I don't know, maybe whomever provided the semen:

I write from home and I keep CNN on in the background while I do admin work (email, etc.). Today I have been bombarded by that One-a-Day for Women ad that shows a woman frolicking on the beach with two small children while the voiceover asks, "Without strong shoulders, who will support them?"

I love kids, but I'm not going to have children and I never intended to. To borrow David Mamet's line from "State and Main", "I just don't see the point." And like many sentient beings, I'd be delighted if certain coffeehouses and red-eye flights were designated tyke-free zones. (Whenever I'm on deadline and trying to obtain a completely necessary soy mocha, I'm stuck behind a child--female or male--named "Ashley" who is devolving because Mom insists s/he can get the blueberry muffin, not the chocolate chip cookie. I sympathize--muffins are ridiculous--but parents should teach their Ashleys that it's unwise to present impediments to writers seeking caffeine.)

This One-a-Day ad grates for several reasons. First off, as previously mentioned, not all women want to procreate. Secondly, those who do have ample incentive to take care of themselves for reasons that have nothing to do with their offspring. (We can agree that it behooves everyone--regardless of gender or parental status--to maintain their health. Right?) Lastly, why do certain marketing directors still assume that parenting is soley a woman's responsibility? Obviously, there are plenty of single mothers--and I have enormous respect for them--but I bet they would appreciate a little goddamned help.

Fuck you, One-a-Day. You make me want to grow a penis.

I've never really listened to Jody Watley's music, but this is one of the smarter interviews I've read in awhile:

"You see some artists — and no disrespect to any of them — but you can see they're really grasping, trying to appeal to this small group of people that only like this stuff that sounds like 50 other records. Instead of being fearless."

More:

Entertainment Weekly's EW.com | Interview: Catching up with Jody Watley

Oh, for fuck's sake:

I don't smoke, but this made me laugh for a number of reasons:

"Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards may have flouted Scotland's smoking ban when he played to thousands fans [sic] at
Glasgow's Hampden Park."

More:

BBC NEWS | UK | Scotland | Glasgow and West | Stone rolls into smoking ban row

From Carl Jung's "Memories, Dreams, Reflections", p.297:

"Anyone who takes the sure road is as good as dead."

Fifteen years ago today:

Holy fucking hell.

More than a snafu, less than an imbroglio:

It was to this that I was referring in my previous post:

The Stranger | Seattle | Line Out: The Stranger's Music Blog | Harvey Danger… You Know, They Had That One Song

A bit of noise has surrounded my Seattle Sound Harvey Danger piece and neither Sean nor I are enamored of the full-page fishstick version that hit the stands last week. (Check out p. 42 and feast, as it were.)

On a more cheerful note, Steve's Fremont News features the current SN/LD-sporting Seattle Sound in their display window and next door at Sonic Boom, gi-normous posters of "PtDtB" and "Plans" greet sidewalk revellers. Today: Fremont. Tomorrow: the world.

Brief sundry missives:

To my friend who skipped yoga this week to buy vibrators: I think you're onto something.

To the guy at the bus stop near my place who both danced and disrobed this afternoon: please don't.

To my editors who made this week great: thankee kindly.

To those who didn't: well, you made it interesting.

It'll be the ubiquitous indie rock bangs that push me over the edge...

...(seriously, the entire crowd *cannot* sport the same fucking haircut at each goddamned show) but I know what he's talking about:

From today's McSweeney's, by Brian Beatty:

So Emo.

Next time I'm at a concert and the hipster standing next to me lifts his lighter into the air during his favorite song, I'm going to ask to borrow that lighter. Then I'm going to set that hipster on fire. As he rolls on the ground trying to extinguish the highly combustible blend of cotton and polyester that just moments earlier was a ringer T-shirt decorated with an Air Supply silk-screen that's suddenly even more ironic, I'm going to ask, 'Why aren't you yelling ''Freebird'!' now?' "

Timothy McSweeney's Internet Tendency: Jokes by Brian Beatty.:

Total disonnance:

Most of the news in my world this week was off-the-charts, stratospherically good, but the Middle East is literally on fire as I write this and on Friday, a gunman killed a woman and injured several others at the Jewish Federation in Seattle. People aren't safe to worship in Belltown? What the hell?

And on a far, *far* less important note, today I ran into someone I think is an utter ass, but for the sake of the family, I was nice to him. He's balding and unemployed again, so at least there's that.

Finally:

Seattle's temperature dropped last night and I'm delighted. (Mad sympathy to my New York and California friends who are still baking like pie.) As I await the return of cognitive function, go ahead and look at pretty things:

enokiworld : vintage clothing for modern women

It's here:

The Long Winters' third LP, "Putting the Days to Bed" is out today. As previously mentioned, it is a big ball of wonderful. And if you don't think the fourth track, "Hindsight", is one of the most lyrically evocative songs of the past several years, well, you're dead to me.

You can purchase "PtDtB" pretty much everywhere, but if you live in Seattle, your experience will be augmented by several degrees of rockitude if you snag it here:

Sonic Boom Records

Or, of course, you can order it directly from the label (what? who?):

Barsuk Records specials

Now, on to the rock!

"Everyone knows someone who needs this bill."--Senator Charles Schumer, D-NY

President Bush just vetoed HR 810, the stem cell research bill that passed the House and Senate by large measures and found support from Republicans as conservative as Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist.

HR 810 can still become a law if the House overrides the veto with a 2/3 majority. If inclined, you can urge your congressional representative to vote accordingly. House contact information can be found at www.house.gov.

Like everyone...

...I've found the news of the past few weeks (in particular) to be gut-churning. So if you're seeking a reminder that, as a species, we do get it right sometimes, I recommend Jeffrey Kluger's enthralling "Splendid Solution: Jonas Salk and the Conquest of Polio":

Powell's Books - Splendid Solution: Jonas Salk and the Polio Vaccine by Jeffrey Kluger

Today I'm just glad for clean water on tap and the fact that the ceaseless noise on my street comes from traffic, not armory.

The planets are in alignment:

brooklynvegan: Jon Stewart, Sufjan Stevens, Dave Eggers, Sarah Vowell, & John Roderick | An 826NYC Benefit show

My new best friend:

From Magnet's current cover story on Belle and Sebastian's Stuart Murdoch, p.68 (print only):

"'I love reading biographies about creative processes, whether they're artistic or scientific,' says Murdoch. 'You see people's lives documented and what they have gone through. But the whole time, things are sometimes working out for them, something is brewing, something is simmering to the top.'

This is subject extremely close to Murdoch's heart. Prior to forming Belle and Sebastian, he suffered through a long bout of chronic fatigue syndrome, also known as myalgic encephalomyelitis (ME), a debilitating illness that basically shut down his waking life. During the process of emerging from this fog, he found new strength through making music.

'I wouldn't be a songwriter if I hadn't gotten sick,' says Murdoch. 'I had an extended period of seven years when I was out of the game, when I gave up all aspects of normal life, and the songwriting was a crutch. I was absolutely hanging onto these songs with a drowning person's grip, they being the only productive thing that I did at all. I realized as soon as I sat down at the piano three years into this thing that I could put words together with melody and create something. It's almost like the first minute doing this, I saw it all stretching ahead and realized that it was something I could feel worthwhile doing; I could document how I was feeling in this vacuum.

'What doesn't kill you makes you,' Murdoch chuckles. 'It was the biggest thing that happened in my life. No question, no doubt. I don't mean to be macabre, but it's often those transient periods that are sometimes the most interesting things to write about when it comes to characters in songs.'"

On par with rabbits, "Slouching Towards Bethlehem"...

...vintage Eisenberg jewelry, the Chrysler Building lit at night, and Sea Garden's sweet and sour pork:

Stream the Long Winters' upcoming disc, "Putting the Days to Bed", at Mammothpress.com:

Mammoth Press

"I was starting to get worn out, but after a few minutes lying on a picnic table I realized that it would be all too easy in the warm Tennessee...

...night to just doze off, and the last time I passed out around this many hippies I woke up two days later on the Green Tortoise outside of Redding, California carrying a briefcase full of blueberry pancakes. That was NOT going to happen again."

Part Three of JR's CMJ Bonnaroo report:

cmj.com | new music first

Disparate times call for disparate measures:

Aforementioned cancer was caught, basically, at the instant it developed. Said friend, who sports the immune system of an alpha male mountain goat, should be a-okay. Knock on wood.

Best line this week, from the barrista who accidentally undercharged me by fifty cents: "Go ahead and keep it. It's not like you're Joseph Stalin or anything."

And my friend, the oft-mentioned E, whose talent is matched only by his ability to vex, has launched a new blog, Vonnegut's Asshole. Show him the love he so richly deserves:

Vonnegut's Asshole

Off to the wedding!

Overload:

Yesterday I discovered someone I love has cancer and tonight I attended a rehearsal dinner for someone I also love very much.

There is too much I will never understand.

Write like this or don't write at all:

JR covers the Bonnaroo Festival for CMJ:

Part One:
cmj.com | new music first

Part Two:
cmj.com | new music first

We're doing this with Scotch tape and mirrors:

After a delightful seven day streak at 98.6, this morning the fever returned with a vengeance and by afternoon, I felt like I was walking underwater. The silver lining, if one must search for it, is that the pre-deadline cacaphony is momentarily silenced. I can only hear one voice, because I'm too out of sorts to hear the rest.

Sleep beckons.

From the deadline cave:

Can anything compare to the quiet mournful beauty of the 1:00 a.m. sky? The still and enveloping grace of the sweet nocturnal visage?

Sometimes this is so much fun:

1) My Seattle Sound cover story on Elvis Costello is out now:

Seattle Sound

2) And my friend, E, is writing his debut feature for Vanity Fair.

Awesomeosity with compound interest.

Do not go gentle into that good night:

For the past few days, the air has felt like a solid and Seattle has experienced alternating bouts of flypaper stickiness and alacritous showers.

My hair has responded accordingly.

When I'm in New York in the summer, I know the rules. My hair might resemble kudzu by 3pm, but there are beef franks at Green Papaya and beet salads at Babbo and long(ish) walks through Central Park. There are contemplative afternoons in St. Patrick's Cathedral and journeys through the Met and luggage-altering trips to the Strand. Shows at Park Slope's Southpaw (preceded by iced soy mochas at the nearby Gorilla Coffee), grasshoppers at the Algonquin, the candy shop at the Plaza, Piano's followed by Katz's, the jewelry counter at Barney's flagship store, 1am jaunts through Times Square, and so many boutiques in the West Village, SoHo and NoHo that my heart dances at the thought. (No, obviously, I don't live this way. I save to splurge when I'm over there.)

So my hair occasionally looks like Brillo. There are trade-offs and no one gets everything they want. But here's the thing: I've come to love Seattle in the past eighteen months or so in a way I didn't think was possible. It finally got interesting again and for the first time, I feel as much at home in my home as I do in New York.

That said, I'm unwilling to deal w/ this stuff on my head just so I can see one more show at Hugo House.

Elements, you've been warned: I call bullshit.

I stumbled across both of these in Patricia Bosworth's engaging biography of Diane Arbus:

I'm not sure if I agree with the former--I know I want to--but the latter resonates:

"Every form seen correctly is beautiful."--Goethe

"Love involves a peculiar unfathomable combination of understanding and misunderstanding."--Diane Arbus

If I have to walk, crawl, or hitch hike, I'll be there. From today's New York Times:

Vanessa Redgrave and Joan Didion, Working on a Merger

By CAMPBELL ROBERTSON
Published: May 26, 2006

SOON after the announcement was made last December that Joan Didion would be writing a one-woman play based on her autobiographical book, "The Year of Magical Thinking," Ms. Didion had a meeting with Scott Rudin, the Broadway producer who first proposed the idea, and David Hare, the British playwright who will be directing the production.

One of the topics was casting. It was not a long conversation.

Vanessa Redgrave, said Mr. Rudin, "was the only person we ever talked about. There was no one else ever discussed."

More:

Joan Didion - Vanessa Redgrave - Theater - New York Times

Vanderslicer!

My Paste review of John Vanderslice's recent Seattle show is finally up. My editor cut the final paragraph, but I like it, so I've included it after the link:

Paste Magazine :: Review :: John Vanderslice :: Neumo's, Seattle, Wash. 4/7/06 (Page 1)

"Sub Pop's Kelley Stoltz and Suicide Squeeze's Crystal Skulls kicked off the evening with sets that were antic and fresh. The latter celebrated the official release of their new disc, Outgoing Behavior and drew a sizeable portion of the crowd. The night's only snafu came after the house lights went up and Vanderslice suggested playing Ghostface Killah's Fishscales over the sound system. These, the indiest of kids, called bullshit on that."

Because we were running low on beav talk:

Eric Spitznagel, my Believer editor and the only writer (so far) to thank me alongside Ron Jeremy, is touring with his book, "Fast Forward: Confessions of a Porn Screenwriter". You can hear Der Spitznagel read at Seattle's Elliot Bay Book Company on Saturday, May 13 at 7:30 pm. And you can read Playboy's "Fast Forward" excerpt here:

Fast Forward: Confessions of a Porn Screenwriter

Worth noting:

"Still and all, why bother? Here's my answer: Many people need desperately to receive this message: 'I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people don't care about them. You are not alone.'" --Kurt Vonnegut

"More obscene than anything is inertia."--Henry Miller

The word "shank" springs to mind, too:

Today I spoke with two Island Records employees who had never heard of Elvis Costello. I explained to one, then the other, that Mr. Costello is, in fact, an artist on their label. Neither believed me until I insisted that each look it up on Island's web site. One actually tried to convince me that Island didn't know "who Elvis Costiello [sic] has for a publis [sic]."

I don't have a larger point. I just want to cock-punch them.

From yesterday's Washington Post: Chronic Fatigue's Genetic Component

Chronic Fatigue's Genetic Component

Chronic Fatigue's Genetic Component
Study Clarifies Predisposition to Syndrome

By Rick Weiss
Washington Post Staff Writer
Friday, April 21, 2006; Page A08


An intense battery of medical and psychological tests of people with chronic fatigue syndrome has strengthened the idea that the mysterious ailment is actually a collection of five or more conditions with varying genetic and environmental causes, scientists reported yesterday.

But though the syndrome comes in many flavors, these experts said, the new work also points to an important common feature: The brains and immune systems of affected people do not respond normally to physical and psychological stresses.

The researchers predicted that continued clarification of the precise genes and hormones involved will lead to better diagnostic tests and therapies for the ailment, which may affect close to 1 million Americans.

"This is a very important step forward in the field of chronic fatigue syndrome research," said Julie L. Gerberding, director of the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, which sponsored the project.

The new findings come from the largest clinical trial ever to focus on people with the syndrome, a debilitating condition accompanied by unexplained extreme fatigue, memory and concentration problems, sleep disorders and chronic pain.

Taking a multidisciplinary approach that agency officials said represents the future of public health, the CDC recruited 20 physicians, molecular biologists, epidemiologists, computational biologists -- even physicists and mathematicians -- to collaborate in an effort to tease apart the syndrome.

The results, published in more than a dozen reports and commentaries in the April issue of the journal Pharmacogenomics, released yesterday, suggest that many cases of chronic fatigue have links to a handful of brain- and immune system-related genes that either harbor small mutations or are working abnormally for other reasons.

That finding strengthens the case that some people are born with a predisposition to the condition. But those genetic links remain weak and incomplete, researchers conceded, leaving most of the syndrome's roots hidden in a fog of poorly understood physiological, neurological, psychological and behavioral factors.

"Chronic fatigue syndrome is very heterogeneous. It's not just one thing," said William C. Reeves, who oversaw the project with CDC co-worker Suzanne D. Vernon. It will take time to identify all the biological pathways involved, Reeves said, but the growing evidence of genetic links should put to rest the idea that the syndrome is a made-up diagnosis for "a bunch of hysterical, upper-class white women."

The new study involved 227 residents of Wichita, Kan., who spent two full days in a hospital undergoing a series of blood tests, hormone studies, psychological exams and sleep studies.

About one-quarter of them met the formal definition of chronic fatigue syndrome. A similar number proportion had chronic fatigue but did not rank as having the full-blown syndrome -- in many cases because their fatigue was not severe enough. A third group met all of the requirements of the syndrome but also had melancholic depression, which does not fit the current diagnostic guidelines for chronic fatigue syndrome. And a fourth group, for comparison purposes, was healthy.

The CDC, which invested about $2 million in the testing, then made blood-test results and other data available to researchers, who performed a wide variety of analyses.

In one set of studies, scientists looked at the activity levels of 20,000 genes known to be involved in the body's response to such stresses as infections, injuries or emotional trauma. Several hundred were found to be over- or under-active in various subgroups of fatigued patients.

Most of those correlations were weak -- that is, the gene expression patterns alone could not accurately distinguish those whose symptoms had been diagnosed as the syndrome from those whose symptoms had not. But in one analysis, the activity of just 26 genes did accurately predict which of six categories of chronic fatigue a patient had on the basis of symptoms and other clinical tests. That is a powerful hint that those genes -- many of them involved in immune system regulation, the adrenal gland and the brain's hypothalamus and pituitary gland, which are involved in the body's response to stress -- may hold clues to the disease variants.

In other analyses, involving 50 genes that some people inherit with seemingly minor "misspellings," five of the 500 genetic glitches that were tracked repeatedly correlated with an apparent susceptibility to chronic fatigue. Those five include genes that affect levels of serotonin -- the neurotransmitter whose levels are tweaked by many antidepressant drugs -- and glutamate, a chemical that excites certain brain pathways in response to stress.

The specific implications remain uncertain for now, said Vernon, a CDC molecular biologist. "But everybody's finding the same five genes to be involved, which is pretty cool."

Several other studies on the Wichita samples found abnormal levels of various hormones relating to stress and mood -- additional evidence that chronic fatigue syndrome patients are genetically and neurologically "wired" to respond to stress abnormally.

It is already known, Vernon said, that the brain can literally rewire itself -- breaking old connections between neurons while building new ones -- in response to various physical or emotional events. Chronic fatigue syndrome may be the result of a bad rewiring job, she said, in people genetically predisposed to handle stress poorly.

And this is fucked up, too:

CNN.com - Mumps outbreak worst in 20 years - Apr 20, 2006

Okay, this is fucked up:

CNN.com - Case of bubonic plague confirmed in L.A. - Apr 19, 2006

Various and sundry:

Thanks, everyone, who celebrated my deliberately-belated birthday with me on Saturday. While the annual soiree no longer involves "S & M Office Boy", blow up dolls, or white Russians spilled on and imbibed directly from tables in the back of the Frontier Room, it does, however, include some mighty fine steaks. Much love to all.

Also, for the second consecutive year, The Believer is a finalist for a National Magazine Award in the category of General Excellence. I've joked that I will be eighty and accosting strangers in Tompkins Square Park with "I was in the Music Issue!", but the Music Issue (June/July) was one of the three issues singled out, so take that, bitches:

Winners and Finalists

When I rule the world:

An El Diablo iced single tall soy mocha will be delivered to my door every morning at 11 am.

Publicists will know when to back the hell off.

Stupidity will preclude breeding.

Real estate will be allocated based on merit.

Writers who espouse astrology will have their laptops confiscated.

Passive agression: punishable by death.

If you ask, "What did you do to yourself?" when you see me on crutches, I get to kick your mom and slash your tires.

Paperwhites and lilacs for everyone.

Part 3:

--Birdnests: functional, artful, optimistic. Evidence that some things in life work as they should.

--"Sittin' on a Fence", the last track from the Rolling Stones' disc, Flowers: wry, apt.

--Those who have grown up without settling, and who pursue what they love with passion, focus and tenacity: yea!

--The barrista who told me, "Your name is a poem": Aw.

Because apparently, a morphine drip is out of the question, Part 2:

--Bunnies: as cute as babies, but smarter and less needy.

--Jumbo fresh-roasted cashews from the stand in Pike Place Market: warm, large and bursting with flavor. Phallic, but with niacin. Once, the proprietor of said stand asked if he could touch my leather pants. (If you knew me then, you know that I did, in fact, rock these pants.) As a rule, I decline thigh-touching offers from unknown men, but the guy I was dating at the time was driving me insane--I was actually walking through the Market to clear my head and figure out what the hell we were doing--and I thought, "Why not? What's one more random man-touch at this point?" As I walked away, the guy at the donut stand across the corridor yelled to me, "I'll be here all day tomorrow!" No, I'm not making this up.

Because apparently, a morphine drip is out of the question:

The fever hasn't broken and I feel like I'm losing my fucking mind. I'm undergoing tests, continuing to employ the best of Western and Eastern medicines, and adhering to a nutritionally sound diet. I drink eight glasses of water a day, routinely stretch, and go for daily short walks. Please don't offer advice unless you're well-versed in the particulars of CFIDS. At this point, unprompted and uninformed counsel is almost as grating as the symptoms.

That said, I've been concentrating on what makes me happy, the persons and things that bring joy to my life. It's with profound gratefulness that I'm going to write about some of them over the next week.

First up: my best friend for the past twenty years, Christy N. Wickedly intelligent, deeply kind, and totally *bad-ass* (she ran her first marathon at the age of 38), C.N. is an awesome mom and one of the most focused individuals I know. If she says she's going to do something, you'd be a fucking ass-clown to bet against her. If I had a million dollars in cash and had to depart for a year, I'd leave it with her and not bother to count it when I returned. She gives good chocolate, has an understated and elegant style, and shuns reality TV. She's 100% German to my 100% Greek and I'm lucky our paths crossed at an otherwise tepid barbeque in September 1985.

You heard it here first:

If at all possible, don't get a fever that lasts for six months and counting.

I'm just saying.

This would appear freakishly fucking obvious, but apparently, it's not:

I have an unusual last name. It's rare, in fact, even among Greeks. (One of my paternal great-grandfathers created it: it means "the strong one" in the Greek dialect, Arvenitico.)

However, I am not the only individual on the planet with this surname. In a stunning and clearly unprecedented historical development, I share my last name with others. This does not mean, however, that they share the views expressed here or in any other works I've published, am about to publish, or will publish in the future. Jesus.

And now, without further delay, my Believer interview with Demetri Martin and my McSweeney's New Food Review of the Dagoba "New Moon" Chocolate Bar:

The Believer - Interview with Demetri Martin

McSweeney's Internet Tendency: Reviews of New Food

From today's New York Times: Figure in JT Leroy Case Says Partner Is Culprit

Figure in JT Leroy Case Says Partner Is Culprit

By WARREN ST. JOHN
Published: February 7, 2006

A central figure in the case of the mysterious writer JT Leroy has come forward to say that no one named JT Leroy exists, and that the books published under that name were actually written by a San Francisco woman named Laura Albert.

Geoffrey Knoop, Ms. Albert's partner for the last 16 years, said in a telephone interview on Saturday evening that he had seen Ms. Albert write the books of JT Leroy in their San Francisco apartment. He added that for much of the last decade, he had been present when Ms. Albert conducted telephone conversations as JT Leroy with unwitting editors, writers and celebrities, using the voice of a young man with a West Virginia accent. Ms. Albert, 40, is originally from Brooklyn.

"The jig is up," said Mr. Knoop, 39, a rock musician. "I do want to apologize to people who were hurt," he added. "It got to a level I didn't expect."

More:

Figure in JT Leroy Case Says Partner Is Culprit - New York Times

A few things:

If you heard Knoop play, you know that "rock musician" is used charitably in the above piece. Laura/JT sent me a number of Thistle's mp3s in the hopes that I would write about the band for Paste. The songs don't suck, but they dissipate and I didn't bother saving them.

Laura is unquestionably a sociopath, but she can write. Knoop, on the other hand, is a banal and semi-talented eunuch. I'm amused that he's apologizing: what difference does he expect it to make?

The rest of us will bounce back, but my heart aches for the eight year old boy who calls these cretins "Mom and Dad". And pity the family law judge who has to decide which one gets custody.

Non-sequitur day:

1) I'll never understand what prompts one person--irrespective of circumstances--to dive in and embrace life while the other fucking cowers on the sand.

2) Indie kids: I love you, but those bangs are played out.

Wendy Wasserstein 1940-2006:

Good night and god bless:

Entertainment Weekly's EW.com | Feature: Remembering Wendy Wasserstein

The Black Table 2003-2006:

As has been noted everywhere from New York Mag to Gawker, The Black Table ceased production this week.

This makes me ineffably sad because I loved BT as much as my John Fluevogs. The editors were smart and funny and encouraged you to wax rhapsodic about, say, the guy who had a seizure while inside you (ahem). They ran my work six times and I'm delighted and *choked up* (rim shot!) to be included in the final installment of "Waxing Off". I raise my iced soy mocha to you, Black Table: you left the world a little happier, a little filthier, and we're all the better for it:

WAXING OFF: COME BACK! YOU'RE THE ONE WHO GOT AWAY.

I have a tale that just might work:

I had another story accepted to the (awesome) Seattle story-telling salon, A Guide to Visitors. The show starts at 7:30 tonight at the Rendevous and this month's theme is "They Thought They Knew But Had No Idea". Details:

A Guide To Visitors

And soon:

I've now read a couple dozen articles and blog entries re Laura/JT, and unsurprisingly, those of us who received the suicide calls, i.e. "I've been cutting myself and want to die" are considerably angrier, less forgiving, and more hurt. Many have speculated as to Laura's mental health and several have concluded that it's impaired. No kidding. Only a sociopath repeatedly betrays her friends, lies to her editors, and tricks her readers and fans. All the while extracting sympathy for purported suicidal ideation.

But maybe this last part wasn't an act. Maybe Laura really wishes she were dead. She didn't get to be a rock star, nor an author in her own right. May fate grant her this one.

"And it rained like a slow divorce..."--"Balloon Man", Robyn Hitchcock

The rain hasn't stopped all week, literally or metaphorically. Bad news arrived on a number of fronts, but I'm comforted by the fact that this is a pinprick compared to the disemboweling that was the earlier part of this decade.

And Death Cab is going to be on "Saturday Night Live" tonight. Yea for talented artists who actually exist. Yea!

From today's San Francisco Chronicle: New clues in mystery story of elusive author JT LeRoy

New clues in mystery story of elusive author JT LeRoy

Excerpt:

"Author Armistead Maupin, whose novel 'The Night Listener' was based on his experience with a literary pretender, has strong feelings on the subject.

'A lot of people argue that such frauds cause no harm and are a great joke played on the literary establishment,' he said by telephone Monday.

'But in fact there's something very callous about using AIDS and an abusive childhood as a way of getting sympathy and support,' Maupin said, adding, 'I'm surprised that people were bamboozled as long as they were.'"

Maupin nails the fraud's insidiousness. Here's an email "JT" sent me before the New York Magazine story broke. I'd never post private correspondence in a public forum, but the sender doesn't exist, so no ethical line is broached. However, I've blacked out the names of the other two recipients:

----- Original Message -----
From: JT Leroy
To: XXXX ; Litsa Dremousis ; XXXX
Sent: Saturday, October 08, 2005 4:34 AM
Subject: Re: Gawker

Please the BEST thing we can do is hit them back! We cant just sit and let them smack at us. I did that as a child, and I wont do it now. This is fueled by jealous cruelty. Please post... back. Bet this person wrote this never read a word of mine... hit back... never thought I'd advocate that... but I am... mannnn....
With love and sadness, jt

Keep in mind that "JT" knew I'd worked as a domestic violence victim advocate, that I'd volunteered for the King County Crisis Clinic and for Northwest Women's Law Center, and that my mom had prosecuted crimes against children. I didn't believe "JT"'s stories of abuse because I'm naive, but because I've worked with abuse survivors. And as everyone who has worked w/ abuse survivors knows, they're often disbelieved when they come forward. And now abuse has been falsely purported in order to gain notoriety and sympathy.

The books remain very good, but a noxious cloud swirls around their creator.

The abuse of goodwill is obscene:

I ended my friendship with the person I'd known as JT LeRoy today. Sunday's New York Times piece was the final straw:

The Unmasking of JT Leroy: In Public, He's a She - New York Times

For the past few months, I'd been convinced he was a she and had privately conveyed this to a few friends and family members. However, at no point did I question that the person I'd befriended was the author of "Harold's End", "Sarah", and "The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things", three books I will always love. I didn't believe someone "played" JT in public, nor did I believe someone else wrote the work. I thought my friend was deeply troubled as a result of sustained abuse, but I believed her writings were her own. I remained loyal and when she asked me to write letters on her behalf, I did, because I believed we were, in fact, friends.

We spoke on the phone today for roughly ten minutes and at no point did she conclusively answer any of my specific questions. I made it emphatically clear that I didn't believe her anymore, that I was hurt and disgusted, and that I was unambiguously ending our friendship. Then I hung up.

Undoubtedly, I'll write more about this later.

And those who misspell "Litsa" are doomed unto eternity:

This kid will incur permanent acid reflux if he reads The Believer interview with JR. If I'm going to be branded a heretic, I'm honored that it's alongside Mr. Gibbard:

Souls of Rock: Death Cab for Cutie - I Will Follow You Into the Dark

As good of a way as any to start the new year:

CNN.com - Have scientists found Mozart's skull? - Jan 3, 2006

Though "Grab Her Twat" and "Dad's Anal Adventure" would have been worse:

I've noted before that, thanks to my Black Table pieces, my name has been inadvertantly (and often humorously) linked to a number of porn sites. However, in light of today's additions, Grab Her Boob and Mom's Anal Adventure, it's worth reiterating that, no, I don't write porn and if I choose to, I'll certainly come up w/ something more erotically charged and less hurl-inducing than playground-level groping and persons' moms taking it up the ass.

Two recent faves from McSweeney's not written by me or anyone I know:

McSweeney's Internet Tendency: I Don't Know What the Big Deal About Having a Baby Is.

McSweeney's Internet Tendency: Bruce Springsteen Songs, If the Title More Accurately Reflected the Subject Matter.

When words are both essential and meaningless:

From CNN.com:

Koinange: Hospital scene like 'hell on earth'

African nation of Malawi battered by AIDS, drought

By Jeff Koinange
CNN

Thursday, December 1, 2005; Posted: 3:46 p.m. EST (20:46 GMT)

Editor's note: In our Behind the Scenes series, CNN correspondents share their experiences covering news.
Jeff Koinange, CNN Africa correspondent, in Malawi.

BLANTYRE, Malawi (CNN) -- Walking into the highly restricted tuberculosis ward of the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Malawi's second city of Blantyre is a lesson in humility.

To enter, you need to fill out a lot of paperwork letting the hospital know that if anything happens to you, it is not liable. This takes a couple of hours.

Once you're cleared, you get a surgeon's mask and a guide and off you go.

Our team did this recently and entered a scene that's the closest thing we've seen to hell on earth.

In bed after bed, the dead and the dying lie side-by-side. Patients stricken by advanced tuberculosis brought on by AIDS cough uncontrollably while relatives try to comfort them.

More:

CNN.com - Koinange: Hospital scene like 'hell on earth' - Dec 1, 2005

"I spend all my energy staying upright..."--N.S.

My Paste review of Nada Surf's October Seattle show went up last week. I feel compelled to note that "emotard" was changed to "emogeek", "wang" became "dork" and "shake its ass" was altered to "do something besides nod approvingly". (I fucking loved the show. These terms aren't in reference to the band.) Anyhow:

Paste Magazine :: Review :: Nada Surf, Say Hi To Your Mom :: Neumo’s, Seattle 10/19/2005 (Page 1)

From the Times of London: "Man 'cured' of HIV agrees to undergo further clinical tests"

"Man 'cured' of HIV agrees to undergo further clinical tests"
By Sam Lister, Health Correspondent

A YOUNG British man thought to be the first person to have shaken off HIV, the virus that causes Aids, is to undergo further clinical tests in the hope of a breakthrough in treating the condition.

Andrew Stimpson, 25, said yesterday that he was willing to do all he could to help to tackle the condition, after it emerged that his body had apparently rid itself of the human immunodeficiency virus.

Mr Stimpson, a Scot living in London, was found to be HIV-positive in August 2002, but 14 months later a blood test suggested that he no longer carried the virus. A further three tests confirmed the finding.

Doctors believe that this first confirmed case of ?spontaneous clearance? of HIV could offer important insights into the behaviour of the virus, and possible means of defeating it. "

More:

Britain, UK news from The Times and The Sunday Times - Times Online:

Mauling + ice cream + sex = readin':

My short story, "When Bears Attack", is in Rivet #14, "The Union Issue". The story's print version features an awesome graphic from Christopher Hong and the correct line breaks, but if you're short five bucks, you can read it here:

Rivet Magazine: Discover. Inquire. Repeat.

What? Who?

I'm not sure how a feature on Seattle music can viably omit Barsuk and its roster--*bullshit has been called*--but this is a fun piece nonetheless, particularly the part about the (awesome) John Richards:

Seattle Weekly: Music: A Day in the Life

If you need a (temporary) distraction from bird flu news:

My Paste Death Cab cover story is archived online now:

Paste Magazine :: Feature :: Death Cab For Cutie :: The Hardest Working Band in Show BIz (Page 1)

And--bonus!--the print-only Donner Party sidebar. Because eating people is funny:

In the new documentary, "Drive Well, Sleep Carefully", director Justin Mitchell captures Death Cab for Cutie's 2004 tour, during which the band traversed the U.S. in a well-equipped bus. While their offstage antics seem largely comprised of storytelling and shooting hoops, who knows what could happen next time? As Death Cab gets ready to hit the road again in support of their new record, Plans, Paste asked the lads and some of their indie rock co-horts: If a Donner Party type situation arises, who will you eat and why?

I think I'd probably eat Jason. He's definitely the strongest out of the four of us. He has more muscle, and probably more protein, in his body than Chris certainly does, and definitely more than Nick because Jason's taller and bigger than Nick. I'd have to eat Jason.--Ben Gibbard

I don't think any of them would dispute that if both of our bands were lost together, although I would do everything in my power to return us all to safety, in the final analysis I would be picking my teeth with their shinbones when spring came. It's hard to say whom I would eat first, because each of them has a terrible ferocity when cornered. I might let them fight it out amongst themselves at first, and wait until they'd worn each other out. I think that Nick would make the best eating. --John Roderick, The Long Winters

I'd eat Jason because Jason's muscle to fat ratio is the best.--Chris Walla

I guess I have to agree that Jason would be the last one standing. If it were up to me to decide which band member to eat first, I would volunteer myself, so that the band might have a chance to live on. ---Josh Rosenfeld, Barsuk Records co-founder

Well, I've got a big appetite and Nick's got some good hearty muscle on his bone, so I would choose Nick. Although what if I needed him alive to be on my side? I might have Chris as an appetizer instead.--Jason McGerr

I would eat whoever died of natural causes first because I couldn't kill anyone to eat them. I'm pretty sure Ben would be one of the first to go and then we'd have to eat Ben. Ben would be pretty juicy. Surviving that long requires a certain level of dedication and patience and I think Ben would be like, "You know what? Screw this whole thing. We're already screwed." He wouldn't hang on unnecessarily. I think Chris would make a very lean meal, and that's always important, so if I were watching my figure, I'd go for a leg of Chris. If I were going for really tasty, I'd go for Ben. Jason would be good, too, but I don't think he would die early on. I think Jason would be the guy who would eat us all. He would be the last man standing. He's kind of the survivor that way.--Nick Harmer

Not Walla, definitely, because you wouldn't get very far eating him. I think it would be between Ben or Nick. I think Ben would have more of a chicken flavor, whereas if you were in the mood for something like lamb, something a little more rich, Nick would be your man. So, it depends on what sort of curry you wanted to serve, chicken or lamb.--Colin Meloy, The Decemberists

Great moments in bad editing:

Here's the letter I wrote to New York Magazine:

I've interviewed JT LeRoy twice, once for Bookslut and once for Poets and
Writers. Over the past two years, we've become good friends, exchanging
hundreds of emails, blowing several hours on the phone, and spending time in person. (Note: I attended the Deitch Gallery launch for "Harold's End" last November. Your photographer, Danielle Levitt, took some test Polaroids of me, a curly-haired woman in a pink boucle coat.)

The truth is far more banal than Stephen Beachy's turgid story alleges. JT writes his own work. On numerous occasions, he's called or emailed
throughout the day with sequential drafts of stories or articles on which
he's working. He has a predilection for animated e-cards, only burns soy
candles, and loves my mom's baklava. And I've met Emily: she and JT sound
nothing alike.

In order for JT to be a hoax, he would have had to fool Vanity Fair (the
U.S. and British versions), the New York Times, BlackBook, Interview, Paper, Index, I-D, Spin, 7 X 7, Viking Press, Bloomsbury Press, Last Gasp Books, Zoetrope, Dave Eggers, Vendela Vida, Bono, Zadie Smith, Gus Van Sant, Madonna, Tom Waits, Lou Reed, Arthur Bradford, Mary Karr, Carrie Fisher, Yoko Ono, Jerry Harrison and my mom and me, among others. (Perhaps you can fool Madonna, but you can't fool my mom.)

Also, he would have to had raise several thousand dollars over the years for Dr. Terrence Owens' McAuley Institute at St. Mary's Hospital, *spontaneously and for no apparent reason.* And anyone who knows JT well knows he could never pull off a hoax. He's erudite and silly and probably a genius, but I once spent five minutes on the phone with him while he looked for stamps. He could never perpetuate fraud--not only because he's moral--but because he's totally unorganized.

Sincerely,

Litsa Dremousis
Seattle,WA

Here's what New York Mag ran this week:

http://newyorkmetro.com/nymag/letters/14960/index1.html

The Real LeRoy
Over the past two years, I’ve become friends with JT [“Who is the Real JT
LeRoy?” by Stephen Beachy, October 17]. He has a predilection for animated e-cards, burns only soy candles, and loves baklava. To be a hoax, he would’ve had to fool Vanity Fair, the New York Times, BlackBook, Interview, Paper, Index, I-D, Spin, 7X7, Viking Press, Bloomsbury Press, Last Gasp, Zoetrope, Dave Eggers, Bono, Zadie Smith, Gus Van Sant, Tom Waits, Lou Reed, Arthur Bradford, Mary Karr, Carrie Fisher, Jerry Harrison, Madonna, me, and my mom. And anyway, JT could never perpetuate fraud—he’s totally disorganized.
—Litsa Dremousis, Seattle, Wash.

A New York Mag fact-checker called three times over two weeks to verify everything, and I was told twice that my "letter [was] probably going to run". I never would have agreed to let them print it, though, if I'd known they were going to alter its tone. I know they can edit for clarity, but they changed the thing's intent. The edited version is poorly written and sounds like I'm taking a swipe at JT, which I'm not doing. Obviously.

Regardless, I hope everyone is done with this inane topic. I know I am.

I will be so fucking happy when the rest of the world catches up:

The Long Winters' "Ultimatum" is #8 in Seattle:

Seattle Weekly: Music: Countdown: Oct. 26-Nov. 1, 2005

Buy the disc and/or download the title song:

The Long Winters : ultimatum

Today, it does not suck to be a Democrat:

CNN.com - Democrats force Senate into unusual closed session - Nov 1, 2005

Apparently, Stephen Beachy has time on his hands:

I hate to respond to this because it's so absurd, but I've been asked about it more than once, so here goes:

In order for JT to be a hoax, he would have had to fool Vanity Fair (the U.S. and British versions), the New York Times, BlackBook, Interview, Paper, Index, I-D, Spin, 7 X 7, Viking Press, Bloomsbury Press, Last Gasp Books, Zoetrope, Dave Eggers, Vendela Vida, Bono, Zadie Smith, Madonna, Tom Waits, Lou Reed, Arthur Bradford, Mary Karr, Carrie Fisher, Yoko Ono, Jerry Harrison and, oh yeah, my mom and me, among others. (Maybe you can fool Madonna, but you can't fool my mom.)

Also, he would have to had raise several thousand dollars over the years for Dr. Terrence Owens' Mc Auley Institute at St. Mary's Hospital, *spontaneously and for no apparent reason.*

And anyone who knows JT well knows he could never pull off a hoax. He's erudite and silly and probably a genius, but I once spent five minutes on the phone with him while he looked for stamps. He could never perpetuate fraud--not only because he's totally moral--but because he's too unorganized:

Who is JT LeRoy? The True Identity of a Great Literary Hustler

A tiny green man gave me a blintz one time:

My friend's story, "The Day the Aliens Brought Pancakes", was selected as a "Notable Story of 2004" in the new "Best American Nonrequired Reading 2005". All hail, Mr. Spitznagel:

monkeybicycle.net

Yay, Jay Tay!

My friend, the finest writer and most sartorially adept individual to come out of West Virginia, has another essay in the New York Times:

By JT LeRoy
Published: September 25, 2005

"Cheese! It's hailing cheese!" We cover our heads. Our 8-year-old, Thor, cowers beneath us - his parents, Astor and Speedie, and me, a surrogate brother, sister, wannabe parent - as we form a shield between him and the miniature cubes pounding down on us. This is France, so it was only a matter of time till the cheese blasted us; we didn't expect it at the Tour de France, though.

We arrived two days before the tour's end. It was all anyone talked about as soon as we opened our mouths and revealed our furtive identities as Americans, noticeably scarce in Paris right then. A man in the lobby of our hotel, the Monna Lisa - situated two blocks from the Champs-Elysï¿1⁄2es, where the tour would wind up - informed me as I was struggling with a map that I was there for the tour: "Ah, you are here to see your Lance win!"

"Well, we came to go to Euro Disney."

His face crumpled, he folded his paper and, in an unyielding tone, rectified my faux pas: "You mean to say, 'Disneyland Paris!'"

By the threat in his tone, I instantly capitulated. "Yes, uh, Eur - Paris of Disney. What you said." After this happened a bazillion other times, I finally got the drift that the antipathy toward outfitting Disney with the "Euro" prefix could have something to do with its being the equivalent of "Dollar Disney." I started pronouncing it "Disneyland Paris" and received no more looks of vile disgust. Well, at least not for that.

More:
Uncle Walt, Parlez-Vous Fran?ais? - New York Times

We field a hell of a rugby team, too:

Among the Believers - New York Times

Nada Surfin':

I've been listening to the promo ceaselessly since I received it in June. If Nada Surf's "The Weight is a Gift" doesn't become one of your favorite discs of 2005, well, I don't want to know you:

The Weight is a Gift by Nada Surf - New York Fall Music Preview 2005

The best summation I've read so far:

From today's New York Times:

Macabre Reminder: The Corpse on Union Street - New York Times

Macabre Reminder: The Corpse on Union Street

By DAN BARRY
Published: September 8, 2005

NEW ORLEANS, Sept. 7 - In the downtown business district here, on a dry stretch of Union Street, past the Omni Bank automated teller machine, across from a parking garage offering "early bird" rates: a corpse. Its feet jut from a damp blue tarp. Its knees rise in rigor mortis.

The sight of corpses has become almost common on the mostly abandoned streets of New Orleans, as rescue and evacuation operations have taken priority over removing the dead.

Six National Guardsmen walked up to it on Tuesday afternoon and two blessed themselves with the sign of the cross. One soldier took a parting snapshot like some visiting conventioneer, and they walked away. New Orleans, September 2005.

Hours passed, the dusk of curfew crept, the body remained. A Louisiana state trooper around the corner knew all about it: murder victim, bludgeoned, one of several in that area. The police marked it with traffic cones maybe four days ago, he said, and then he joked that if you wanted to kill someone here, this was a good time.

Night came, then this morning, then noon, and another sun beat down on a dead son of the Crescent City.

That a corpse lies on Union Street may not shock; in the wake of last week's hurricane, there are surely hundreds, probably thousands. What is remarkable is that on a downtown street in a major American city, a corpse can decompose for days, like carrion, and that is acceptable.

Welcome to New Orleans in the post-apocalypse, half baked and half deluged: pestilent, eerie, unnaturally quiet.

Scraggly residents emerge from waterlogged wood to say strange things, and then return into the rot. Cars drive the wrong way on the Interstate and no one cares. Fires burn, dogs scavenge, and old signs from les bons temps have been replaced with hand-scrawled threats that looters will be shot dead.

The incomprehensible has become so routine here that it tends to lull you into acceptance. On Sunday, for example, several soldiers on Jefferson Highway had guns aimed at the heads of several prostrate men suspected of breaking into an electronics store.

A car pulled right up to this tense scene and the driver leaned out his window to ask a soldier a question: "Hey, how do you get to the interstate?"

Maybe the slow acquiescence to the ghastly here - not in Baghdad, not in Rwanda, here - is rooted in the intensive news coverage of the hurricane's aftermath: floating bodies and obliterated towns equal old news. Maybe the concerns of the living far outweigh the dignity of a corpse on Union Street. Or maybe the nation is numb with post-traumatic shock.

Wandering New Orleans this week, away from news conferences and search-and-rescue squads, has granted haunting glimpses of the past, present and future, with the rare comfort found in, say, the white sheet that flaps, not in surrender but as a vow, at the corner of Poydras Street and St. Charles Avenue.

"We Shall Survive," it says, as though wishing past the battalions of bulldozers that will one day come to knock down water-corrupted neighborhoods and rearrange the Louisiana mud for the infrastructure of an altogether different New Orleans.

Here, then, the New Orleans of today, where open fire hydrants gush the last thing needed on these streets; where one of the many gag-inducing smells - that of rancid meat - is better than MapQuest in pinpointing the presence of a market; and where images of irony beg to be noticed.

The Mardi Gras beads imbedded in mud by a soldier's boot print. The "take-away" signs outside restaurants taken away. The corner kiosk shouting the Aug. 28 headline of New Orleans's Times-Picayune: "Katrina Takes Aim."

Rush hour in downtown now means pickups carrying gun-carrying men in sunglasses, S.U.V.'s loaded with out-of-town reporters hungry for action, and the occasional tank. About the only ones commuting by bus are dull-eyed suspects shuffling two-by-two from the bus-and-train terminal, which is now a makeshift jail.

Maybe some of them had helped to kick in the portal to the Williams Super Market in the once-desirable Garden District. And who could blame them if all they wanted was food in those first desperate days? The interlopers took the water, beer, cigarettes and snack food. They did not take the wine or the New Orleans postcards.

On the other side of downtown across Canal Street in the French Quarter, the most raucous and most unreal of American avenues is now little more than an empty alley with balconies.

The absence of sweetly blown jazz, of someone cooing "ma chère," of men sporting convention nametags and emitting forced guffaws - the absence of us - assaults the senses more than any smell.

Past the famous Cafe du Monde, where a slight breeze twirls the overhead fans for no one, past the statue of Joan of Arc gleaming gold, a man emerges from nothing on Royal Street. He is asked, "Where's St. Bernard Avenue?"

"Where's the ice?" he asks in return, eyes narrowed in menace. "Where's the ice? St. Bernard's is that way, but where's the ice?"

In Bywater and the surrounding neighborhoods, the severely damaged streets bear the names of saints who could not protect them. Whatever nature spared, human nature stepped up to provide a kind of democracy in destruction.

At the Whitney National Bank on St. Claude Avenue, diamond-like bits of glass spill from the crushed door, offering a view of the complementary coffee table. A large woman named Phoebe Au - "Pronounced 'Awe,' " she says - materializes to report that men had smashed it in with a truck. She fades into the neighborhood's broken brick, and a thin woman named Toni Miller materializes to correct the record.

"They used sledgehammers," she said.

Farther down St. Claude Avenue, where tanks rumble past a smoldering building, the roads are cluttered with vandalized city buses. The city parked them on the riverbank for the hurricane, after which some hoods took them for fare-free joy rides through lawless streets, and then discarded them.

On Clouet Street, where a days-old fire continues to burn where a warehouse once stood, a man on a bicycle wheels up through the smoke to introduce himself as Strangebone. The nights without power or water have been tough, especially since the police took away the gun he was carrying - "They beat me and threatened to kill me," he says - but there are benefits to this new world.

"You're able to see the stars," he says. "It's wonderful."

Today, law enforcement troops began lending muscle to Mayor C. Ray Nagin's vow to evacuate by force any residents too attached to their pieces of the toxic metropolis. They searched the streets for the likes of Strangebone, and that woman whose name sounds like Awe.

Meanwhile, back downtown, the shadows of another evening crept like spilled black water over someone's corpse.

The best part is that it's well-deserved:

Nothing Is Certain but Death and Taxis - New York Times

Nothing Is Certain but Death and Taxis

By KELEFA SANNEH
Published: August 28, 2005

BEN GIBBARD, the lead singer and main songwriter for Death Cab for Cutie, has had a wildly eventful few years. His band's sweet, melancholy songs have helped a generation of listeners rediscover the joys of heartfelt balladry. And along the way, Mr. Gibbard has gone from semi-obscure singer to unlikely heartthrob. Who could have predicted that someone like him would wind up dominating the gossip columns? And who could have foreseen the sold-out stadium concerts, the punch-up with a paparazzo, the fruitful marriage to Gwyneth Paltrow?

O.K., strike that last bit: I think I'm getting Mr. Gibbard mixed up with that guy from Coldplay. But it's a surprisingly easy mistake to make. Both of them know their way around grand, sighing love songs. And while Mr. Gibbard isn't quite a mainstream rock star yet, he's surprisingly close. The last Death Cab for Cutie album, "Transatlanticism" (Barsuk), has sold more than 300,000 copies since its release in 2003. And with an electronic side project called the Postal Service, Mr. Gibbard released another 2003 album, "Give Up" (Sub Pop); it was a surprise indie smash, selling more than 600,000 copies.

On Tuesday, Death Cab for Cutie is to release "Plans" (Atlantic), its first major-label album, which is all but assured to be its best-selling one so far. In an earlier era, indie-rock fans might have worried about the new record deal and the newfound popularity, but Death Cab's evolution into a pop-chart-ready band has been steady and relatively uncontroversial. Whereas older indie-rock groups sometimes struggled furiously against the current of listener demand, this one has found a graceful way to swim with it.

"Plans" also represents a challenge for the mainstream music industry. Modest Mouse proved that indie-rock bands (you don't necessarily outgrow the genre when you outgrow your record label) could earn a platinum plaque, and Bright Eyes proved that an indie-rock act could make its debut in the Top 10. Now the executives at Atlantic Records have a chance to raise the bar again, although no one knows how high. Could Death Cab be the first of these bands to break into the Top 5? The first to go double-platinum? The first to score a remix from Kanye West? (A Gibbard can dream, can't he?)

Ever since Death Cab's 1999 debut album, "Something About Airplanes," this Bellingham, Wash., band has been finding ways to record music that is pretty but not fussy. The members first perfected their approach on "We Have the Facts and We're Voting Yes" (Barsuk), an astonishing CD full of hard songs that sounded soft. Mr. Gibbard sang,
When your apologies fail to ring true
So slick with that sarcastic slew
Of phrases like, 'I thought you knew'
While keeping me in hot pursuit

but the words came out not as angry accusations but as one long, gentle sigh.

After "The Photo Album" (Barsuk), from 2001, the band outdid itself with "Transatlanticism," which showed off Mr. Gibbard's crystalline voice and also the crystalline production of the guitarist, Chris Walla. He stripped away almost all the noise and fuzz, letting listeners concentrate on intoxicating little details, like the owlish hoots hidden in the background of a song called "Lightness."

With "Translatlanticism," Mr. Gibbard also found a simpler and more suspenseful way to write songs. Sometimes he began with a scientific observation ("And when I see you, I really see you upside down/ But my brain knows better, it picks you up and turns you around") and worked his way toward an unadorned confession ("I know it's too late/ And I should have given you a reason to stay"). Songs from the album found their way to soundtracks, including that the of TV show "The OC." The sugary songs of the Postal Service became sleeper hits, too, and Mr. Gibbard found himself the figurehead of an unexpected indie-rock boom.

Whatever the cause, it wasn't Mr. Gibbard's rock-star swagger. If anything, his success seems like a byproduct of his humility. A prouder band might find defiant ways to alienate newcomers, and to keep longtime fans at arm's length. But Death Cab excels at giving listeners what they want: wistful, neatly written indie-rock ballads. Instead of insisting that we humor them (like noisier, pricklier indie bands of a decade ago), Death Cab has agreed to humor us, instead; like the Shins and Rilo Kiley, Death Cab has figured out that there's nothing wrong with being eager to please.

Now comes "Plans," which is fuller than "Transatlanticism" but otherwise quite similar. There are delicious (and, still, melancholy) songs that unfold like the last batch. "What Sarah Said" begins with some rolling keyboard chords (come to think of it, they don't sound wholly unlike something Ms. Paltrow's husband might play), and some opening remarks: "And it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time." (It's the closest Mr. Gibbard comes to singing the title.) By song's end, the lyrics have grown shiveringly direct: "I'm thinking of what Sarah said/ That love is watching someone die/ So who's gonna watch you die?" These are cruel words, but Mr. Gibbard sings them as if he really wants to know.

This album feels a bit more premeditated, a bit more familiar, than "Transatlanticism." (In fact, the new album ends with a throwback: "Stable Song" is a rearrangement of "Stability," which was released on an EP in 2002..) But it's a triumph all the same, with semisweet refrains that glide into your brain and refuse to leave; millions of Coldplay fans should give this CD a chance. In "I Will Follow You Into the Dark," which seems destined to become one of the album's most beloved songs, there is only an acoustic guitar to accompany Mr. Gibbard's memorable promise of endless love: "If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks/ Then I'll follow you into the dark." On this album, couples don't just part, they dearly depart.

Mr. Gibbard's lyrics have changed subtly over the years. The early albums were full of odes sung by lovers left behind. In one old song, "Company Calls Epilogue," Mr. Gibbard evoked an ex's wedding: "You were the one/ But I can't spit it out when the date's been set." Now he's as likely to be the leaver as the left. "Someday You Will Be Loved" offers cold comfort to an ex: "The memories of me will seem more like bad dreams/ Just a series of blurs like I never occurred."

On the album's first single, "Soul Meets Body," Mr. Gibbard delivers a soothing pick-up line. "You're the only song I want to hear," he sings, "A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere."

That phrase sums up what Death Cab for Cutie promises its listeners. Most bands, of course, promise far more. But it's worth remembering, too, that almost all of them wind up delivering far less.

No, not because we're friends:

A smart, funny essay from one of my favorite writers:

June 5, 2002 | CANOGA PARK, Calif. -- Canoga Park is a rarely visited graveyard where celebrity pool cleaners go to die. It's less a suburban oasis than an apocalyptic dustbowl, an unfathomably ugly San Fernando Valley sprawl of strip malls, factories and cul-de-sacs that can only boast affordable housing and a lower crime rate than Los Angeles. During the summer, the valley is always at least 10 degrees hotter, and exponentially more humid, than anywhere else in Southern California. From the moment you cross the border, it feels like you've ventured inside the mouth of a dog.

More:

Salon.com Sex | Fast forward

Or perhaps, make out with you:

If you speak German and translate the following article for me, I'll be your best friend:

BANDS Magazine - V.A. - Future Soundtrack Of America (Barsuk/RecRec)

From the Atlanta Journal-Constitution: "Trend-bucking Paste now trendy magazine":

Trend-bucking Paste now trendy magazine | AccessAtlanta

Trend-bucking Paste now trendy magazine

By SONIA MURRAY
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Published on: 08/14/2005

Back in college, the founders of Paste magazine surely couldn't have imagined 9-to-5 ever being this much fun.

Sipping free liquor before noon, brought in by a 3 Vodka representative who wants to discuss advertising and potential sponsorships.

What differentiates Paste from the No. 1 magazine on the Tribune's list, music magazine Blender, as well as mainstays such as Rolling Stone and Spin, is that you can pretty much bet that no matter how much pop superstar Britney Spears agrees to bare, she will never be on its cover.

Opening boxes of complimentary CDs every day.

Gorging on chips, queso and a seemingly endless supply of fish tacos during two-hour lunches.

But don't be misled — these are working lunches.

Today, in a six-room Decatur office that, with its walls lined with shelves of CDs and music posters, feels a little like a dorm room, eight music and movie lovers are eating and holding energetic talks about the best ways to share their favorite new finds with the world.

Editor Josh Jackson points out that there hasn't been a woman on the cover in a while.

Some names are tossed out: India Arie. Lizz Wright. Fiona Apple.

"Yeaah," says assistant editor Steve LaBate. "With [Apple's] album that's not coming out floating around, that would be unexpected."

"And with her being out of the spotlight," Jackson adds, "and most of all, good ."

These are men who take their roles as tastemakers seriously.

Think of Paste magazine as a dream come true for that high school classmate who used to make mixtapes for his friends. In fact, partners Jackson, Nick Purdy and Joe Kirk were those guys, spreading mixtapes around their high schools in Dunwoody, Norcross and Naples, Fla. Their fourth partner, Tim Porter, says he was more of a tape and CD loaner at his high school in Jackson.

Seven years ago, Purdy, Jackson and a friend created pastemusic.com, an online retailer of indie music. In July 2002, Jackson, Purdy and Porter, a classmate of Jackson's at UGA, launched Paste magazine as a quarterly with 600 subscribers, most of them Web site customers. (Kirk, who had been mastering the magazine's free CD samplers, was brought in as a partner shortly afterward.) By October 2003, Paste had grown so much that it became a bimonthly.

And with the release of its August/September issue, Paste got even bigger, more than doubling its print run to 225,000 thanks to a recent buyout of the rock music magazine Tracks.

But its founders' influence extends beyond its subscription base. Every Tuesday at 1:54 p.m., either Jackson or Purdy — the two main faces of the magazine and friends since they met at a Presbyterian church youth group 18 years ago — share their interests with the hundreds of thousands tuned in to "CNN Headline News."

And 37 independent record stores in 24 states feature Paste Recommends listening stations programmed by the magazine's 19-member staff.

Those listening stations present certain challenges, though, which have the staff at the lunch meeting concerned.

"So what are we going to do when our reviewer gives one-and-a-half stars to something on the Paste Recommends station, or the sampler?" LaBate asks.

(The CDs for the stations and the songs for the samplers are chosen before staff and freelance critics review albums.)

"Everything is not always going to line up," Purdy answers. "What we have to do with the sampler is fill it with the 22 songs we love. And if there are one or two things in editorial that conflict with that, hey, we can still stand by the fact that the 22 songs on the sampler we love!"

Their passion is getting them noticed.

In June, the Chicago Tribune named Paste one of the 50 best magazines, placing it at No. 21 — six places ahead of the British music magazine Mojo, which Paste aspires to emulate.

What differentiates Paste from the No. 1 magazine on the Tribune's list, music magazine Blender, as well as mainstays such as Rolling Stone and Spin, is that you can pretty much bet that no matter how much pop superstar Britney Spears agrees to bare, she will never be on its cover.

"We live and die by our tagline — 'Signs of Life in Music, Film and Culture,' " explains Purdy, far and away the most matter-of-fact of the generally easygoing foursome.

The staff added "film" to the tagline when its December/January 2004 issue hit stands with director Wes Anderson ("Rushmore," "The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou") on the cover.

"Film has always been a component of the magazine," Purdy says. "We've increased our emphasis on it in the last year. But in the future the magazine, ultimately, will be seen as an entertainment magazine."

It is Paste's mission, says Kirk, to help people find art that has value and to help encourage its development.

"Paste finds the edgy, really provocative, forward-thinking, progressive musicians," says Lindsey Pearl of Press Here Publicity, whose clients (danceable rock band Franz Ferdinand, beloved indie wordsmith Bright Eyes) have been given major feature treatment in Paste. "I think as music diversifies more and more, it's important to have publications that really do honor the music itself and are not paying attention to politics, fashion and culture."

Dave Siff, a bassist in a couple of local bands and the "Headline News" executive producer who brought the Paste guys to CNN, says the look and content of the magazine caught his eye.

"I was told by somebody, like, 'Hey, check out this local music magazine.' And I'm thinking to myself, Stomp and Stammer. Not that there's anything wrong with Stomp and Stammer. But I just thought, like [Stomp], it was gonna be paper, thin, that kind of thing. And the first time I got my hands on Paste I was literally blown away. Mouth agape."

Porter came up with the name Paste when some of the partners were sitting around one day trying to come up with a good metaphor for connection.

"We really feel music is not inert," Purdy says. "It has emotional, spiritual, inspiring-type power over people. It's not something that's just food that goes in your body and out. It affects you. So that's why we're toying around with the idea of a connection. Paste is a metaphor for connection."

With that kind of purpose and focus from its start, it's no wonder they're taking some abuse from their readers for giving the ever-writhing pop star Shakira a positive, full-page review. Or — gasp! — actually liking mainstream favorite Coldplay's latest CD, "X & Y."

After all, the Tribune deemed Paste "hip without sacrificing credibility on the altar of corporately deemed 'cool.' "

Pardon Kirk as he snickers a bit.

"We're often seen as having a bias toward artists nobody ever heard of before, but that's mostly because other people aren't paying attention to artists nobody's heard of," he says with a laugh. "And yeah, we probably are more likely to help people discover the next little thing, but we kind of really don't care. If it's good, it's good. You can't please everybody."

If there has been one consistent knock against Paste, it's that it hasn't seemed to have found many "signs of life" in the work blacks, Latinos and other people of color are creating.

Ahmir "Questlove" Thompson, of the hip-hop band the Roots, is the only black person to have a Paste cover. "And I can see where that could be perceived as a plus and a minus," Thompson says.

Purdy doesn't dodge the issue.

"Absolutely we could and should be stronger there," he says. "And slowly and surely, we are putting our money where our mouth is. We're working on a big feature on [black Atlanta singer-songwriter] India Arie. The whole neo-soul thing seems to be a place where folks in our audience — who, let's just say, don't listen to a lot of music made by black people — can start."

The Paste guys know tastes can be changed.

After all, Purdy admits that the mixtapes they made back in high school included songs like DeBarge's "Rhythm of the Night."

Little chance of such dopey pop seeing daylight on a future Paste sampler.

Next week? That I'm actually a guy:

Last week, a message boarder said that I was Jewish. This week, I'm listed as a poet. (See below.) Anyhow, if you're in the Bay Area on Thursday, drop by Pegasus Books in Berkeley for Cranky's first out-of-state reading:

Events

Oh, *that* guy again:

My Paste Magazine profile on the LWs' JR is online now:

Paste Magazine :: Feature :: The Long Winters :: Seasons Changing (Page 1)

From today's New York Times: "Sometimes Snarkiness is Preferable to Sincerity"

Sometimes Snarkiness Is Preferable to Sincerity - New York Times

I'm glad the Dorothy Parker bit got singled out because it's one of my favorite parts. Mr. Sanneh quotes me accurately, though--in context--it's obvious that I'm not the posterchild for tender-hearted emo sincerity. Whatever. My first piece for The Believer is referenced in the New York Times and JR gets well-deserved props, too. Nice.

June 23, 2005
Sometimes Snarkiness Is Preferable to Sincerity
By KELEFA SANNEH

One of the funniest and meanest music-criticism blogs publishes no original music criticism at all. It's called The Shins Will Change Your Life, online at indierock4eva.blogspot.com, and it compiles excerpts from breathless or fawning articles about indie-rock albums and musicians.
One writer in the site's crosshairs promises that after hearing the new album by the singer-songwriter Maria Taylor, "you'll soon be wondering how you've lived so long without having these songs in your life." Another declares that the new Art Brut album is "as clear as crystal a piece of untainted genius." And a third notes that "No Wow," by the Kills, is "a brutal record that changes you the same way prison changes a man." No extra commentary is provided, and none is necessary; the site's scathing sarcasm goes entirely unstated.

The Shins Will Change Your Life reads like a delayed reaction to the great snark debate of 2003, begun in the pages of the literary magazine The Believer and continued, for a few months, in the Snarkwatch section of the magazine's Web site, believermag.com. Heidi Julavits, an editor of The Believer, used the term snark to refer to the "hostile, knowing, bitter tone of contempt" that she often noticed in book reviews, including some that have been published in The New York Times Book Review. (The essay is online at believermag.com/issues/march_2003/julavits.php.) And the Snarkwatch site did the opposite of what the Shins site does now: instead of snarkily mocking music critics for their overwritten encomiums, it took book critics to task for "needlessly unpleasant" or unfair reviews.
It makes a certain sort of sense, then, that the editors of The Believer have just given the anonymous Shins blogger a big, fat new target. The magazine's new issue is its annual music issue, featuring 88 pages of articles ("Incl. non-music essay on George Plimpton," as the cover promises, or perhaps warns) and one CD full of musicians covering songs by their peers; almost all of these cover versions are previously unreleased.

The Believer prides itself on being omnivorous, and usually for good reason. The editors love to give the essays long subtitles followed by even longer lists of the subjects discussed. In the next issue, due out later this summer, the magazine sort of promises ("Not all contents are guaranteed; replacements will be satisfying") to print an article entitled "Ignatius Donnelly, Prince of Cranks: How a nineteenth-century Minnesotan's catastrophic imagination predicted the Internet, chemical warfare and demon airships." This is a magazine that aims to show readers a bigger, weirder world.

That's why it's so puzzling to find, for the second year, that The Believer's music issue contains almost nothing outside the alt-rock world. The five musicians interviewed offer five different flavors of alternative: the post-punk singer Karen O, from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs; the puckish singer Beck; the sisters, ages 11 and 13, who make up Smoosh; the singer-songwriter Aimee Mann; and the indie-rock singer John Roderick of the Long Winters.

The interviews are long and appealingly casual, and the best are full of unexpected little anecdotes and asides, as when Mr. Roderick's interviewer compares some Long Winters lyrics to Dorothy Parker's writing. The response is a half-serious warning: "Be careful not to compliment me too much, because I'm apt to say, 'Don't you think my last quip was rather like Dorothy Parker?' " But the relentless focus on alternative rock is not only strange but also slightly depressing. What fun is it to explore a musical world that seems so small?

The CD is similarly frustrating, not least because there's much to recommend it. Many music issues come with freebie sampler CD's that are little more than record-company-sponsored promotional tools. But this one has new recordings, some of them great (like Spoon's version of "Decora" by Yo La Tengo) and some not so great (like Devendra Banhart's rather graceless reading of "Fistful of Love" by Antony and the Johnsons).

Again, the problem is the limited focus. The CD is accompanied by an essay that begins, puckishly, with an ultra-condensed history of songwriting: "The oldest recorded song that we know of was etched on clay tablets in western Syria 3,400 years ago." The essay leaves readers free to imagine that the CD is a wide-ranging collection of contemporary songs, even though it's mainly devoted to the work of a small cohort of indie-rockers.

Maybe it's unfair to judge a magazine by its music issue. The style magazine Nylon just published its annual music issue, too, and it's full of stylishly disheveled bands so similar-looking that they could probably trade members without anyone's noticing. This is a small world that's small on purpose; the little details (like the hilarious and quite lovely Will Sanders photograph of the teenage Nashville punk band Be Your Own Pet, half-hidden behind a blossoming tree) more than make up for the lack of range.

If The Believer's music issue is more problematic, that's because it's also more neutral. In an effort to stamp out snark, the editors also seem to have stamped out skepticism, and so the magazine takes it for granted that indie-rockers are the most important musicians on the planet: the harpist and songwriter Joanna Newsom, for example, taps into "a deep, universal pain." (Might those words appear on a certain blog sometime soon?)

There is scarcely any mention of the kind of music left out. Mainstream pop music is mainly off-limits, although Rick Moody makes a grudging confession: "I like pop songs, too, of course, in reasonable doses." (Later, he takes a swipe at "the bland affirmations of the contemporary 'country' radio format.") And black and Latin music is almost entirely absent. At one point, Mr. Roderick claims that "indie-rock culture is the real ghetto of people who have convinced themselves that they're too sensitive to be yelled at or to yell." The interviewer responds with what might be The Believer's unofficial credo: "When it's genuine, though, it's different."

Compared with the ostentatious sincerity of The Believer's music issue, a site like Shins probably seems like an exercise in bad faith, a place where writers are pilloried for daring to be enthusiastic. But while Shins provides plenty of cheap laughs, it also hints at the prejudices that usually go unexamined in music writing, assumptions about what smart or genuine or good or life-saving music should sound like, and about who should be making it. Sure, indie-rock fans and musicians have plenty of reasons to be glad that The Believer throws such an entertaining party every year. But they - and others - might also pause to wonder who's not invited, and why.

Because it's all fun and games until someone kills a sibling:

My one-sentence story for Monkey Bicycle is here:

monkeybicycle.net

Relax--you should see what he writes about me.

"Darling, darling, darling/I can't wait to see you/in the flesh..."--Blondie

I read my short story, "A Young Irene Dunne, Maybe", at the Third Place Books in Ravenna on Friday night. Details:

The Seattle Times: Entertainment & the Arts

NWsource: Event details - "Cranky" Contributors Read

Calendar of Events - Ravenna Third Place

Because who *doesn't* like reading about illness?

The CFIDS Association of America asked me to tell part of my story. That's Ms. Posterchild to you, bitches:

CFIDS

Get your ass to a newsstand:

It's here!

The Believer - Interview with John Roderick

Of course, nothing compares to the upcoming June music issue:

The Believer is nominated for a National Magazine Award in the category of General Excellence. Yea!

Winners and Finalists

My family has been in a similar situation and...

...we've debated whether the Schiavo family is well-intentioned but misguided, or selfish and cruel. Andrew Leonard's interview with the Rev. John Paris, Professor of Bioethics at Boston College, offers an insightful look at a complex case. From today's Salon:

Salon.com News | "This has nothing to do with the sanctity of life"

By Andrew Leonard

March 22, 2005 | The decision on whether to allow Terri Schiavo to die has sparked endless controversy over what is legal and ethical when patients are unable to make their own wishes. One observer who brings both legal and moral authority to the debate is the Rev. John Paris, the Walsh Professor of Bioethics at Boston College.

Paris has served as an expert witness on numerous cases involving patients who were being kept alive by artificial means. He is equally capable of discussing the legal details of the Schiavo case and the Catholic Church's view of it. According to Paris, every relevant legal issue has already been decided; the only thing keeping the case alive is the fact that the Christian right has made Schiavo a cause célèbre.

Paris did not serve as an expert witness in the Schiavo case. However, when the case was reviewed by the Florida Supreme Court, he signed an amicus brief on behalf of Michael Schiavo, who wants to take his wife off life support. Salon spoke to Paris by phone on Monday morning. "This case," he says, "is bizarre."

>Why is the case bizarre?

In most cases, the court has a theory, you have an appellate review, and that's the end. But this case, the parents keep coming back with new issues -- every time that they lose, they come in with a new issue. We want to reexamine the case. We believe she's competent. We need new medical tests being done. We think she's been abused. We want child protective services to intervene. Finally, Judge George Greer denied them all. He said. "Look, we have had court-appointed neutral physicians examine this patient. You don't believe the findings of the doctors but the finding of the doctors have been accepted by the court as factual." There have been six reviews by the appellate court.

>What did the appellate court find?

The Florida Court of Appeals found four very interesting things. And it found them by the highest legal standard you can have -- clear and convincing evidence. The appellate court said that Judge Greer found clear and convincing evidence that Schiavo is in a well-diagnosed, persistent vegetative state, that there is no hope of her ever recovering consciousness, and that she had stated she would not ever want to be maintained this way. The court said we have heard the parents saying she didn't [say that], and we heard the husband say she did, and we believe the husband's statement is a correct statement of her position. The court also found that the husband was a caring, loving spouse whose actions were in Terri's best interests. The court said, "Remove the feeding tube," and the family protested. Of course, the family has the radical, antiabortion, right-to-life Christian right, with its apparently unlimited resources and political muscle, behind them.

>So what do you think this case is really about?

The power of the Christian right. This case has nothing to do with the legal issues involving a feeding tube. The feeding tube issue was definitively resolved by the U.S. Supreme Court in 1990 in Cruzan vs. Director. The United States Supreme Court ruled that competent patients have the right to decline any and all unwanted treatment, and unconscious patients have the same right, depending upon the evidentiary standard established by the state. And Florida law says that Terri Schiavo has more than met the standard in this state. So there is no legal issue.

>Are there any extenuating circumstances?

The law is clear, the medicine is clear, the ethics are clear. A presidential commission in 1983, appointed by Ronald Reagan, issued a very famous document called "Deciding to Forgo Life-Sustaining Treatment." It talked about the appropriate treatment for patients who are permanently unconscious. The commission said the only justification for continuing any treatment -- and they specifically talked about feeding tubes -- is either the slight hope that the patient might recover or the family's hope that the patient might recover. Terri Schiavo's legitimate family -- the guardian, the spouse -- has persuaded the court that she wouldn't want [intervention] and therefore it shouldn't happen. Now you have the brother and sister, the mother and father, saying that's all wrong. But they had their day in court, they had their weeks in court, they had their years in court!

>Isn't the underlying social issue here one that says the law doesn't have authority over this kind of life-or-death matter?

Let me give you a test that I've done 100 times to audiences. And I guarantee you can do the same thing. Go and find the first 12 people you meet and say to them, "If you were to suffer a cerebral aneurysm, and we were able to diagnose that with a PET-scan immediately, would you want to be put on a feeding tube, knowing that you can be sustained in this existence?" I have asked that question in medical audiences, legal audiences and audiences of judges. I'll bet I have put that question before several thousand people. How many people do you think have said they wanted to be maintained that way? Zero. Not one person. Now that tells you about where the moral sentiment of our community is.

>Where do you think this case is headed?

It's headed to federal court today. I cannot imagine what the federal question is. Congress said, "All we are doing is asking to have a federal court examine this." I don't know what they thought the courts were doing in the last eight years. They are saying, "We're asking a court to review this, to be certain that due process has not been violated." I don't think there is a case in the history of the United States that has been reviewed six times by an appellate court. Remember, the United States Supreme Court refused to review this.

>As a priest, how do you resolve questions in which the "sanctity of life" is involved?

The sanctity of life? This has nothing to do with the sanctity of life. The Roman Catholic Church has a consistent 400-year-old tradition that I'm sure you are familiar with. It says nobody is obliged to undergo extraordinary means to preserve life.

This is Holy Week, this is when the Catholic community is saying, "We understand that life is not an absolute good and death is not an absolute defeat." The whole story of Easter is about the triumph of eternal life over death. Catholics have never believed that biological life is an end in and of itself. We've been created as a gift from God and are ultimately destined to go back to God. And we've been destined in this life to be involved in relationships. And when the capacity for that life is exhausted, there is no obligation to make officious efforts to sustain it.

This is not new doctrine. Back in 1950, Gerald Kelly, the leading Catholic moral theologian at the time, wrote a marvelous article on the obligation to use artificial means to sustain life. He published it in Theological Studies, the leading Catholic journal. He wrote, "I'm often asked whether you have to use IV feeding to sustain somebody who is in a terminal coma." And he said, "Not only do I believe there is no obligation to do it, I believe that imposing those treatments on that class of patients is wrong. There is no benefit to the patient, there is great expense to the community, and there is enormous tension on the family."

>How do you square that with the pope's comments last year, which seemed to indicate that people in Schiavo's situation should be kept alive?

The bishops of Florida did it very nicely when they said, "There is a presumption to use nutritional fluid, unless the continued use of it would be burdensome to the patient." So it's not an absolute. That statement is a recognition that the Vatican is inhabited by the same cross section of people that inhabit the United States

>What do you mean?

I mean there are some radical right-to-lifers there, and they got that statement out. But it has to be seen in the context of the pope's 1980 declaration on euthanasia, and the pope's encyclical on death and dying, in which he repeats the long-standing tradition that I just gave you. His comment last year wasn't doctrinal statement, it wasn't encyclical, it wasn't a papal pronouncement. It was a speech at a meeting of right-to-lifers.

Again, this issue is not new. Every court, every jurisdiction that has heard it, agrees. So you'd think this issue would have ended. I thought it ended when we took it to the Supreme Court in 1990. But I hadn't anticipated the power of the Christian right. They elected him [George Bush]. And now he dances.

salon.com

Somewhere over the rainbow:

I came down with a massive case of hives on Saturday night. By Sunday morning, my arms and legs were covered in huge raspberry blotches that itched like hell. (Mercifully, my face and chest were spared. I still possess a certain je ne sais quoi, as long as I don't have to take off my coat.)

I explained to my pharmacist and to my doctor that I'm on deadline and that I'd rather be lucid and itch than be hive-free and stoned. I made it clear that I didn't want to ingest anything that would turn me into Judy Garland. Both pointed out, however, that my immune system is not exactly my best friend and that letting said hives go unchecked was a big mistake.

So, now the hives are almost gone but I'm high as a kite and readying a transcript for quote checks whilst trying to remain upright. I'm tempted to crawl into bed and remain there for the next three days, unencumbered by clothes or consciousness.

I won't, though. Here's why:

12/03/04:
KEXP 90.3 FM - where the music matters

10/23/03:
KEXP 90.3 FM - where the music matters

05/10/03:
KEXP 90.3 FM - where the music matters

Stacked Writer Girl in Vintage Clothing Porn:

I suppose this was inevitable: my Black Table piece, "The Leg Fuck", has been linked to a porn site featuring absurdly specific categories. What distinguishes "Black Amateurs" from "Black Porn"? Where's the guy who's about to clutch himself but tucks it away when he realizes, "Hey, these folks are getting paid!"? What, exactly, is the difference between "College Girls Porn" and "Spring Break Porn"? And what the fuck is "Balloon Porn"? Are they just making stuff up now?

Find out for yourself:

Crazy Shit happens Link dump sex movies blog funny news stories > > News > > STRANGEWAYS, HERE THEY COME: GIRLS HAVE SEX IN ODD PLACES.

If you don't like Dave Eggers you can go fuck yourself:

The Onion interviews D.E.:

The Onion A.V. Club | Feature

All you can do is bite down and breathe:

In "The Story of O", O allows herself to be tortured. Each time she's flogged, the pain is excruciating and she vows she'll never subject herself to it again. Afterward, she's peaceful and scalded and believes she's stronger. She allows herself to be tortured again.

In the last two weeks, Cranky accepted one of my short stories, Paste asked me to write reviews, The Believer offered me a lofty sum to interview one of my favorite writers, and the British literary journal, Spoiled Ink, asked me to submit. Two of my favorite authors emailed each other about my work and Cupcake gave me another shout out.

And at this moment, part of me would trade all of it to make the fever and chills and nausea go away. To borrow Dylan's line, I couldn't call it unexpected. I've had CFIDS for almost fourteen years and I know that this is what I incur with each piece that I write, with most physical efforts that I make.

When I'm not in the worst of it, I can be sanguine. No one gets everything they want, I tell myself. I'm lucky to be good at what I love to do. My health is impaired, but I have talent and people who love me. There are far worse illnesses. Overall, I lead a remarkable life.

Right now, though, I would give it all away to wake up without this endless flu, to walk without numbness or pain, to lie down because I want to and not because the beast has pinned me. To find that this monster to which I'm tethered has finally set me free.

I can't not write, though.

I'll allow myself to be tortured again.

They might start by allowing women to "trespass" behind the altar:

Salon.com News | Greek church proposes urgent reforms

"Hello grace/It's been awhile/Your footsteps didn't go unnoticed..."--Ken Stringfellow

To those who stuck around while I was inambulatory and to those who have revelled in my good fortune as is if it were their own, thank you with all I have. I'm grateful beyond measure. Much love, L.