Curious Overdogs

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Originally uploaded by King Wenclas.

"Don't look now, but that guy has a bird on his hat."

Swanky Overdogs

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Originally uploaded by King Wenclas.

Aristocrats anxious for their $12,000 table at the National Book Awards!

(More photos to follow. Stay tuned.)

Close-up of Overdogs

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Originally uploaded by King Wenclas.

WANTED: For crimes against literature. Who are these people?

Arrival of the Overdogs

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Originally uploaded by King Wenclas.

Here's a picture of literary miscreants arriving at the National Book Awards. Does anyone recognize anyone? More photos to follow!

Book Awards Recap

I've written a report about protesting the National Book Awards, which the ULA's Steve Kostecke has confiscated for a new Monday Report. (Which I hope gets up early.) Please watch for it! I also have a several photos which I hope to have up on the www.literaryrevolution.com fan site early next week. Don't miss these!

(p.s. "The McSweeney's Saga" will return to its regularly scheduled slot here next week.)

Awards for the Birds

I just got back from protesting the National Book Awards in New York-- demonstrating that this blog goes farther than any other in giving you direct reportage of literary fiascos and scandals. Due to miscommunications and short notice I did this protest solo-- but did share info with other protestors who were there, great people from a group attacking the 9-11 report.

As prop I had with me one of Philly's famous "flying bird hats" (M.P. take note); an attention-getter hard to top.

I plan to write by Friday a full report on this event, which you won't want to miss. Among the highlights: being escorted out of the hotel by security; confiscation and dismantling of protest signs by New York City cops; arrogance and panic among the fatcats when confronted with picketing, signs, flyers, camera flashes, and one flying bird hat-- all set amid the riotous spectacle that is the city of New York.

I took a couple dozen photographs, but fear many will be blurred, as most of those great believers in dialogue inhabiting the publishing world were running away when the photos were snapped! I can't wait until they're developed.

Are They Waking Up?

Everyone is now complaining about Mr. Moody-- but where were they four years ago when the ULA first pointed out how corrupt the guy is? The question remains, given his track record, how and why he was named as Chair of the NBF's Fiction Panel in the first place.

This controversy shows that the head-in-the-sands attitude of literary people regarding corruption in their ranks is a failed strategy.

(The best starting point for reading about Moody's past record is the ULA's 2002 Special Report, "Cronyism in the Lit World," down a ways on the News page at the ULA's www.literaryrevolution.com fan site.)

Fiasco

The word I get is that at least one of the nominated novels is "experimental" and execrable-- so bad that even its author doesn't understand why it was nominated.

We have the possibility that poor Mr. Augenbraum has been conned by Mr. Moody, a guy who by his actions (not to mention his writings) seems to hate literature and will do everything he can to bring it down. What could more discredit these awards than nominating five scarcely readable novels that might have been picked out of a hat-- each one by a New York City author? (Friends of friends of his?) It's an in-your-face move. Moody seems to be saying, "I'm an elitist and proud of it"-- proving that he can get away with anything. The idea in this case is that one could present to the bureaucrats at the National Book Foundation deliberate nonsense and they'd accept it. Moody is playing the role of one of the mischievous tailors in "The Emperor's New Clothes."

Has the truth dawned on the literati yet? They've been had.

Democracy or Aristocracy? Part II

"The fault . . . is not in our stars but in ourselves that we are underlings."

Where is the outrage?

Where in this vast mighty America holding tens of thousands of struggling writers, some of them strikingly talented, is there outrage about the dominance of literature by an exclusive elite? Where are the populations of demi-puppets in this fight? On which side?

As the Hogs of Literature gather in Manhattan at $12,000 tables, where are the demi-puppets?

As literature is dragged ever further into irrelevance by foppish rich judges applauding literary poetry and fiction devoid of character and life, where are the demi-puppets?

Maybe I should pose my questions more directly.

To the hundreds of lit-bloggers: Is Rick Moody a better writer than you?

To good writers publishing in lowly journals, zeens, and web sites: Is Rick Moody a better writer and thinker than you also?

To performing verbal artists: Does Moody carry better words or voice?

To demi-puppet assistants and proofreaders at grunt paper or publishing jobs: Do you also rate him better, above you by merit and right?

What about our society's unconnected unknown novelists with books better than his or his panelists' or his nominees'? What makes Moody worthy? Why is he Judge of literature and not you? Because of his ideas? His INTEGRITY?!!

This blog is a lone voice of contrary thinking attempting to open barricaded doors and throw light upon the monied machinations of today's literary scene-- including those at the Marriott Marquis who move around funding, awards, and names like so many shell games without observers to monitor their honesty.

Literature belongs to all people, not just to a cultural aristocracy; not just to a fake-philanthropic foundation that gives us a "National Book Awards" showcase of intellectual conformity-- awards which represent not even a sliver of America's real culture nor a whisper of America's strong authentic voice.

Democracy or Aristocracy? Part I

"What need we any spur but our own cause to prick us to redress?"

This week the hogs congregate in New York City.

The irony to me is that most of the black-tie people who'll be sitting at the $12,000 tables undoubtedly voted for a "Democratic" party. In the fantasies of their minds they fashion themselves democrats, while having no understanding of the meaning of the word-- which is inexcusable for literary people. Where will be the "many" at their high-priced tables? (Many feasting snorting farm animals is about all one can say.)

The setting for this year's National Book Awards will be New York's Marriott Marquis, a gigantic, lavish, and expensive playground for privileged members of the planet's richest city.

First, readers, for those of you who've never been there, obtain in your heads a picture of the metropolis where this monster hotel is located. Nowhere else in America will you see conspicuous wealth to such extent, and extreme poverty, side by side. The aristocrats wear furs and ride in limousines and carriages while down the street Third World types labor in sweatshops or in back of restaurants to serve these people; while scurvy homeless rifle through garbage. Towering wealth! Manhattan is the center of global finance. (It's a fact that the gold reserves even of Europe are stored in vaults beneath Manhattan streets.) Much of the wealth of the city's fortunate families is preserved in tax scam foundations like, well, the National Book Foundation.

(Is it a surprise that Rick Moody, whose banker father sits on another foundation, was chosen to play a prominent role by this one?)

Think of Manhattan and envision a fortress hotel at the center of it, by all accounts designed to be a fortress-- a perfect metaphor for the state of establishment literature today. (For security reasons the lobby is eight floors from street level.) Inside this structure described as "insular" by hotel guides is a gigantic atrium, countless large restaurants and bars, even a theater. It's patrolled by armies of security. One can believe that when the aristocrats arrive in expensive dresses and black ties, lacking only top hats to mark them as gilded Capitalists of the worst kind, they'll be whisked quickly from limos to inside. You know, the "democrats"; Mailer, Sontag, Oates, Franzen, Updike; the heads of various arts foundations; representatives of book publishing giants and influential high-circulation newspapers and magazines. Maybe even the "Leftists" will be there; all those champagne socialists and black tie radicals like Katrina von vanden Heuvel, Robert B. Phony Silvers, and Lewis High Hat Lapham.

Their persons will be as secure and safe as their ideas; as protected, bunkered, cordoned off; removed from any risk of equal exchange or free debate about their cronyistic world and the condition of their dying art. I don't know about occupiers in Iraq, but I know there are occupiers in Manhattan; Overdog occupiers of American literature who've dragged it into their own personal green zone at the Marriott Marquis-- but this gang of occupiers has no intention of ever opening their world to freedom and democracy. They've made no plans to leave.

(Part II to follow shortly.)

Exchange with National Book Foundation

Re: The new Monday Report.

First I sent an e-mail to the National Book Foundation, asking questions about their awards process. Excerpts from my e-mail:

"The question is how and why Rick Moody was named Chair of your panel. Surely you know he's been involved with controversy over literary awards in the past. . . .

"Rick Moody is the poster boy for cronyism and corruption in the grants process-- and yet he chaired your panel. What explanation do you have for this? Who made the decision?"

In his response, NBF head Harold Augenbraum said, "I've spent the past hour reading your web site and I'd love to talk after our awards process and hear some of your ideas in more detail."

What do you think? Was he just blowing me off?

I'm reminded of the carnival that came to town, and hired all kinds of local young people to work for it. The carnival boss told them they'd be paid AFTER the carnival ended; "AFTER we count the receipts," he said while chewing on a cigar. The day after the carnival the kids showed up where the carnival had been to discover only an empty lot.

The McSweeney's Saga: Endorsing a Candidate

CHAPTER EIGHT

Before the election, negotiations were intense over whether the Cult would or would not endorse Senator Kerry. They met in a basement room in Cult headquarters, where reporters were unlikely to snoop.

"You must understand," Cult representatives said cryptically to the candidate. "There are people . . . out there. People who. . . ."

The woman with long hair and longer fingernails didn't finish her sentence. Her psychotic eyes glanced knowingly around. It was assumed the Senator knew of what she spoke.

"Will I get to meet-- him?" the candidate asked.

"Oh no!" the woman exclaimed, showing anxiety at the thought. Minions around her nervously murmured. The Senator, though like all politicos not the sharpest of dudes, was increasingly creeped out.

The witch woman nodded to one of her flunkies, who pulled out a folder of drawings.

"We'll have you on the cover of our #2 publication, with glowing rays shooting out," the flunkie said with facile enthusiasm.

The Senator was surprised. "I don't think you understand," he said. "That's not why I'm here."

The witch woman stared at him as he endeavored to clarify himself.

"We," the Senator said, "Want you to NOT endorse my candidacy."

But, the cover went through anyway. The rest is history. The Senator's campaign crashed and burned like a collapsing skyscraper. Now we know why.

(To be continued.)

Mr. Beller: Too Long in the Neighborhood

The name of Tom Beller's "Mr. Beller's Neighborhood" web site of course is a takeoff on the Mister Rogers TV show. Lately Beller has borrowed not just from the title, but also from Fred Rogers's childlike way of thinking and speaking. An example of this is Beller's recent essay, "Thank you for helping save democracy." An excerpt:

"If you support John Kerry for president and plan on voting for him, that is not enough. Voting and hoping is not enough. Democracy is an ocean, and your vote is a teaspoon in that body of water. You have to be a spoon yourself and help get some more votes into that ocean. You have to take action. If you and every person who feels strongly about John Kerry being a better choice for president takes action, he will win. BUT YOU MUST ACT!

"There are many ways to do this, but perhaps the easiest is to make phone calls. It is so necessary, and so satisfying."

Tom's essay is so satisfying! Has everyone become a spoon? (Can you believe this simpleton is considered one of New York City's best writers?)

But now he's sad. Mr. Beller is sad. Because Mr. Kerry lost. Not enough spoons. But be bright! Now Mr. Beller can work for Mr. Bush. Writing speeches. For Bush! A perfect fit!

A Cynical Look at Credits

Classic demi-puppet behavior: They carry their publishing credits everywhere, ready to bring forth and wear as badges of dubious honor.

Credits are the ultimate sign of decadence and insecurity among writers-- protective blankets to wrap themselves in to hide the fact of their work. (That even established writers in "prestigious" journals feel the need to list their credits is a sign of literature's desperation. The distance between the lowliest lit-zeen and, say, the Paris Review in terms of how much attention society pays to them is very small.)

Every writer you encounter is anxious to list his credits: "Well, yes, of course you must well be aware that I have been after all published in The Stale University Review, Defunct Quarterly, Mudpie, Croation City, Tenth Planet, and Blowfart!" Every obscure lit-journal in the universe-- the list of credits makes the writer's standing inarguable. How can one dispute such a resume? One can only admire it. There's hardly a need to read the works themselves. That would be superfluous.

The explosion of literary web sites greatly expands the opportunity for the writer to accummulate even more impressive (if never heard of) credits to flail around: Shipsunk, Mobycorpse, Brainshot, Garbleriot, Hairnet, Craponline, to name several of thousands. "Surely you've heard of them?" the writer declaims. (I do sometimes wonder if people make up their credits.)

The pinnacle of the usefulness of credits comes when the writer gives a reading, and a host or emcee has to introduce the person. Then we're given not only the entire lengthy list of publication credits-- print and on-line journals both-- but all previous readings-- that he was a featured performer at "Prison Skyfest 1992" and "Big Poetry Bash Twelve." A record of undoubted accomplishment.

You're sitting among five others on rusted metal folding chairs in a cramped, poorly-lit space between shelves in a tiny bookstore across from a toxic waste dump in a small town in New Jersey. You think one of three things listening to the array of credits.
A.) They're very lucky to get this guy to read at this shitty place.
B.) Boy, has he come down in the world since 1992.
C.) Maybe "Big Poetry Bash Twelve" wasn't so big.

But the intro to the Great Poet goes on as you look at your watch and the personage Himself clears his throat and intently clutches a sheaf of disarrayed pages. (Every poet who reads is The Great Poet, merely a different incarnation. It's written over their faces.) The Great Poet stands expectantly as the audience listens to the full litany of Credits. We're supposed to be impressed. The Great Poet certainly is, preening and smug, even buoyant-- even nervous-- getting to perform before six sleepy poetry fans in this chemical-stained metropolis. He rises up and down on his toes, limbering up. Then it's finally time to read. He searches through his pages.

"The swanky ship,
sunk"

That's it! That was his poem.

"That was in Hairnet," the Poet adds.

Encouraged by the audience response (we sat as rigid and silent as tombstones), The Great Poet tries another.

"The dead skunk hangs
from the tree"

Silence.

"That one was in Garbleriot."

As you hurriedly leave the bookstore-- the kindly blind proprietor unlocking the door, you accidentally stepping on her sleeping cat-- the Poet is loudly and desperately explicating his work's meaning: "Notice the affinity of 'sunk' and 'skunk' in the two places. . . ."

Lewis Lapham: Editor for Life?

Campaign to Impeach Lewis Lapham as Editor of Harper's Magazine.

Wealthy blueblood Lewis Lapham has a lot of nerve always complaining about privilege and nobility when he's the best example of same in the United States. He's been welded into the Harper's Editor chair for-- how long? Over 20 years? With no signs of departure. Two Marine brigades fresh from battle in Fallujah couldn't blast him out of there, though we suspect that's what it would take. For complete honesty he should change his title to "Dictator for Life."

It's not as if he offers anything new in Harper's pages-- the same stale essays and stories by the same stale writers; Francine Prose, Louis Menand, Vince Passaro, and the like; guaranteed to be of Lapham's same mindset. (Maybe they attend the same Manhattan parties.) Lapham's own contributions are predictably similar-- descriptions of courtiers in Washington. He hasn't had a new insight in decades. Try something new! Talk about courtiers around the Editor's chair at your magazine. One wonders if the staff has a few dozen Lapham editorials on file which they keep in rotation.

Which raises the question of Lewis Lapham's condition. I'm not saying he's in Arafat shape (well, metaphorically he is); more like the decrepit Brezhnev-style rulers during the Soviet Union's last days-- wacked-out to the max but surrounded by yes-people too dim-witted to mention retirement to the guy. Must keep the rusty machine operating! Lapham-- spawn of a rich New York banking family-- is on good terms with the billionaire who finances the thing so the mag keeps staggering along on its million-dollar tax-avoiding subsidy.

Harper's is known as one of the flagships of American writing and it's completely fossilized. Term limits for editors? Why not? Let's enact some before the Harper's staff decides to stuff the guy after he dies. They'll have someone behind his desk speaking for him-- moving his arms on occasion-- to keep their comfortable scam operating. As long as he's silver-haired, polished, and stiff as usual it'll fool people.

(Not the last word on this campaign.)

Books: Eric Jager

The Last Duel, a book of medieval history, by Eric Jager.

History that reads like a novel, this is the story of a joust to the death by a knight and a squire over charges of rape put forth by the wife of one of the men. It's a fascinating look at the process of medieval justice, building to one of the most exciting climaxes you'll ever read. Based on historical accounts, the narrated joust gives the lie to the idea that books can't compete with movies and TV. Jager skillfully displays the advantages of words-- descriptions of the weight of armor the men wore, the weapons they carried, the rituals they performed, the physical and emotional stress they were under, the people who watched them-- all of which adds to the suspense. The fight to the death itself is filled with heart-pounding excitement. Yet this is non-fiction! What could a novelist add to the mix?

As it stands, The Last Duel is as thrilling a book, or media experience of any kind, as you're likely to find, demonstrating the fundamentals of literary art-- mystery, characterization, information, simplicity, drama, tragedy. When done well, it's as precise and exhilarating a show as a ritualized medieval joust.

Very highly recommended to everyone who loves to read.

(Available at bookstores and libraries.)

Reading Magazines without Buying Them Dept.

Newsweek kicks Time's ass with their election coverage this week. It's a shutout; not even close.

Challenge to Thomas Frank

Tom Frank (ex-Baffler) had an interesting editorial in last Friday's New York Times about why the Republicans won. Put aside Frank's idealistic notion that a party (the Democrats) controlled by large corporations and billionaires could ever pursue the "economic populism" he speaks about. His essay has value because he at least brings up "the subject of social class" in this nation.

But how misguided! Frank talks about populism, liberal elites, the "professional class"; about how the Democrats went wrong, but forgets that he's a member of the same band of elite intellectuals the public is so not in love with.

Mr. Frank, maybe the answer is not to have trained "experts" always speaking for us (in snooty papers like the NY Times), but to have We the People for once begin to speak for ourselves. This is what the Underground Literary Alliance is about. We disdain all outmoded unworkable categories of Right and Left. We're bringing true democracy to public discourse-- to the media. Up with the independent populist press! Down with intellectual elites and hierarchies wherever they're found!

That's our message, Mr. Frank. That's our rebellion-- our path to genuine populism. Free the culture and the rest will follow. We invite you to join our cause.

Lit Critics Old and New

The reason I have so much scorn for Sven Birkerts, an embedded establishment critic, is not just because he lacks independent thought, but because what he does is so much of the past.

Birkerts writes Old Style criticism. He constructs massively dull essays lacking provocation, wit, or reason for interest about dull intellectual authors; the essays not aimed at the public (they'd need a translator) but at other Old Style literary critics; literary high priests in long robes who can smile wisely at his words, put a hand on them and signal they're officially Approved-- then run into the john with a copy of Hustler or Boys Life, depending upon preference. It's a charade; a hoax.

When Birkerts has enough long and dull essays he'll collect them into a book, which will be shelved with pages uncut at the university library to gather dust-- there just in case future generations wonder if we had any literary criticism in our day. Fifty years from now they can go to the same university library, see Birkerts's book, untouched, and say, "Yep, there it is!"

The New Style of lit criticism is what you'll find on this blog.

Pummelling the Franzen Dummy

Re: Last week's review of the Jonathan Franzen story.

Sometimes it feels like overkill, but the guy is such an easy target, I know if I ever run out of material for this blog, all I have to do is find if he's published anything lately. We have the combination of two factors: 1.) He's the establishment's Great Hope to become a great writer; 2.) He's the biggest stooge in American letters today.

Seriously. Some of the ULA's opponents are outright evil, yet somewhat bright (D.E.). Franzen is just clueless-- the person who did indeed just fall off the proverbial turnip truck.

And so, we at the ULA have set up a metaphorical punching bag with Jonathan Franzen's name on it, there to whack anytime he makes a public utterance, accepts taxpayer money he doesn't need, or publishes something.