Blog It Long Time Baby

I'm working really hard on my blogging addiction, so I've cut way back here on the SGR with the more personal kinda posts. However, I see no need to de-continue the media and political stuff, but I like doing that more over at Peach Pundit. It just pisses 'em off so much when I do that it's got to be a good thing! So, make a daily visit to PP part of your nutritious breakfast.

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.

Rejoice, We Have No Choice

The totally wacked-out writer Michael Chabon has a little tidbit here about The Future. (It took me all of a month to get through his freakin' brilliant review of the Dark Materials trilogy.)

As a (American) parent this graph naturally stood out:

If you ask my eight-year-old about the Future, he pretty much thinks the world is going to end, and that’s it. Most likely global warming, he says—floods, storms, desertification — but the possibility of viral pandemic, meteor impact, or some kind of nuclear exchange is not alien to his view of the days to come. Maybe not tomorrow, or a year from now. The kid is more than capable of generating a full head of optimistic steam about next week, next vacation, his tenth birthday. It’s only the world a hundred years on that leaves his hopes a blank. My son seems to take the end of everything, of all human endeavor and creation, for granted. He sees himself as living on the last page, if not in the last paragraph, of a long, strange and bewildering book.

Heck, my 6-year old daughter believes she's going to sing and dance to High School Musical forever. And that one day Troy (the boy lead in HSM. They're all "Troys" nowadays) will kiss her - on the lips. I am not going to tell her otherwise. I don't want her growing up to marry Chabon's little weirdo either, as what kinda childhood ideals would he have to fall back on/impose on her?

If more singing and dancing, feminine ideals in other words, were perpetuated in Western culture, we might not be in some of the cultural pickles we're obviously in now. Blame it on men and their violent pessimism. I'm really starting to think that most literary giants, other than Jane Austen and Tolstoy maybe, are full of shite. And yeah, particularly Faulkner. (Like Jamie Foxx saying "nigger," I can say stuff like that since I'm a white Southerner. Same argument, eh?) Maybe Chabon needs to pull an alethiometer out of his ass.

I hope, with my help, my kid continues to sing and dance her little heart out, for life. She'd better; her first talent show is this Friday night. Sheeze, all of us women folk had better be practicing our all-American moves... really really hard.

This post put together by this song, naturally enough:

Makes Tony Soprano Seem Impotent

Quote du jour: "All Meech did was walk in the spot and panties got moist."

Wow! Know who Big Meech is, white ATL? You will now. Here's the kinda throwdown, hardcore, local reporting work we've been waiting for: exposing the moguls and the scenes behind the scenes of Atlanta's music industry, and veering into something very sinister called the Black Mafia Family.

Wanna know more? Mara Shaloup has a crack investigative piece, a year in the making, in three parts, the first part being in this week's Creative Loafing. This is some serious dirt folks, appropriately titled: Hip-hop's shadowy empire. Get reading. You can thank me (and PS) later.

(Why don't I ever get invited to these kinda parties? I adore champagne. And if you're a real writer, here's your New South material just waiting there in the gutter for you to reach down and pick-up.)

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.)