NYCweboy

Mo Betta MoDo

Usually, I don't think of Maureen Dowd as a lousy columnist - she is, but still - I think of her as someone who's simply missed her calling to be the next Rex Reed. From her thoroughly well executed takedown of Dan Brown's new book, a real skill at eviscerating his use of language:

His metaphors and similes thud onto the page. ­Inoue Sato, an intelligence official investigating a disembodied hand bearing a Masonic ring and iconic tattoos that shows up in the Capitol Rotunda, “cruised the deep waters of the C.I.A. like a leviathan who surfaced only to devour its prey.” Insights don’t simply come to characters: “Then, like an oncoming truck, it hit her,” or “The revelation crashed over Langdon like a wave.” And just when our hero thinks it’s safe to go back in the water, another bad metaphor washes over him: “His head ached now, a roiling torrent of inter­connected thoughts.”

You can practically hear the eerie organ music playing whenever Mal’akh, the clichéd villain whose eyes shine “with feral ferocity,” appears. He goes from sounding like a parody of a Bond bad guy (“You are a very small cog in a vast machine,” he tells Langdon) to a parody of Woody Allen (“The body craves what the body craves,” he thinks).

But Brown tops himself with these descriptions: “Wearing only a silken loincloth wrapped around his buttocks and neutered sex organ, Mal’akh began his preparations,” and “Hanging beneath the archway, his massive sex organ bore the tattooed symbols of his destiny. In another life, this heavy shaft of flesh had been his source of carnal pleasure. But no longer.”

...

The author has gotten rich and famous without attaining a speck of subtlety. A character never just stumbles into blackness. It must be inky blackness. A character never just listens in shock. He listens in utter shock.

And consider this fraught interior monologue by the head of the Capitol Police: “Chief Anderson wondered when this night would end. A severed hand in my Rotunda? A death shrine in my basement? Bizarre engravings on a stone pyramid? Somehow, the Redskins game no longer felt significant.”

Bravo!

The Two Dominick Dunnes

I always thought there were two Dominick Dunnes - one was a really heroic, principled, angry defender of the voiceless, especially women, killed in acts of brutality and violence. Martha Moxley. Nicole Brown Simpson. His daughter, Dominique. When he wrote about their cases, the injustices done to them, the protections afforded to men, especially men of wealth and power and celebrity, it was bracing.

The other Dominick Dunne seemed to be a starfucker of the worst order.

To read "Dominick Dunne's Diary" in Vanity Affair was to be awash in drivel. The name dropping was sycophantic, compulsive and bordered on tasteless. The insights were minor, the gossip, on nearly every level, banal. Even the sort of breathless wonder of "who will he mention next? Porfirio Rubirosa? Catherine Deneuve?" became rather a dull exercise of recitation of the Palm Beach/Monte Carlo/Bel Air circuit he seemed so overly impressed with, and so eager to please, if also to tease.

Dunne's story was a fascinating story of reverse accomplishments - his real celebrity prominence, the real culmination of his career, came very late. He took to writing late, made a success of it late. He is not a bad suggestion of the possibility of ultimate reinvention - you could, really, figure out how to make something of your life even at 60, or later.

Aside from eventually abandoning reading his column - the rewards of the occasional insight, or some private moment about Elizabeth Taylor, came at the price of too many of my brain cells - I was always struck by his novels, not necessariuly in a good way. When I was in college, getting home was a long enough slog that I tended to buy diverting trash to read along the way. That's how I wound up devouring The Two Mrs. Grenvilles. And because I loved trashy books adapted into trashy minseries, I watched far more of An Inconvenient Woman (starring Rebecca DeMornay and Jill Eikenberry) than one should ever have.

In both cases, I was struck again, by Dunne's relentless crusade against injustice, and his derivative attention to gossipy drivel. That's especially true of The Grenvilles, because it is basically an attempt to do, in a downmarket way, what Truman Capote always seemed to intend with Answered Prayers. And he did it by exploiting the story of Ann Woodward, who killed herself when a thinly veiled version of how she might have murdered her husband became part of La Cote Basque 1965. In one sense, it's a brilliant conceit: Woodward's story was never fully examined, and using a Capote-esque approach was a genius touch. But the result is grim: Dunne doesn't so much blow old WASP class notions as revel in them, and he paints his Ann Woodward - Ann Grenville - as a grasping embarrassment, whose ostracization by high society was entirely deserved.

Dunne's upper class instincts never really wavered; and really, his takedowns of the powerful - like OJ Simpson, and Michael Skakel - were of a piece with his overall attention to class; his contempt was often laced with judgment for them not meeting the class expectations of wealth and taste of which he seemed so enamored. His dissections of those old preppy notions of class were initially revelatory because few in his set really open up publicly about them. Inherent in those class conventions though is the kind of society that evaporated in the sixties and seventies - rigid notions of the "right people" (who, it should be noted, also rejected Dunne in middle age) which exclude minorities, disdain strivers, and relegate women to roles as decorative objects.

Out of that decidedly mixed bag of the two Dunnes, perhaps it's perfect irony that Dunne in death (he died yesterday) will be overshadowed by the family he disdained so much. I'm sure Dunne could have gotten a novel out of it. Or at least a column. And, you know... I'd have liked to read it.

Seven Minutes

My friend Red is getting married.

This is one of those wonderful bits of "personal business" that's been providing some of my offline distraction lately - I'm thrilled for her, and for Steve, her fiance, and I'm in the wedding party. (And by the way, not all the "personal business" is nearly so wonderful... but never mind. Let's stay in the happy place.)

So last night we had a little engagement party for Red and her man down in a dive bar on the Lower East Side - well, really more of a "dive bar" in that it seemed like one of those artful reconstructions of the real thing than the actual thing itself - and I was reminded of what it is to be friends with my Red... part of a smart circle of really interesting folks.

It was great to see the "Brandeis Girls", friends from her college years who've remained remarkably tight knit and connected; and the other ones, like me, that Red's collected over the years, and who bounce off one another in interesting ways making fascinating sparks.

I mention all of this because I wound up in a long, fun conversation with an actor friend in this circle, husband to one of Red's most supportive friends (and beautiful, even at nine months pregnant like last night). Joey is a real working actor, a journeyman who's found his niche in many ways, and works pretty regularly in a field that's not the most secure. After talking about his most recent theatrical experience, we moved on to a wide ranging musing about acting, writing, and creative pursuits generally.

We talked about the challenge of talking about writing, or really any creative endeavor - that really, you don't want to share much, that we hold our work close to our hearts, and the act of showing them is a brave one. And that, if you share to much, it may keep you from creating the work: talking, rather than doing. I was sort of interested to hear Joey say that he doesn't talk about acting, and it's true - he'll tell you what he's done... but not the process of what he's doing, how he finds a character or creates a role.

Writing is hard; we were both keenly aware of it (and so was Red, who admitted the grind of daily blogging was getting to her). And it's hard, sometimes, to get started and keep going. Joey mentioned a playwright acquaintance who was a runner, like he was, and they talked about the "seven minute warmup" of running - that you have to run for about seven minutes before the endorphins kick in and it becomes a kick, even fun, to do it. But you have to go through the first seven, often painful and difficult, minutes to get there... you can't avoid it.

The creative process, he pointed out, was very similar; you have to take those "seven minutes" of pain to get to a place where the writing, or the whatever, just flows, and when you do - like a painter friend he has who can go days just painting and sleeping in his studio space - you may not want to stop.

And I thought... Exactly.

It was just the conversation I needed - talking to someone who "gets it" about the creative process, the process of creating. Letting out, for just a moment, the dreams and ideas that animate what we do.... and remembering that what we do is hard, and rewarding. And we do it because it's hard... and rewarding. And I thought it might be nice to share that with you.

And to get on with the seven minutes. Thanks, Joey.

Always The Bridesmaid...

Via Andrew Sullivan, I just looked over this new book on contestants who come in 2nd. It reminds me of one of my favorite poignant Oscar moments - Frank Sinatra, back in the 1970s, singing "Here's To The Losers" over a montage of Hollywood stars who never won an Oscar. In a nation that places a little too much emphasis on winning, it's nice to remember that there's more to it than that.

7 Things

Red tagged me (but didn't, as the rules state, let me know), and I don't have a lot else, so here goes:

Six random things (which I am making 7, in honor of Miley Cyrus):

1. I am really liking my life just now; I need some more time to write, but the writing I am doing makes me happy, my work is going well, and I am feeling in better health than I have in a long while. So what if I'm broke and the world is ending? :)
2. Nothing stays the same: I've been on an emotional rollercoaster as a few previously close friendships have changed or ended... yet, the changes feel organic, and so far, like the right moves in the right direction... at least for me.
3. I don't go to the movies like I used to. I find this puzzling. Especially because I still call myself a total movie lover.
4. On a related note, I feel as though I should have a personal assistant who takes the time to watch my DVDs, so I don't have to.
5. As Halloween approaches, I really wish I owned a nice, new pair of women's shoes. Just 'cause. Really high ones.
6. I'm thinking - but only just thinking - about taking up my plans to read really historic things that I glossed over in college, like The Federalist Papers and Emerson and Thoreau. It's that, or learn a foreign language, I think.
7. This is harder than I thought it would be; I feel like all the random stuff about me is stuff I already blog about.

Now for 8 places to live:

1. New York City. My home for 13 years, good and bad (and very bad, at that)... but always vibrant, always alive, always... at least interesting. But too expensive, and a little lonely.
2. Long Beach, California. LA within easy reach, but more laid back.
3. Frankfort, Kentucky. Red like Lousiville, and so did I... but the state capitol is even more beautiful, and not wholly disconnected from the rest of the world.
4. Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. Me and J and a house by the sea. It's still in the plan.
5. Rockport, Massachusetts. The North Shore, in a cottage, the village market nearby. My dream of a writer's life.
6. Thomaston, Maine. Or, on Maine's coast. I'm not fussy. Not this way, anyway.
7. Greenwich, CT. A girl can dream. More realistically, probably someplace like Niantic.
8. Chester, Vermont. I think that's the place. In my totally alternative life, living in North Country, out in the woods, seeing the stars... I could do it. Seriously.

I can't really say "tag" to anyone... but I guess it would be The boy from Indy, J in Baltimore... and Tom Watson, if I had my pick.

Gone Fishin'...

As previously announced, the NYC Weboy will be on a hiatus from blogging here for the rest of August. Please scroll down, as it's likely that J in Baltimore and RedStar may fill in the gaps with musings, links and photos of their own. You may also find me blogging some critical things over at newcritics. I will not be checking this blog on any kind of a regular basis, but I can be reached via e-mail (nycweboy at nycweboy dot com)... and I do welcome correspondence. I will resume blogging the Tuesday after Labor Day. Yes, that means I will not blog about the Democratic Convention... but just assume I liked Hillary's speech, that the VP selection is not my favorite choice, and I wasn't all that impressed with Obama's speech.

Have a great summer. Enjoy.

Scott?

Scott McClellan is not Cher; nor is he Charo, Madonna, Fabio, Fabian, Jaylo, The Rock, or The Edge.

I say this as preface to more on why I don't think I'll ever fully understand the MSM.

Apparently, one-time Bush Press Secretary, Scott McClellan has poison-penned a tell-all on his former boss. 

What I'm finding odd is that, for the last twenty minutes, as both Campbell Brown and Keith Olbermann (I'm shamelessly fickle with the remote) have been reporting this story, chock full of interviews and pundits from both sides of this rancor, everyone of them, to the last, is referring to McClellan as "Scott."  Not "Scott McLellan," once followed by "McLellan" later, but just "Scott.":

"If Scott felt this way, why didn't he speak up then?"

"I think Scott's intentions are good here."

"Scott wouldn't have been involved in those meetings."

"Scott was unhappy with his exit."

Now, I understand that many of these people may have been used to calling McClellan "Scott" when they were working with/alongside of him, but surely when he becomes the story, his last name should be used.  I lose little sleep over the MSM treating GW unfairly, but what kind of press gives us half of the story on a first name basis?  This Scott sounds about eight years old to me, wide-eyed and innocent, you know, maybe a neighbor of Lassie's Timmy.

Google Image Search, for now, anyway, agrees with me, in that all Scotts are not created equal, nor that McClellan is The Scott.  Pictured above is Google's first entry under just "Scott," April Scott, that is, who either won or is entered in something called Quattro High Performance Disposable Babe Tournament.  But Google and its, ahem, priorities, are topics for another day, or week, I think.

- jinbaltimore

  

Where There's A Will

Color me unimpressed with Rick Perlstein's recent guest stint over at The American Prospect's blog TAPPED; too much book promotion ("here's another way the current Presidential campaign is like my book"), too little real insight.  Today I got the deal: with a name like that, and his history, I figured he was, like, 50. Turns out, he's the age of my (younger) sister. (yes, the one with the mansion... and my two amazing nephews. Also, my very nice brother-in-law).

I figured, with a title like Nixonland, Perlstein's book was already a miss, to me; I didn't realize by how much. Perlstein, apparently is doing one of these generational sum-ups that suggest everything we suffer from now is a result of... Richard Nixon. I would have thought that too much anyway...

... but Thank God for George Will: in a preview of this week's New York Times Book Review, Will is the lead review, taking Nixonland apart and handing Perlstein a savage pan. I don't love Will... but I don't hate him either. A talented writer, and a very smart thinker, Will's high-toned Republicanism may not be my ideological cup of tea, but he's got insight into things I'll never get, and a gift for laying them out in a way that's comprehensible. Thanks to Will, I came to understand better the appeal of Reagan, and the expression he gave to a national pride that is a key part of the American psyche (one that I think Bill and Hillary Clinton understand how to express in a way that's winning for Democrats).

People (including my mom... and me on Sundays sometimes when Will says something idiotic on Stephanopolous) on the left can dismiss Will out of hand as tendentious and unaware... but he's not, really. He just thinks about this stuff differently.  Often, he's not wrong... or at least, he gives good voice to the alternative view.  Here is his closing to the Perlstein review:

“How did Nixonland end?” Perlstein asks in the book’s last line. “It has not ended yet.” But almost every page of Perlstein’s book illustrates the sharp contrast rather than a continuity with America today. It almost seems as though Perlstein, who was born in 1969, is reluctant to let go of the excitement he has experienced secondhand through the archives he has ransacked to such riveting effect.

“We Americans,” he says, “are not killing or trying to kill one another anymore for reasons of ideology, or at least for now. Remember this: This war has ratcheted down considerably. But it still simmers on.”

Not really. America has long since gone off the boil. The nation portrayed in Perlstein’s compulsively readable chronicle, the America of Spiro Agnew inciting “positive polarization” and the New Left laboring to “heighten the contradictions,” is long gone.

So exquisitely sensitive are Americans today, they worked themselves into a lather of disapproval when Hillary Clinton said that Lyndon Johnson as well as Martin Luther King was important in enacting civil rights legislation. There has not been a white male secretary of state for 11 years. Today a woman and an African-American are competing relatively civilly for the right to run for president against the center-right — more center than right — senator who occupies the seat once held by Goldwater. Whoever wins will not be president of Nixonland.

That's about a clear-eyed an assessment of the current scene as I could ask. Read the whole thing here.

The Latest In A Series Of Super Tuesdays

I'm sorry I neglected to mention my vacation; I sort of assumed I'd post more, but frankly, I'm tired and needed a rest. Lucky for me, the addition of co-contributors means I get back to see two interesting posts from my pals.

So here I sit in my favorite cafe in Maine, sipping cappucino and eating a small piece of apple tart, catching up on the web. My mom is reading her latest Swedish mystery, something my Aunt recommended.

I am in the heart of Obama country here - aside from Obama's fairly commanding win of the Maine caucuses, my Aunt is a hardy Obama supporter, more so than my Mom, though both for similar reasons. After a day of shoring up my strength with Red, I am in the lions den, looking, well, like a cartoon bull.

My Aunt, like most of humanity (or at least, most of America), has full cable, so my Mom and I have been overwhelmed catching up on the cable news shows we never see.  I have to admit, from their cracked lens, this race is much different than the one I know on the web, or in real life. And that's before I get started on Chris Matthews.

I get the impression that tonight's results will be what many of us expected all along: Clinton appears on track to win, probably by 5-9, though I think it's 10 or better. Obama and his people seem to have essentially conceded it (he's heading to Indiana before the vote's over), and now we're arguing if close only counts in hand grenades and horseshoes.

Myself, as a Clintonite, natch, says winning and winning and losing is not.  Obama spent money like water to battle himself to a slightly less losing proposition than he had when he started 6 weeks ago.  All the excuse making - and the none too subtle suggestions of racism, fearmongering, and stupidity in PA's electorate - can't hide the fact that Obama's appeal to working class folk looks completely unsuccessful.  If it's by as much as I suspect it might be, this loss doesn't just make a case for Clinton staying in, it is indeed the case of asking, finally, why Obama can't close the deal with voters he needs. I don't take any pleasure in saying that, despite what Obama supporters might think; talking to my family's matriarchs, we are closer together than further apart, and we all want a Democrat in the White House. What I don't want, and what concerns me, still, is an Obama candidacy that can't relate to the needs and politics of working class voters in a successful way.

In the end, I don't think today changes all that much; not for the candidates. And not for the Democratic Party. Barring an incredible surprise, we will be, as with other Tuesdays, right back where we were, only in Indiana. And for me, personally, it's just another quiet evening in the country, possibly with some of the best ice cream I've ever had, and the company of family I care about. That's a pretty Super Tuesday, any way you slice it.

-- Weboy

Defending Your Life... And Theirs

Well, things seem to be shaking out okay on the adserving front, so I'm starting to calm down.  And maybe I can even get to one or two of the things I was meaning to take up.

So, first off, over the weekend I caught this post by Jeralyn Merritt over at Talk Left, talking about Mickey Sherman's new book, How Can You Defend Those People? I hadn't realized that Merritt is a well known attorney who defended Timothy McVeigh, and her own decisions about who to defend thus become an interesting part of the overall discussion.

Merritt talks about Sherman's interviews with various lawyers, asking them where they would "draw the line" in defending bad characters - child molesters, bombers, mass murderers... these are the sorts of responses that come out. 

The reason I mention this, though, is because my mom's reaction was strong, and reminded me why I'm glad I get her insights.  She pointed out that in fact one shouldn't draw lines.  Everyone is entitled to a defense. It's not for us to judge who should and shouldn't get one.  She reminded me of debates she had with her students - back when she was teaching professional ethics in healthcare - where they wanted to pick and choose "good" clients from "bad" ones (it's why many of them wanted to wind up working with children... less moral qualms). 

Obviously, there's a difference between medical and rehabilitative treatment and legal services.  But still; I'm reminded of how Alan Dershowitz can suggest that he'd defend Hitler if the alternative was no one. That's what it is, I think, to believe in the law, and to believe in the rights of all people, however monstrous. It's an interesting question (and here, already I've managed to invoke Godwin's Law), a reminder of our humanity. I wouldn't want to be the one, necessarily, defending Timothy McVeigh either.  But if you have, I'd wonder why then decide you can't defend someone... for something.