Weirder Than You, So There

Furthering my long-held belief that fiction writers are all psychotic, here's the saga of one really batty lady. The snake-oil shrinks who encourage their sociopathic tendencies by telling 'em to "write it out" outta be prosecuted.

From today's NYT:

Ms. Albert’s (the writer being sued) lawyer, Eric Weinstein, began his own remarks with the memorably understated line, “Laura (Albert) is a complicated person.” He said she was physically and sexually abused as a child. He said she was institutionalized in psychiatric wards and in a group home as a ward of the state. He said she was in therapy for 13 years with a psychiatrist whom she spoke to by telephone while posing as a teenage boy named Jeremy, an embryonic version of JT Leroy.

By the time the psychiatrist advised her to write, the persona of the teenage boy had become engrained as Ms. Albert’s alter ego, what Mr. Weinstein called her “bridge to the world.” Ms. Albert herself, in conversations before the trial, called JT “her respirator,” an unreal, though entirely necessary, entity that allowed her to breathe.

Faulkner Was A Cartoonist

Who knew? Guess Mike Luckovich squirrels away such juicy tidbits, but not me. From Ole Miss' Center for the Study of Southern Culture (where, when I'm finished channeling Rupert and Ted, I hope to retire quietly for a civilized course of study; there or UNC's southern studies program. Have yet to decide between the two. But I've got miles to go before I rest with such academic indulgences)... Anyways, back to the quote at hand:

Prior to the beginning of his career as a novelist, Faulkner as visual artist was already bringing together some of the issues of sexuality he would probe so deeply in his fiction: the male “gaze” as a form of sexual objectification, the “blackness” of sexual mystery, the interaction of heterosexual and same-sex dynamics.

Not only does Faulkner explore multiple forms of sexuality throughout his work, he also studies their implications within various social, economic, and racial concerns. Quentin Compson’s obsession over decaying social standards in The Sound and the Fury is complicated by the incestuous desires seemingly designed to purify what he regards as sexual violation.

Read more prime yadayadayayda here. If you want to geek-out in what must surely be world's geekiest of literary geek fests, this year's "Faulkner's Sexualities" Faulkner and Yoknapatawpha Conference is July 22-26, 2007. More info on that gem here. I can only imagine the sort who arrive at these sort of things, gauche rolly luggage in hand. And we wonder why Faulkner pondered female indifference too...

Redneck Literati Awards

I'm sorry, I know it's only March, but submissions for Best of Redneck Literati '07 are now closed. You'd have to go way hard, long and deep to top this loony motherfucker's, uh, "prose." A sampling:

Inside, Rene heard boots thunder across the decrepit floor. The whole camp shook. With a slam and a tug, the door raked across the bare floor. Nancy crinkled her nose. The smell of stale cigarettes and mildew was subtle, like a shovel in the face. The odor was so thick they could taste it. “Ooh...” Nancy gagged. Before she could get another word out her eyes bulged.

Standing before them in a dazzling white robe and dunce cap was one the biggest Klansman they had ever seen. Sun spilled in through a smallish window across the room, giving the Grand Dragon an aura of godliness. “Miss Patrick, come in. You’re even prettier in person than you are on TV.” A booming voice, cane syrup smooth and twice as sweet, flowed from behind the patch of bed sheet that veiled Earl Bumfus’ face. With that one sentence, he struck just the right tone, respectful, flattering, and playful. Nancy giggled.

In full here, if you can take the cracker-fried heat. Mon Dior!

PodCamp Atlanta Homework

How can the ravages of the Russian nobility help you monetize your blog? (And no, it's not by reading incessant amount of Russian literature, as so many of my family members are way too fond of doing, to the point where I believe they actually imagine themselves to be historically ravaged members of the Russian nobility! But I diverge...)

Rather, you can follow the links (I'll let you do that work yourself since I'm way too lazy to explain it all here) on this interesting entry Your Show Itself Is Not The Money Maker by the PodCamp phenom founder, Chris Brogan.

And don't miss my "I'm such a Christian" pissing match with Will Hinton over at Peach Pundit. I love to sound-off on these "I'm a Christian" types, because it's always the morally vain who take the hardest tumbles from their I'm-soooo-holy vistas when our universal "human values" brutishly thump aside those divine "Christian" ones.

Human nature, being the inevitable that it relentlessly is, sure tacks towards hot babes, porn, gambling, greed, gluttony, drug abuse, lust, and more hot babes (Bishop Paulk), and hot men (for that other Evangelical preacher dude) with the "Christian Values" set.

Just don't want us common folk to be laughing too hard when the "Christian Values" kind hit the ground hard (and they always seem to collapse on their own mighty wind at some point in the game), as that just wouldn't be... uh... very Christian-like now would it?

And if human nature didn't consistently toss about its fiercely beautiful fiery fey head, then where in the world would we get all that glorious Russian literature?

Who's Got The Biggest Atlanta Press Club Party Line?

Let's see, other than being utterly boring and overpriced, the lines last night at the annual Atlanta Press Club's Holiday Author Party were longest for Mike Luckovich. Everybody likes Mike! And what's not to like? The dude wears vintage suits, is unfailing polite to the old folks, has beautiful manners, is wicked funny-clever. Won a Pulitzer if you don't believe me. Best of all, he blogs. (Well kinda sorta. It is, after all, a fake AJC blog.) Still, enough to make you swoon, for chrissake.

Mike is adorable-precious too, but no-go ladies as he's very married to a gorgeous blond. Little one at home, stuff like that. But, if you were toiling away over your Perfect Guy hot cauldron, as I've been known to do when the broom's in the shoppe, you probably would cook-up a potion that would deliver to your doorstep Mr. Luckovich. One of the best APC events I've ever been to was one where Luckovich and his French (also adorable, bien sur) counterpart from Le Monde led an overhead projected, draw-off "discussion." Priceless it was, ummm hummm.

Another book that sold-out while I was there was for this interesting title, The Race Beat. I'll add that one to the nightstand pile to eyeball longingly as I crash from the usual mommy-exhaustion. Lots of Christmas shopping accomplished though, and even ran into an old radio comedy show ensemble co-writer pal, Walter Sorrells, a veritable writing machine if ever there was. Walter remarked that he'd cranked-out ten books this year alone. My repy, "I wrote ten blog entries this year."

Still, was it worth the $20 cover and the $7 gin-and-tonic? Hard to say. Although there was a funny moment when Tom Hauk's name badge somehow got tangled in Maria Saporta's gorgeous tresses. Was hoping to run into yet more Southern writer pals, but writers are so notoriously narcissistic that they won't come the the annual event unless they have their own book to sign that year. Me, on the other hand, I've never gotten close to writing a book, let alone publishing one, so I go every year.

The Atlantic Station Verses

The great writer, Salman Rushdie, is to be writer-in-residence at Emory -- for brief spells only. Still, this has Literati Disaster written all over it, given that Rushdie's bound to be overwhelmed with babbling Buckhead socialites inviting him over to their overwraught McMansions for a martini or two. And we all know that the only book ever read by any Buckhead Betty would be a cookbook by overweight, overwraught Pat Conroy.

Speaking of overweight and overwraught, raise a glass to the king of elitist, name-dropper prose when you hit the bar for happy hour tonight. The NYT master, R.W. Apple, died Wednesday. (Apple's on the left.)