the album still doesn't do much for me. Putting a South American flavor on "The Boxer" and a gospel choir on "Bridge Over Troubled Water" are interesting, but don't make up for the fact that Artie isn't there.

On the other hand, "Hearts and Bones,"  the S&G reunion album that didn't happen, is one of Simon's best, and an overlooked gem. Coming back from a serious commercial failure with "One Trick Pony," which is a really good album and a seriously lousy movie, Simon was trying hard, and it shows. "Allergies," "Song About The Moon," and "Think Too Much (a)" are personal favorites.

And that brings us to Phoebe Snow. I've written here before about my admiration for Ms. Snow and my sincere hope she comes back completely and quickly from her current health problems. Of the albums I didn't already have on CD, "Never Letting Go" is a favorite, but I found "Against The Grain" a revelation.  I hadn't cared much for this, Snow's last Columbia Records album, on its original release. But now, the melancholy in the synthesizers of "Oh L.A." works like a charm, the bounce and fire of "In My Life" comes across, and "Keep A Watch on the Shoreline" ends the proceedings with some real desperation. Brava, Phoebe; you keep coming back.

Last and most important: Congratulations to Eve 
 and the class of 2010! I can't begin to tell you how proud we are of you--and I use words for a living!

The Flip Side

Jeff Cohen

Things I Hate That Other People Love

1. Football: I realize millions of people adore watching this simulated warfare. I just don't happen to be one of them. No, this doesn't impugn my manhood or make me un-American. It means I couldn't care less who wins a football game, and can find other things to do when it's on TV. Baseball, on the other hand, is an elegant sport that requires a whole set of skills football players don't need, and I adore it. If Baseball is a Hitchcock movie, Football is something by Michael Bay. I choose Alfred, myself. 

1a: NASCAR: They drive in a circle. Oh, boy.

2. SUVs: I've never understood the American love affair with big, ugly, gas-guzzling vehicles that are built to drive off-road and always seem to be in front of me on the New Jersey Turnpike. And I'm sorry, but the Hummer is the stupidest car ever to drive down a highway. Ever. 

3. Depressing art: Isn't it just possible that critics call something "daring" and "dark" because they're afraid they'll be wrong if they just say it's a downer? It's easy to spot a bad comedy--nobody laughs. With the more "serious" forms of entertainment, I think there's a distinct possibility that most of the stuff we're informed is bold and adult is actually just drab and awful, but there's a naked Emperor in there someplace nobody wants to annoy.

4. Rap music: You're a great musician? Write a tune and sing it. 

5. American Idol: Am I crazy, or did this used to be called "Ted Mack's Amateur Hour?" And is it not encouraging more people to trill and perform aural gymnastics instead of trying to communicate through music? 

6. In fact, all reality TV: It's just as close to "reality" as Star Trek, but Captain Kirk had better writers. What you're watching in "reality" shows is a scripted scenario usually intended to find the worst in people and splash it all over worldwide television. THAT'S entertainment! Not to mention, it seems like the only thing you have to do to be a "star" on one of these shows is show up in a bikini (mostly for women) or have more than the average allotment of children, and a desire to exploit them so you can eventually host a talk show (both genders). Someone once advised against voting since "it just encourages them." Until you stop watching, they'll think you want more of this stuff. And yes, I'm including "Dancing With the Slightly Notable."

7. The term "literary fiction": What kind of fiction (assuming it's written on paper) ISN'T literary? Does this mean that authors like Charles Dickens (who surely wrote for the masses) wasn't literary? Or that someone like Mitch Albom is? I'm a writer; I use words for a living--we need a better term, people. Get to work!

8. Political talk radio: Sports talk radio is equally stupid, but everybody KNOWS it's stupid, and it does no appreciable harm. But believe it or not, there are people out there who actually BELIEVE what Rush Limbaugh says every day, and that's not just astonishing, it's frightening as a barometer of our collective intelligence.

9. Seafood and fish: Enjoy your ocean-based dinners, fish lovers. Just don't look at me funny because I don't share your taste. Yeah, it's all kinds of good for you (as long as you stay away from the mercury), and it does wonders for your cholesterol, but you know what? I'm not eating fish. Ever. Except for the occasional tuna sandwich, which doesn't really count.

10. Christmas songs: Yes, even your favorite. There are radio stations that play nothing but Christmas songs from Thanksgiving until the first week of January. Is there any wonder there are more suicides during the holiday season than any other time of the year? And the scary part: Most of the more famous ones were written by Jewish songwriters. Go figure it out.