Old Dog, New Tricks

I've started a new blog, Old Dog, New Tricks, hosted on my private domain and devoted solely to the topic of freelance writing. No Stoppard. No Foobs. No Gossip Rag Bitch-Slap. I envision it as a kind of laboratory for experimenting with new ways of stringing words together and, maybe, making some money from them.

It's sparsely furnished at the moment, but please check it out if you're so inclined.

Killer Bs -- Baker, Bull and Bachman

Time for a new science fiction and fantasy roundup in the San Francisco Chronicle!

I'm positively giddy with the way Kage Baker wrapped up her series about the Company. No dangling plotlines. The right mix of characters. Plenty of mind-boggling time-travel action. Everything you could wish for in a finale. (Take that, David Chase!)

I hadn't ready anything by Emma Bull in quite a while and was pleased to see what she's done in her new Western fantasy, "Territory."

I remember back when no one knew that Richard Bachman was really Stephen King. In high school, my good friend Matt Gats got ahold of the now-out-of-print "Rage" and told any member of the Portsmouth Clippers Marching Band who would listen that it was great. I'm not sure how many of us believed him, though many probably wish they could own that first-edition paperback now.

Eight Is More Than Enough

I've been infected with a meme by my pal and colleague Michael Ansaldo. In the interests of not being a spoilsport, I will play along and provide eight autobiographical facts and/or habits.

First, the rules, always with the rules:

1.We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog post, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them each a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

FACT: I'm really good at learning to read and write foreign languages and absolute crap at speaking them. That's why I enjoyed classical Greek in college and grew so frustrated with French and German.

FACT: I'm left-handed (which is probably part of the reason why I'm crap at speaking foreign languages. Stupid right-brain dominance.)

FACT: As a child, I always managed to injure myself seriously on major vacations. In Hawaii, I stumbled off a cliff while hiking to a scenic waterfall. In Texas, I walked through a plate-glass door after throwing firecrackers from the balcony of my grandfather's apartment.

FACT: In my early teens, I was obsessed with the pulp novels of Edgar Rice Burroughs. Tarzan of the Apes. John Carter of Mars. Carson of Venus. My avid interest may have had something to do with the Frank Frazetta covers.

FACT: Four summers ago, I appeared as Mr. Bumble in the Vallejo Musical Theatre production of "Oliver!"

HABITS: I've pretty much eradicated my New England accent, but if tired and inattentive, I will do such things as refer to the singer of "What's Love Got to Do with It?" as "Teener Turna." My daughter gives me grief for calling the second day of the workweek "Tuesdee."

FACT: I can still kinda-sorta play the trumpet, but my chops are like day-old spaghetti.

FACT: Before I got married, I lived platonically with my wife's sister for four years.

I don't have many bloggy friends, but I will tag the following:

Yak
Patois
Marta

Gossip Rag Bitch-Slap -- Part Three

"Let's do something other than read!"

Both Us Weekly and Photoplay feature full-page ads for various and sundry post-literate media. Us tends to focus on TV shows and videogames.

Nothing impressive or particularly risible here. Modern marketing at its most mundane.

Photoplay's got it going on, though, with movie ads like this one. I've never seen "Vendetta," but it certainly seems to be an attention-grabber.

Who needs that HBO black-and-white minimalist crap when you can have a four-color Faith Domergue, star of "This Island Earth" and "The House of Seven Corpses," clutching a knife with her dress half torn off? Plus, grown men smacking each other with riding crops or blackjacks or both!




You don't even need color photography when you've got copy as vivid as that promoting "Storm Warning" (or "I Frenched a Bigot"):

"The kiss of a Klansman...! This is the story of a pretty girl who spends a night in "friendly" little town...Suddenly out of the dark she is faced with the fear only a girl can know. Here is a picture more tense than words can describe -- as fresh as the ink of tomorrow headlines!"

Yow! All that, and Ginger Rogers, Ronald Reagan and Doris Day!

I never knew that the Klan spent all their energy menacing perky blondes. Guess that's why there are no African Americans in the supporting cast.

Photoplay is way ahead in this category, but I'm not finished yet. More hyperventilating movie ads have an appointment with the scanner.

GAAHHH!

Get me to the eye-wash station, stat!

We all knew this day was coming, but did Johnston have to spoil Independence Day for us Americans? The barbecue, the fireworks, the interminable pops concert from D.C. with two-fifths of the original Beach Boys -- they've all been ruined by the Love That No One Wants to Name.

If you need an antidote to Granthony mackin' on Liz, check out the re-mix of the "Shannon Takes a Stand" saga. UPDATE: Sorry, but "Shannon Takes a Stand" has been shut down by The Man, or more accurately, by a polite-but-firm letter from the official FBofW Web developer.

Happy 70th Birthday, Tom Stoppard

Today is Stoppard's 70th birthday. We wish him all the best and many more.

Franz Kafka was also born on this date. As was Tom Cruise. Make of that what you will.

More Stoppard on the Radio

The radio play "In the Native State," a precursor of "Indian Ink," is now available on BBC 7:

The British Empire and India, as viewed through the prism of the present and 1930 - when an artist painted a woman's portrait.

Also on the schedule are "The Dissolution of Dominic Boot":

Tom Stoppard's first radio play written in 1964. Dominic travels around London trying to raise cash for the mounting taxi fare.

And "Where Are They Now?":

An Old Boys reunion dinner inevitably invites echoes from the past.

Links for all three can be found on this page.

BBC 4 has "The 15-Minute Hamlet" for your listening pleasure.

Gossip Rag Bitch-Slap -- Part Two

"They think they're people!"


Magazines such as Us and Photoplay operate with a set of conflicting imperatives. On the one hand, they like to pretend that celebrities are some higher order of being, that being photogenic and marginally talented invests upon them a sort of ineffable miraculousness. On the other, you don't want your movie stars to get too uppity, so these magazines print lots of unflattering shots of them under the pretext of "See, they're really nothing special!"



The caption about train-wreck-in-the-making chanteuse Amy Winehouse alleges that she does her own laundry, but I suspect that what she's really doing is destroying her own evidence.


Photoplay can't really match the tawdry banality of Us. The best it can do is provide this completely natural and action-packed shot of household accountacy by Lena Lamont from "Singing in the Rain" and her condescending hubby.

This round goes to Us. At least they don't make us look at shots of Brad and Angelina firing up TurboTax together.

BBC Starts Stoppard Seven-Day Countdown

BBC Radio 4 has started broadcasting Stoppard radio plays and adaptations. They remain online for only seven days, so don't miss out. The first up is "Albert's Bridge": A man's chosen profession is painting a huge bridge. The task is perpetual, since one end of the bridge is already in need of a fresh coat before he reaches the other.

"Arcadia" starts today. In case you don't remember what it's about: A comedy which masterfully juggles notions of literature, mathematics, landscape gardening and love through the lives and preoccupations of the inhabitants of Sidley Park, Derbyshire in the early 19th and late 20th centuries.

Meanwhile, here's a review of the Boston production of "Indian Ink."

And as a bonus, Stoppard muses on Raymond Chandler's years in London.

Gossip Rag Bitch-Slap: Part One

For the past couple of months, I've been receiving Us Weekly against my will. I foolishly pre-paid a two-year subscription to Premiere, just before they stopped publishing the newsstand version. Crap! So now I'm a reluctant subscriber to a periodical that makes People look like Cahiers du Cinema.

A few weeks ago, I attended a local garage sale and snagged a copy of Photoplay from February 1951. Neither was it targeted toward pointy-headed intellectuals, but at least it has some vitality. Not to mention some really crazy-ass advertisements.

I've decided that it would be instructive to analyze the differences between two generations of celebrity "fan" magazines. For the next few weeks, or until we all succumb to ennui, I plan to critique both Us and Photoplay in a new feature entitled Gossip Rag Bitch-Slap!

Let's start with The Covers:

Oof. Busy. Garish. Featuring scary, Botoxed people with dead, soulless eyes. Heather Locklear I know, and it's hard to be unaware of Mrs. Brad Pitt. But who the hell is Vanessa, and why should I care that the young star of "Herbie Fully Loaded" is holding a knife to her throat?

But check this out! It's Jane Powell, star of "A Date with Judy," and she looks quite lovely. Her hair appears a little stiff, but her blue eyes sparkle with something recognizable as human consciousness. There's no drunken horseplay with edged weapons. And Photoplay cost only 15 cents, compared to Us's $3.49 cover price.

On to the back covers. Here's a fairly inoffensive ad for a reality cooking show on Bravo. I'll never watch it (nor put in my mouth anything any of these people prepare), but it doesn't actively annoy me.

But, man, do I want one of those Chesterfields! I don't smoke, but I'm a sucker for a pack of coffin nails offered by the female lead of "Captain Horatio Hornblower."

Great copywriting: It's the Easiest Test in the Book... Open 'em. Smell 'em. Smoke 'em.

A philosophy with so many applications to everyday life!

The first round of Gossip Rag Bitch-Slap goes to -- Photoplay!

Books I'm Not Reading -- Anything from PublishAmerica

Every once in a while, I get packages from authors who have self-published a science fiction or fantasy novel. I don't like receiving them. I always feel like the authors are wasting postage on top of whatever they've already spent to print the book. In two decades, I've never reviewed a self-published or vanity press book. There's simply too much better stuff out there that deserves my attention.

Recently I received a book from a local writer whom I am not going to name. He's produced a futuristic techno-thriller about AIs running amok. It's "published" by PublishAmerica. And it just kind of makes me sad.

If you don't know anything about PublishAmerica, read this article from the Washington Post . Also read about the publication history of Travis Tea's "Atlanta Nights," a "bad book written by experts."

I opened the local writer's PublishAmerica book and was immediately struck by a glaring typo on the Acknowledgements page. A quick flip through the book revealed many others.

On a whim, I went to the author's personal Web site and learned that he has battled dyslexia all his life. Which made me terribly angry at PublishAmerica, because they obviously did nothing to help a client with a recognized problem. Instead, they took his money and let him produce a book that no reputable store will ever stock and few people outside his family will ever want to read.

Then I noticed that the writer's main page includes a big link to Writer Beware, which offers "Warnings About Literary Fraud and Other Schemes, Scams, and Pitfalls That Target Writers." And what is one of the publishers Writer Beware warns about most vociferously?

That's right. Good old PublishAmerica. And there goes a large portion of my sympathy for the hapless local writer.

I understand the desperation that can grip someone who wants to see his or her words in print. But please, folks, remember Yog's Law: Money Flows toward the Writer.

William Gibson Cracks Me Up

William Gibson’s new novel, “Spook Country,” arrives in stores later this month. I’ve read it, but I’m unsure when, if or how I’ll review it. It’s good, but not a real ground-breaker like “Pattern Recognition.”

I really loved 2003’s “Pattern Recognition.” So much so that I was interviewed on NPR about it. Too bad we had to go and invade Iraq that week, thus delaying the segment’s airdate for months. You can hear me blather about Gibson here.

It’s taken me a long time to appreciate the author of “Neuromancer,” mostly because I’ve been too focused on the wrong elements of his fiction. The days of cyberpunk are long over, but Gibson has retooled his technique to embrace the absurdity of post-9/11 America. He’s consistently funny, but usually in a very understated way.

I never mutilate finished copies, but I cheerfully dog-ear galleys to mark notable passages. “Spook Country” has a lot of turned-down corners. Some of my favorite lines include:

On meeting an impressive old man:

Hollis thought he looked a little like William Burroughs, minus the bohemian substrate (or perhaps the methadone). Like someone who'd be invited quail shooting with the vice-president, though too careful to get himself shot.

On riding in a Zodiac:

This wasn't the Staten Island Ferry. He was bouncing along at some insane speed on something that reminded him of a creepy folding rubber bathtub he'd once seen Vladimir Nabokov proudly posing with in an old photograph.

On Gallic body language:

Odile shrugged, in that complexly French way that seemed to require a slightly different skeletal structure.

I once interviewed Gibson for The Chronicle and really enjoyed speaking with him and his co-author Bruce Sterling. They’re both scarily smart, but each was polite and charming, witty but not aggressively so. I’ve exhumed the review/interview from The Chronicle archives, if anyone’s interested.

***
THE DIFFERENCE ENGINE
By William Gibson and Bruce Sterling
Bantam Spectra; 429 pages; $19.95

During the 1980s, both William Gibson and Bruce Sterling shook up science fiction by inventing high-tech futures unlike anything readers had encountered before. With such novels as Gibson's "Neuromancer" and Sterling's "Islands in the Net," they dramatized the far-flung consequences of the Information Revolution.

In their new collaborative novel, "The Difference Engine," Gibson and Sterling take a decidedly different tack, reinventing Victorian England as a hotbed of cybernetics and industrial espionage. Extrapolating from the mostly forgotten work of mathematician Charles Babbage, who proposed building steam-driven computational machines in the early 1800s, they weave a complex narrative that involves a deadly search for a set of punched cards.

In an interview, Sterling and Gibson said that neither is sure who first saw in Babbage's "analytical engine" the germ of a novel.

"It's an interesting bit of historical trivia," said Sterling. "But then it occurred to us, "Hey, what if he'd actually built it?' This is one of your classic science fiction ideas, and when you get one like that, you need to do it justice."

In imagining a Britain where the computer revolution arrives a century and a half early, Sterling and Gibson twist history in surprising, yet eminently logical, ways. They play with the conventions of the Victorian novel and add references to the latest advances in paleontology, computer science and physics. Such eminent figures as Benjamin Disraeli, Keats and Byron make cameo appearances, but not in the manner one might expect.

It's a heady mix of fact and fancy, one that requires a certain sophistication to appreciate. Although it takes some of its inspiration from sensational potboilers of yore, "The Difference Engine" makes heavy demands on its readers. Sterling isn't kidding when he says, "This isn't a book you can eat like a Dorito."

The novel's structure is especially unnerving. It begins with a 70-page prologue about a prostitute and a shady public relations flack that seems to push the story in one direction. Most of the book follows dinosaur expert Edward (Leviathan) Mallory as he dodges secret agents in a London on the brink of anarchy. Finally, Mallory drops out of the picture completely, and the narrative becomes increasingly less linear and more impressionistic.

It's an audacious, infuriating stunt, which Gibson defends: "If we had structured the book along traditional literary lines, it could never have been as satisfying for us." Sterling agrees. "The whole last section, my favorite part of the book, is like a stew. . . . There's very little in the way of characterization and nothing in the way of coherent plot, but I think that section best captures the spirit of this book."

Readers may or may not concur. What annoys Sterling most are critics who imply that he and Gibson somehow "forgot" to give the book a conventional resolution.

"The Difference Engine" was published a few months ago in England, and Gibson had "a real fear that the British would say, "Give us a break! This doesn't sound remotely like us.' " Instead, the novel was well-received, and the publicity tour afforded the authors the chance to see how closely their imaginations matched reality.

They saw a real difference engine that, Gibson says, is "being built from Babbage's plan, using Victorian technology. We both sprang at it, and the woman who was its guardian said, "No! Not without white cotton gloves!' Which caused us both to collapse in shock . . . giggling."

The joke is that the characters in the book are similarly fussy about dirtying the fragile components of their steam computers. And indeed, it is in the small details that one derives the greatest pleasure in reading "The Difference Engine." While the main plot has its fair share of action and suspense, the novel, like the engine itself, captures the reader's interest mostly with glimpses into its intricate gearwork, rather than through the momentum of its large-scale effects.

Summer of Stoppard-Love

Lots of Stoppard plays in production this summer:

"Rough Crossing" is being performed in Lenox, MA.

In Ashland, OR, they can't keep the playscripts of "On the Razzle" in stock at the gift shop.

In Boston, "Indian Ink" is being performed at the Plaza Theatre.

BBC 3, 4 and 7 are preparing a season of Stoppard radio plays and adaptations, including "R&G Are Dead," "In the Native State," "Arcadia" and "Rock 'n' Roll."

Turning to the cinema, Stoppard also worked on the script of the upcoming Matt Damon thriller, "The Bourne Ultimatum."

And in case there was any doubt in your mind, the Telegraph wants to assure you that Stoppard deserved all seven Tonys for "The Coast of Utopia." Meanwhile, the Independent has crowned him "the new King of Broadway."

"Coast of Utopia" Wins Seven Tonys

Just as they were about to announce the winner for "Best Play," the screen suddenly went black for 10 seconds, and then the credits started to roll. No, wait, that was the other show.

By now, most have probably heard that "The Coast of Utopia" took seven awards, including honors for director Jack O'Brien and actress Jennifer Ehle.

So, hurrah. Maybe you want to celebrate by listening to the new CD of Mark Bennett's award-winning original score.

And if you'd like to compare the "Sopranos" finale with the Tonys telecast, Ken Levine has the run-down.

Mustache-Bereft Granthony: The Face of Fear!

Sweet sainted mother of Mordecai Richler, has Granthony shaved off his pornstache AND undergone a spur-of-the-moment nosejob? All the "For Better or For Worse" pundits have an opinion.

The train wreck, she is a'-coming.

Tonys Versus Tony

The big event is only a day away, and the whole nation holds its collective breath.

Everyone wants to know whether Tony Soprano will get whacked in the series finale. As for any other Tonys, well, the suspense is a tad less palpable. (Some attendees at Radio City Music Hall will rely on Tivo to get them through the night.) Still, "The Coast of Utopia" is in the running for 10 awards, so there will be a few too-cheap-for-HBO Stoppardphiles tuned to whatever network broadcasts the ceremony. (CBS? PBS? Oxygen? Spike? These things get away from me.)

An anonymous Tony voter reveals his/her picks for New York Magazine. As does Lawrence B. Johnson in the Detroit News. There doesn't seem to be much controversy, though.

Here's to a decisive win for the author, cast and crew of "The Coast of Utopia."

Books I'm Not Reading -- Too Many to Mention

Here's a list of the books currently in my "Hey, I wouldn't mind reviewing that" pile. Between now and the end of August, I'll have space in The Chronicle to cover eight of these, max.

See the problem?


MAY
The Last Colony by John Scalzi
Brasyl by Ian McDonald
The Music of Razors by Cameron Rogers
13 Bullets by David Wellington

JUNE
The Execution Channel by Ken MacLeod
Ragamuffin by Tobias S. Buckell
Acacia by Anthony Durham
Harm by Brian Aldiss
A Good and Happy Child by Justin Evans
Blaze by Richard Bachman


JULY
Crooked Little Vein by Warren Ellis
9Tail Fox by Jon Courtenay Grimwood
Th1rte3n by Richard K. Morgan
Shelter by Susan Palwick
The Sons of Heaven by Kage Baker
Territory by Emma Bull
Bad Monkeys by Matt Ruff
Thursday Next: First Among Sequels by Jasper Fforde

...And With Ann-Margret as the Demonic Snake-Slut

I think this wins the prize as the Best Title and Most Ridiculous Artwork on a mass-market paperback. It's been almost three decades since I read John Farris' all-stops-out Southern Gothic horror novel, but I don't remember any "Viva Las Vegas" refugees in it, especially any with scaly, nipple-less boobs.

The opening chapter of "All Heads Turn..." is pretty memorable, though. It's a rare novel that starts with a wedding ceremony in which the crazed groom decapitates his bride with a military saber. And things only getter weirder from there, as a family curse with its roots in African voodoo plays out across the generations.

John Farris isn't particularly well known beyond the borders of horror fiction fandom, even though he's published a couple dozen books, some of them quite good. He's probably most famous for "The Fury," filmed by Brian DePalma and starring Kirk Douglas and Amy Irving. (The best part is at the end, when Irving makes John Cassavetes explode via telekinesis.)

He seems to be a writer appreciated more by other writers than by a mass audience. Stephen King, Richard Matheson and Peter Straub are always saying nice things about him. If you're looking for some well-done, escapist thrillers, I recommend "When Michael Calls," "Catacombs" and "Sharp Practice."

Lileks Keeps His Job

There will be those whose schadenfreude will have been thwarted by the announcement that, although he's lost his daily column, James Lileks won't be taking a buyout from the Minneapolis Star Tribune and will instead receive a plum new assignment. But I'm not one of them.

I've been reading The Bleat for almost a decade, and it has brought me a lot of enjoyment. As a political commentator, Lileks went a little off the rails after 9/11 ("The terrorists are coming to Minnesota to kill MY CHILD!!!"), but he's always been a reliable source of fun and insightful writing about pop culture. His Gallery of Regrettable Food is still gut-bustingly hilarious.

I'm not so keen on his fiction, though. I couldn't even finish his mystery novel, "Mr. Obvious." The snappy patter that works in a blog post begins to sound... desperate when stretched across a 200-page narrative.

Some will complain that Lileks is overpaid or lazy or just plain insufferable. But I'm glad he achieved the resolution that he wanted. I know what it's like to work at a place where the Specter of Unemployment stalks the halls and can only wish him well.

Rothfuss, Tolkien & Dick -- Not a Law Firm

Time for another Chronicle science fiction and fantasy review, now featuring the latest from Patrick Rothfuss, J.R.R. Tolkien and Philip K. Dick.

I more or less had to be talked into covering all three of these titles. The publicist at DAW kept after me until I agreed to at least try the extra-large "The Name of the Wind." I was unaware of "The Children of Hurin" until it showed up at the local Borders (guess Houghton-Mifflin didn't want any SPOILERS! getting out [there's lots of incest!!!!] and so chose to send no advance copies) and then decided that reviewing it was obligatory. The Dick collection isn't new work, but my editor convinced me that I should discuss it. I just hope the folks at Making Light don't make fun of me, like poor Charles McGrath.

Underappreciated Gems by Thomas Perry

If you're interested in crime fiction, you owe it to yourself to check out The Rap Sheet's ONE BOOK PROJECT. They asked the question, "What one crime, mystery, or thriller novel do you think has been most unjustly overlooked, criminally forgotten, or underappreciated over the years?"The 115 books selected, with really interesting commentary, make a great reading list (for anyone who has the time to sit down and read a hundred thrillers). I strongly second the nominations of Mitchell Smith's "Stone City," Bradley Denton's "Blackburn," Ross Macdonald's "The Chill" and John Connolly's "Every Dead Thing."

Had anyone asked me, I might have chosen Thomas Perry's second book, "Metzger's Dog." It's a semi-comedic caper, quite different in tone from the more hard-edged stuff he does now. There's nothing else quite like it. Dr. Henry Metzger is the cat, by the way.


Even more obscure is Perry's "Big Fish," which is long out of print, for some reason. After years of searching I finally found a copy at San Francisco's Main Library. It's not his best book, but it's worth reading if you're a fan.

In general, I think Perry's work is less popular than it should be. Aside from the Jane Whitefield series, Perry doesn't recycle characters, and he doesn't deliver the standard thriller plots that some readers find comforting. There's always something off-balance about his books, which is a major reason why I like them so much.

I'm looking forward to his latest, "Silence," due next month.

Three Books for Kids

In The Chronicle Book Review's special Children's Books issue, I review three science fiction and fantasy novels for younger readers: China Mieville's "Un Lun Dun," "Under My Roof" by Nick Mamatas and "Quantum Prophecy: The Awakening."

(And yes, I know Elasti-Girl was in the Doom Patrol. I tried to get the reference corrected, but it didn't take, somehow.)

Blues Busters

Three things that have recently made me happy (or at least marginally less miserable):

1. The "Lost" finale. Did that kick ass or what? Lots of great individual moments and a stellar slingshot twist at the end. It's rare that an American television series pulls itself out of a creative tailspin, but that's what "Lost" accomplished in its last 16 episodes. I'm primed for the next 48.

2. John Connolly's latest Charlie Parker thriller is also a fine return to form. I was disappointed in his stand-alone fantasy, "The Book of Lost Things," but "The Unquiet" achieves the right balance between crime and supernatural fiction. I also think Connolly is at his best when writing about Maine (which is odd, as he's Irish).

3. The audiobook of Kage Baker's "Rude Mechanicals." It's no secret that I'm a huge fan of Baker's series of books and stories about The Company, the climax of which arrives in July. In the meantime, we have this novella about immortal cyborgs Lewis and Joseph as they mix it up in Hollywood during the Thirties. Mary Robinette Kowal delivers a lively reading that's perfect for walking from BART station to home during the evening commute.

"Rock 'n' Roll" Broadway Bound

In case you haven't heard, "The Coast of Utopia" has racked up 10 Tony Award nominations this year.

Hot on the heels of "Utopia," Stoppard's "Rock 'n' Roll" is slated to open November 4 at the Jacobs Theatre with much of the original British cast intact.

If this article is correct, you'll be able to hear a BBC Radio 3 broadcast of that play in July, as well as one of "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead."

Speaking of "R&G," there's a modern-dress production in Washington, D.C., complete with Beckettian bowler hats. The production in Kings Langley looks more traditional.

"Coast of Utopia": All Over But the Awards

The Broadway production of Stoppard's "The Coast of Utopia" closed on May 13.

It racked up six awards from the OuterCritics Circle, including Outstanding New Broadway Play, Outstanding Director of a Play and Outstanding Featured Actress (Martha Plimpton) in a Play. The play also took top honors from the New York Drama Critics Circle.

Still ahead are the Tony nominations.

Meanwhile, the New York Review of Books offers a lengthy analysis of the production.

Warren Zevon and the Vast Indifference of Heaven

I saw Warren Zevon perform once, at Colby College in Waterville, Maine, while he was touring for his ill-fated album "The Envoy." I wish I could remember more from the show, but I recall more about the drive from Brunswick than I do about his performance. Sometimes I wish my brain would retain what's important, rather than all the trivial crap that sticks with no problem at all.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about Zevon during the last two weeks. First I ran out and bought "Preludes," the double CD of recently discovered demos and rarities. Then I read "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead," the new biography/oral history by his ex-wife Crystal Zevon.

I'm definitely glad I purchased the album, but I'm more ambivalent about the book. Of course, I'd read about Zevon's battle with alcoholism before, particularly in a famous "Rolling Stone" profile by Paul Nelson. But even that article, as hellish as much of it is, doesn't begin to hint at the bad behavior and wasted opportunities that Crystal Zevon reports. What's especially distressing are the ways in which Zevon neglected his kids and mistreated many of the women in his life.

Also disheartening is the account of his final fall of the wagon after 17 years of sobriety. Such a relapse is perfectly understandable, I guess, when you've been given three months to live after they've diagnosed you with mesolthelioma. I certainly can't judge him for it. But that's certainly not the redemptive story they told in the VH1 documentary about the making of his last album, "The Wind."

I mostly like the new biography, though, because it gives a fresh perspective on the creation of a catalogue of songs I really love and listen to often. I'm more interested in the stories behind "Desperadoes Under the Eaves," "Don't Let Us Get Sick" and "Disorder in the House" than I am in what drugs their author took or whom he slept with.

Zevon reminds me of the another dark humorist who kept plugging away almost to the very end, the recently departed Kurt Vonnegut. They are both artists whose work spoke strongly to me in my young adulthood and which I rediscovered later on and appreciated even more deeply. (The same, alas, cannot be said for Zevon's good friend Hunter S. Thompson. The tawdriness of his suicide only confirmed the decrepitude of his later writing.) I wish they had done more, but I'm grateful for what they left behind.

Stoppard Higgledy-Piggledy

They're performing "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern..." in Johannesburg.

A critic from the Houston Chronicle has seen the Broadway production of "The Coast of Utopia."

As has a correspondent from the Palm Beach Post.

Strange Reports from the Beehive State

Utah County Republicans ended their convention on Saturday by debating Satan's influence on illegal immigrants.

You can't make up stuff like that. Via Neil Gaiman's Journal.

"Spider-Man 3": Get Out Your Handkerchiefs

Is "Spider-Man 3" the weepiest superhero movie ever made? Everybody in it has gelatinous tears running down their faces. Spider-Man cries. Aunt May cries. Mary-Jane cries. Dead Uncle Ben in flashback cries. The Sandman cries. Harry Osborne cries. Hold it together, people! Sheesh! (At least J. Jonah Jameson doesn't start blubbering.)

In general, this iteration of the ol' Webslinger is entertaining. Better than the first in some ways, not as good as the second in many more. Could have used a lot more Venom, a lot less Sandman.

The (Granthony) Cain Mutiny

I’m telling you, Lynn Johnston is evil, man. She’s toying with us as she brings her saga of unconsummated Canadian lust to its inevitable and depressing conclusion.

Yesterday, Liz announced her plan to allow Granthony to squire her to an upcoming wedding. Today, Granthony scotches that idea by letting Liz know that he has invited someone else. In your face, Lizardbreath!

Unfortunately, we all know that this will not turn out to be a major obstacle in their path to true, tepid romance. Granthony’s “date” will turn out to be his daughter or his mom or his cousin Hortense from Manitoba. But wouldn’t it be great if he brought someone truly inappropriate, like a dirty “roadside” slut (i.e. any single woman interested in premarital sex), a transvestite “escort” or even a chimp on rollerskates? We can only dream…

Liz Patterson always desperately wants what she’s told she can’t have, so this smackdown from Mustache Boy will only intensify her ardor.

I want to look away, but I can’t.

What the Hell Country Is This?

Loyalty Day???

The Congress, by Public Law 85-529, as amended, has designated May 1 of each year as "Loyalty Day." This Loyalty Day, and throughout the year, I ask all Americans to join me in reaffirming our allegiance to our Nation.

NOW, THEREFORE, I, GEORGE W. BUSH, President of the United States of America, do hereby proclaim May 1, 2007, as Loyalty Day. I call upon the people of the United States to participate in this national observance and to display the flag of the United States on Loyalty Day as a symbol of pride in our Nation.

Sweet Sainted Mother of Elzie Segar!

Thanks, Cartoon Brew, for the full tank of high-octane nightmare fuel!

Check out the full-size edition of this vintage photo, taken at the premiere of "Hellzapoppin'." If you dare! (It gets bonus points for the gentleman in blackface, standing to the left of Wimpy.)

The Stoppard Must Go On

In a New York Times article about theatrical interruptions and mishaps, Ethan Hawke and Martha Plimpton discuss what it was like to see Richard Easton collapse during the second preview.

Meanwhile, "Coast of Utopia" director Jack O'Brien has moved on to a trilogy by Puccini.

Stoppard's translation of "Heroes" has opened in Los Angeles with Len Cariou, Richard Benjamin and George Segal, but the first review is not positive.

The Salisbury Playhouse is performing "Indian Ink."

Blackburn and the Re-Titled Post

When I was mentally composing this entry last weekend, before 32 innocents were destroyed in an orgy of bloodshed and madness, I planned to title it “My Favorite Serial Killer.” Gosh, that doesn’t seem like such a clever idea any more.

But I still want to point people to the re-issue of one of the best books I’ve ever read about murder and violence in America, Bradley Denton’s remarkable “Blackburn.” It’s a serial killer book like no other: horrifying and hilarious and heartbreaking and spookily perceptive. It ranks beside Thomas Harris’s “Red Dragon” and Peter Straub’s “The Throat” as a thriller that moves beyond its need to thrill and becomes a genuine work of art.

Too many movies and books, from David Fincher’s excellent “Se7en” to James Patterson’s horrible potboilers, depict serial killers as evil geniuses, planting arcane clues while driven by psychosexual compulsions that only the most brilliant minds in forensic science can hope to unravel. And that’s a crock. Most real-life serial murderers and spree killers are pathetic, not charismatic, Ted Bundy notwithstanding. They’re sucking voids of terrible need, so fixated on their selfish concerns that they barely realize the outside world exists. Finding the mental focus to do the Monday New York Times crossword puzzle would be a challenge to most.

Denton's Jimmy Blackburn is smart, but he's no genius. He's been damaged by the world, and he's done a lot of damage on his own. What makes him worth reading about is his belief in how the world should work and his frustration at how it doesn't work that way. As with Harris's Francis Dolarhyde or Straub's Fee Bandolier, he's a character worthy of our empathy, despite the inexcusability of his actions.

To help promote the new edition of his novel, Denton has posted three Blackburn stories: "Blackburn's Lady," "Blackburn Bakes Cookies" and "Blackburn and the Blade." I recommend them all, though I have some reservations about the last one. (It contains explicit supernatural elements, and, in my opinion, Blackburn and the occult shouldn't mix.) I also recommend that you read the novel first and the stories later.

Maybe nobody’s in the mood for “Blackburn” right now, and that’s completely understandable. But it's a book that shouldn't be ignored. It tells the truth, even if we don't want to hear it.

No Ho Zone

This is the first Imus-related cartoon that has made me laugh out loud. Don Asmussen is a frickin' genius. Find the full strip here.

Speaking of pale people adopting hip-hop vernacular, here's a snippet from the acknowledgments page of the ARC for Michael Marshall's forthcoming thriller "The Intruders": Mad props as always to my ho, Paula, and to the shortie, N8. Y'all be clutch.

Wonder if that'll be changed in the final edition...

Your Own Private "Utopia"

Interested in a private concert reading of "The Coast of Utopia" for you and 89 of your closest friends? You might win one if you attend the Shotgun Players Annual Silent Auction Fundraiser on June 9.

The Stoppard/"Lost" Connection

For the subset of "Coast of Utopia" fans who also regularly follow ABC Television's "Lost," the identity of the mysterious, one-eyed Russian "Other" must have set off mental klaxons of recognition. He's Mikhail Bakunin, whose namesake can only be the anarchist philosopher in Stoppard's epic.

Over at the Powell's Books Blog, J. Wood, author of "Living Lost," provides some interesting details about and possible connections between the two Bakuni.

My 310th Chronicle Piece

In looking for the Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. interview I posted that week, I explored The Chronicle's database of published articles and discovered that, since March 29, 1987, I've contributed 310 articles, most of them book reviews. Yow.

So, I've been doing this for a little over 20 years now. In the early days, many of those reviews were for single books. Given the paucity of space, I now rarely do any stand-alones, instead covering three or four books at a time. Estimating conservatively, I've probably read 600-700 books for The Chronicle.

My latest review covers new books by Guy Gavriel Kaye, Jon Armstrong and Mike Carey and John Bolton.

Let's see if I've got another 310 reviews in me.

Kurt Vonnegut Is Dead. So It Goes.

I can’t remember which Vonnegut novel I read first. It might have been “God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.” I know I read “Slapstick” on my own in high school and “Breakfast of Champions” as part of a senior-year English assignment. (Given how some local educators are currently freaking out about “Kaffir Boy,” I can’t imagine how the school authorities ever allowed “BoC” on the reading list. But it was the Seventies…) I read “Slaughterhouse-Five,” “Mother Night” and “Cat’s Cradle” in college or soon after. With the exception of “Slapstick,” which really is a terrible novel, I enjoyed them all.

I think Vonnegut’s black humor appeals to readers on the cusp of adulthood because it confirms their growing suspicions that life is absurd. They tend to regard their ability to perceive it as such as a hallmark of sophistication and intelligence. I know I did.

When you read Vonnegut later in life, after you have some experience under your belt, you still see and appreciate the absurd humor, but now it’s tempered by anger and regret and a longing for a universe that makes some kind of sense. “Slaughterhouse-Five” was still funny when I read it again at age 44, but this time it was heartbreaking, too.

In most of his novels, Vonnegut’s narrative strategy is unusual. He has no interest in conventional suspense. He tells you the beginning and the ending of his story, then fills in the middle. It’s a difficult trick, but he usually pulls it off.

We all have stories. In a sense, we all know how they’re going to end. As with Vonnegut, it’s how you fill in the middle that matters.

(Ed Champion has a good roundup of Vonnegut appreciation links.)

****

Here’s an interview with Vonnegut I conducted for The Chronicle back in 1990. It’s not bad, especially considering how punchy I was from sleep deprivation following the birth of my daughter a few weeks prior:

In conversation, Kurt Vonnegut sounds and looks pretty much as one would expect from reading his fiction.

Bushy-haired and spaniel-eyed, the author of "Slaughterhouse Five" sits at a conference table at The Chronicle, appearing weary but agreeable. He speaks softly, punctuating his sentences by tapping his glasses against the tabletop. You can never tell what might set off a wheezy bark of laughter.

The subject at hand is his new novel, "Hocus Pocus" (G.P. Putnam's Sons, 302 pages, $21.95), the digressive defense of Eugene Debs Hartke, a Vietnam-era public relations officer-turned-physics teacher and reading instructor. Soon to stand trial for leading a bloody prison break, Hartke reflects on the forces that turned him into a "genius of lethal hocus pocus."

The book is a sharp-toothed satire of American life and values, casting a jaundiced eye on war, education, race relations and Japan's influence on the U.S. economy. Recounted in Vonnegut's patented mix of unadorned prose and absurd humor, it's the kind of writing that's a lot more difficult to achieve than it looks.

"I got about two-thirds of the way through it when I said, "No, this is wrong. This isn't working,' " Vonnegut says. "It upset my publisher a lot, but I started all over again."

Vonnegut claims there are two kinds of writers, swoopers and bashers. Swoopers push their way through the first draft and then go back to fix things. Bashers like himself, however, "get page one right, then page two right, and so on . . . It's painful. It's not a comfortable way to make a living."

While other Vonnegut books have come under fire from self-appointed censors, "Hocus Pocus" contains not a single dirty word. Vonnegut claims that the squeaky-clean language ensures that readers won't miss his more important social observations.

"I think a lot of justified political protest in the '60s was ignored because it was coupled with obscenity. Although it'll probably happen anyway, I don't want someone to throw my book away because of offensive language. But it's also a playful joke. Here I am, nearly at the end of my career, and it's fun to leave out all the dirty words."

Set at the dawn of the next century, "Hocus Pocus" refers a number of times to Stanley Kubrick's "2001: A Space Odyssey." Vonnegut says he is mocking the film's optimistic view of life in the future. "It's more hocus pocus. Naive people have been led to believe that just as we came to the New World, next we're going to take advantage of all these other great real estate opportunities in space. We're not going anywhere, ever. Not in this form."

Asked whether there is any subject he would never dare satirize, the man who has managed to find humor in war, mental illness and nuclear holocaust nods gravely. "What happens to children," he says. "In "The Brothers Karamazov,' Ivan collects newspaper clippings about the abuse of children. That's why he hates God, and that's why I hate God. The saintly Alyoscha kisses his brother Ivan, and that's Dostoyevski's answer to the problem." Vonnegut chuckles sardonically. "Not for me. I'm still pissed off. I just can't bear what happens to children."

Vonnegut's sense of encroaching doom made him give up public speaking for a time. At the behest of his publisher, though, he is now accepting a limited number of engagements. "You hate to tell young people about the state of the Earth," he says. "They're going to have to lead their lives, and optimism would be useful to them." Judging by its title, his upcoming collection of speeches, "Fates Worse Than Death," won't be brimming with sweetness and light, either.

Asked to grade "Hocus Pocus" on the report card he created in "Palm Sunday," his 1981 collection of autobiographical essays, Vonnegut says emphatically, "An A. Particularly in view of my age. It's a pretty good book for a 67-year-old. Male writers are customarily dead or at least burned out by 55. So I consider myself lucky to still be writing."

Seven Lessons Learned during a Midwestern Spring Break

1. When you check into the Country Inn in Northfield, Minnesota, the clerk will neglect to inform you that the train tracks run directly behind your suite and that you will be awakened at least four times in the night by the piercing shriek of a locomotive whistle.

2. Despite the presence of bumper cars and an indoor log flume ride, the Mall of America isn’t all that much fun; rather, it is exhausting, depressing and more than a little scary. I’m only glad that the connection between “Peanuts” and the amusement park has been severed. I could not have handled being accosted by someone in a seven-foot-tall Woodstock costume. (And why have they chosen to depict Paul Bunyan as the Brawny Paper Towel Dude?)

3. Minneapolis has a really cool museum devoted to the history of milling, usually not a topic that inspires great enthusiasm in jaded urban sophisticates such as myself. We learned about the Great Flour Dust Explosion of 1878, another of those undeniably-tragic-yet-somehow-laughably-ludicrous disasters like Boston’s Great Molasses Flood.

4. It is apparently impossible to get a decent breakfast in Springfield, Illinois. We looked high and low and honestly couldn’t find anything better than the Best Western’s continental breakfast (individual boxes of Froot Loops, high trans-fat pastries), served in the lobby in front of a TV tuned to Fox News.

5. The city’s Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library & Museum is awesome, though.

6. Richard Stark’s Parker novels are the Platonic Ideal of vacation reads. This time I carried “The Seventh,” a.k.a. “The Split,” with me. I also read Matt Ruff’s “Bad Monkeys” on the plane out. (Still making up my mind about that one.)

7. If you’re browsing in Subterranean Books in St. Louis and spot someone who looks exactly like editor and short-story writer Kelly Link, you should say hello, because it’s probably her.

Stoppard and Politics

Stoppard was one of 10 European literary heavyweights who signed a letter urging action by the EU to end the genocide in Darfur. The Mail & Guardian has a good article about how Bob Geldof worked to shape the letter and achieve consensus among the likes of Harold Pinter, Vaclav Havel, Gunter Grass and Umberto Eco. (Stoppard reportedly objected to one phrase as "otiose.")

Stoppard also met with Havel and other key dissidents from Czechoslovakia's Charter 77 protest movement to discuss its legacy.

Meanwhile, Carlin Romano in the Philadelphia Inquirer examines Russian intellectuals past and present through the lens of "The Coast of Utopia."

Bad Monkeys

I'm really looking forward to Matt Ruff's new novel, "Bad Monkeys." I got my ARC yesterday, and it looks quite cool. Ruff's "Set This House in Order" is one of the best fictional depictions of multiple personality disorder I've ever read, and I'm hoping "Bad Monkeys" will achieve a similar level of excellence.

Speaking of naughty primates, there's a weird saga unfolding in Plano, Texas. An illegal rhesus macaque was confiscated from one of the locals, who then allegedly sent the monkey a pornographic audio tape hinting at interspecies sexual shenanigans. Now the animal control specialist who made the allegation is back-pedaling, claiming he may have misinterpreted the tape and begging not to be sued or lose his job. (Thanks, Obscure Store!)

All Hail Lio

"Lio" by MarkTatulli is a pantomime strip that took the place of "Foxtrot" in the daily San Francisco Chronicle. I've been impressed by its Calvin-and-Hobbesian mixture of childhood concerns and fantasy. Today, though, it has made me a true fan.

Does Tatulli have something to say about Liz and Granthony? Oh yeah...

Save Jeff Kay

I spend a lot of time each day reading prose of varying degrees of quality. It's always comforting to know that there are certain writers I can depend on to give me exactly what I'm looking for. And one of those reliable writers is Jeff Kay of The West Virginia Surf Report.

I discovered The WVSR via The Gargoyle Letters, one of the funniest bits of correspondence I've ever encountered, in which the wonderfully named ArdnaTyne frets about her neighbor's possibly Satanic yard decorations. I go back to that page every six months or so, hoping that it will be updated. So far, no luck.

For some reason, though, it took me a while explore the rest of The WVSR, but I eventually fell under the spell of its proprietor -- middle-aged, middle-managing ex-'zinester and former record marketing weasel Jeff Kay. He's a funny, funny guy. Occasionally crude, true, and sometimes not "politically correct" (whatever than means anymore), but sharply observant and possessing a brutally self-deprecating wit. I look forward to every daily installment and am sorely disappointed when one doesn't appear. When I was in China last summer, worn to a frazzle by the rigors of my first round of foreign travel, I enjoyed visiting his site from the hotel computers, just for a dose of down-to-earth American humor.

I've never figured out what Jeff actually does for a living, but last month, out of the blue, he was downsized. Yikes. He's handling it pretty well, but he's looking to monetize The WVSR while looking for his next full-time gig. He could use extra visitors, so please drop on by.

For a quick taste of Jeff's singular genius, check out his page of favorite quotes: "Sweet Sainted Mother of Blanket Jackson." If you laugh more than once, explore the rest of the site. You're not likely to regret it.

BIFF! BAM! WANK!

Top 15 Unintentionally Funny Comic Book Panels. The commentators are up in arms that much of this material has appeared elsewhere. Whatever. It still made me laugh.

I found the link at The Beat, so don't say mean things about me.

Books I'm Not Reading -- "Dangerous Games"

In Melbourne's urban underworld, there's a nightclub for every fantasy and desire. But for Riley Jenson, one such club has become an obsession. Riley, a rare hybrid of vampire and werewolf, hasn't come in pursuit of pleasure but of an unknown killer who's been using the steamy nightspot as his hunting grounds.

Sometimes I'm just the wrong audience for a book. Although I'm all up for werewolves, vampires and serial killers, singly and together, I'm not particularly enthusiastic about them in a "deliciously sexy adventure." (And do they have any werewallabies Down Under? Just curious.)

These "paranormal romances" obviously have their fans, and such writers as Laurel K. Hamilton and Kim Harrison have succeeded in finding large, eager audiences for their urban fantasies featuring highly sexed supernatural protagonists and antagonists. But these kinds of books don't interest me, and I suspect I'm not equipped to critique them in any meaningful way.

A while back, I was asked to review "Happy Hour at Casa Dracula" by Marta Acosta. I don't think I did a particularly good job of it, mainly because the conventions of the vampire-romance subgenre grate on me so. I found the characters annoying and their behavior baffling and the plot more than faintly ridiculous. But I could see that the things that turned me off would work for the book's intended audience and that Acosta was writing well and wittily within the set of rules she had chosen for herself. So I gave her a favorable review, concluding, "One suspects that the ultimate merit of 'Happy Hour at Casa Dracula' can be determined only by those readers squarely within its target demographic, but those with a taste for unlikely romance will probably find it a refreshing warm-weather treat."

Something of a cop-out -- and a reason why I won't be reading "Dangerous Games" by Keri Arthur or any other paperback originals that promise "a world of peril and pleasure that will leave readers panting for the next installment."

Next Stop: Haven of Contentment

I found this through Boing Boing, and it is several different kinds of awesome. It's a slide show about a mysterious Loyal Order of the Moose-sanctioned community that's as creepy as anything you'll find in a David Lynch double-feature.

Stoppard Snippet

Interesting New York Times article by Anthony Tommasini about the use of music in "The Coast of Utopia."

Glad Michael Dirda Is Picking Up My Slack

On Sunday, Michael Dirda at the Washington Post published an admiring review of "Things Will Never Be the Same" and "Howard Who?" Wish I could afford to spend that much wordage on Waldrop in The Chronicle.

Stoppard To and Fro

"Rock 'n' Roll" from a Czech translator's perspective.

Leonard Lopate interviews Billy Crupup, Jennifer Ehle and Brian F. O'Byrne about "The Coast of Utopia."


The Ukiah Daily Journal reviews the OSF production of "On the Razzle."

"Rosencrantz and Guildenstern" is headed for Baltimore's Center Stage.

Len Cariou, George Segal and Richard Benjamin will star in the American premiere of Stoppard's translation of "Heroes."

Books I'm Not Reading -- "Things Will Never Be the Same"

When authors and publicists write to me and ask whether they may send review copies of their latest books, my response tends toward the politely (I hope) discouraging. Even the least promising print-on-demand project deserves more than a "For the love of God, don’t waste my time" reply, but I feel that people should know what their chances are before they go to the expense of mailing, and especially Fed-Exing, their books to me. Those who persist (politely) are rewarded with the direct address to my desk, rather than to the catch-all that delivers everything to the Chronicle basement for haphazard sorting.

The publisher of "Things Will Never Be the Same: Selected Short Fiction 1980-2005" by Howard Waldrop wanted to know whether he could send a galley. I replied that, as much as I admire Waldrop's stories, I wasn't likely to review this compendium of previously collected work, and he might end up wasting postage. He sent the galley anyway.

I'm glad he did. Even though I’m not going to read "Things Will Never Be the Same," right now.

See, I’ve already read most of these stories. Written about many of them, too. Most of them are wonderful. I particularly recommend "The Ugly Chickens," "Heart of Whitenesse” and “Night of the Cooters.” As he’ll tell you himself, Waldrop is a National Treasure.

Sure, this volume features new afterwords by the author, and those are always illuminating. (In fact, there has been more than one occasion when I didn't know what the hell a Waldrop story was about until I read his explanatory endnotes.) But I can't see my way to devoting even 250 words in my column to this collection, not when there are so many other new books clamoring for attention.

I'll certainly recommend it here, though, for whatever good that does.

Just so we're clear: If this were a new Howard Waldrop novel, I'd be all over it.

Stoppard Hither and Yon

Deroy Murdock of the National Review went to London and found "Rock 'n' Roll" "remarkably long, remarkably dense, and remarkably dull." He really liked the new comedic adaptation of Hitchcock's "The 39 Steps," though.

Gavin Allen at icWales provides a not terribly illuminating review of "Arcadia": "Stoppard's play is a tough nut, and Theatr Clwyd didn't quite have the cracker."

Richard Moeschl of the Mail Tribune finds a few "groaners" in the OSF production of "On the Razzle" but has a good time anyhow.

Brickman and McAnuff Make Nice

In a pair of letters to the San Francisco Chronicle Datebook, "Jersey Boys" director Des McAnuff and writer Marshall Brickman put their petty squabbles behind them. Like Michael Corleone and Fredo, no doubt.

Does Anybody See Any Connections Here?

According to the Wall Street Journal, stand-alone book review sections are almost extinct at major metropolitan newspapers.

"Premiere" ceases publication as a printed magazine.

In the Miami Herald, Carl Hiaasen writes about the excessive media coverage of the continuing Anna Nicole Smith story and other forms of "necro-tainment":

Don't make the mistake of dismissing the Smith story as an anomaly; it's a media watershed. If the death of a hapless, doped-up ex-model can knock two wars out of the headlines, there's no end to the squalid possibilities.

We have seen the future, and it's in the gutter.