A Very Long Reaction To Why David Blum, the Jerk, Is Completely Wrong About Joan Didion

Ex-Village Voice editor David Blum wrote a piece in the Sun this week that I missed until I saw it on Gawker. Man, what's his problem? Basically, he goes on this whole rant about how Joan Didion is one of the few people in modern letters who's immune to criticism. He asks: "But do memoirists of personal pain deserve the freedom from negativity that our culture seems to willingly provide them?"
I don't agree with his viewpoint that "memoirists of personal pain" receive some sort of immunity. (I shamefully recall quietly snickering with other writers at a memoir reading once; I forget the author's name). I think that if Didion has immunity, (which I'm not convinced she does 100 percent although she certainly has more than the average writer) it's because she has a solid reputation and has amassed a body of work that deserves respect. Had she written The Year of Magical Thinking as a first book, perhaps it would not have received the interest that it has. But as someone whose work I have read and enjoyed, I of course was curious to see Ms. Didion's views on death, loss and grief.
Blum also charges Didion with "coldness, her sense of detachment from events," which is a quality often attributed to Didion's writing. Even I was annoyed in "The White Album" when she seems to dismiss her psychiatric report not as a product of her own mental anguish but as a sign of the times, that period so tumultuous politically and socially -- how could anyone not be depressed in such an era? she seems to suggest.
It kind of sounds like bullshit to me and sometimes I wish that Didion's writing wasn't so detached from herself; but Blum's explanation of how Didion alienates her audience is definitely ridiculous.
He suggests that Didion is alienating her audience by making references to her "exalted social status," which is just inane and misses the entire point of the book. What does it matter if she and her husband attend a Knicks game with seats provided by the NBA commissioner? How would that be different if they went to a dive bar or a county fair or grocery shopping together? Death is a universal experience that people understand, regardless of where a story occurs. Apparently, Blum does not agree and suggests that if you have money, loss is easier to handle.
Blum's assertion that grief is "less of an ordeal for someone with the means to stay at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, or — for distraction — to get an assignment from the New York Review of Books to cover the 2004 political conventions" is one of the most insensitive things I've ever read.
I do agree with Blum that there's no catharsis in the book. As one commenter on the Sun Web site says, "Her big insight? Life changes in an instant. Anyone who has experienced loss in their life greater than the family dog knows that."
True, but for many of us who were fans of the book, we saw this book as a sort of beginning. I admit that I was disappointed that nothing more insightful came out of The Year of Magical Thinking. I waited for a big flash of insight, but the book, like life, doesn't work like that. But I suppose I assumed that Didion would follow up with something in time. For anyone who's lost someone incredibly close to them, it can take months to even process the death, months until you get around to really crying about it. For her book to be published so soon after losing her husband, I imagined that Didion hadn't had the time to actually process the event in full. I have faith in her that she'll gain new insights from her loss and perhaps write a follow-up; I also think that it will be interesting to see whether the Broadway play, starring Vanessa Redgrave, is more mature than the memoir.

Beyond Criticism

How to Tell That Your Old Neighborhood Has Officially Gone to Hell in a Handbasket

The Gap names jeans after it.

Williamsburg Officially Becomes an Adjective
Via Free Williamsburg

Anna Wintour Prays for Your Waifdom Every Night

On the April cover of Vogue, Scarlett Johansson is spread out on either a very modern-looking lawn chair or a very smooth rock. There is perhaps a pool in the background. She is wearing a silky green lingerie-type get-up. She looks, of course, lovely as ever. Yet, how does the magazine choose to describe her? "Curvy and cool." Huh. Everyone knows "curvy" is code for fat. Let's try it in a sentence: "Boy, that Queen Latifah sure is curvy!" But why would they call Scarlett "curvy"?
Continuing. In an unrelated tease to another story, the words "Nobody's Perfect" lie across Scarlett Johansson's perfect thigh. Oh, the irony! Anyhow, the "Nobody's Perfect" head apparently involves a story in which seven women obsess over their body flaws. Does that sound like hell to anyone else? Why would I want to listen to seven women bitch about their cellulite?
Then, the main head on the cover encourages us to: "Embrace Your Shape!" This head, along with the ultra-fat, err, "curvy" Scarlett, seems a condescending touch. It tells women to accept their bodies, but then presents "curvy" Scarlett as their poster girl. Like, Scarlett can accept herself, why can't you, Vogue reader? I'll tell you why: Because the average woman in America weighs more than 160 pounds and I'll guarantee she probably doesn't look like Scarlett Johansson. Or have those boobs.
What's funnier is that under the "Embrace Your Shape!" head, there are choices. That's right; Vogue accepts different body types. And those four body types are: Towering (read: tall), tiny (read: seriously anorexic), thin (read: aspiring anorexic or born in Eastern Europe), or top-heavy (read: big-boobed). You're just fat? Too bad.
I saw a photo of Madonna on a magazine cover from 1989 the other day. And what's funny is I thought, "She looks really fat." But I remember when I was young and saw the cover and thought she looked great. So it's just interesting how we've been trained, however so subtly, to think that what was thin fifteen or twenty years ago now translates into cow.
And then we wonder how this happens.
Or this.

Vogue

A is for Allawi, B is for Baghdad, C is for Civil War: Mother Jones Presents Iraq 101

Mother Jones is one of the best magazines around. They do an excellent job of reporting stories that no one else does and there are always several eye-opening stats in each issue. In addition to Eric Klinenberg's great article on the way that investors, greed and the FCC (and not the Internet!) are killing newspapers, there's an amazing report on Iraq. If you take a look at MJ's source page, you'll see the intensive and impressive research that went into compiling this story. It explains basics (like the difference between a Sunni and a Shiite); but it also goes deeper and reports statistics that I haven't seen anywhere else. Some examples:

* The family of a U.S. private killed in action can receive $500,000 plus $40,000 annually. The family of an Iraqi who is killed will receive no more than $2,500 from the U.S. government.
* Of the 323,000 members of Iraq's security forces, only 10,000 are "politically dependable." American trainers report that 70 percent of the police force has been infiltrated by militias.
* The war cost American taxpayers $1.9 billion a week, or $275 million a day. If the U.S. had not invaded, militarily containing Saddam through 2015 would have cost an estimated $23 million a day.
* In 2006, 30 percent of Iraqi children went to school. Before the war, attendance was close to 100 percent.
* Twenty-two Army soldiers committed suicide in Iraq in 2005, twice the number from 2004.

There are tons of other statistics worth reading and mulling over, so I hope you'll check out the article.

Iraq 101

Inadvertent Homeless Chic Gone Terribly Wrong or One Woman's Act of Repentance? Thankfully for This Blogger, the Latter

Today I was walking home from the grocery store and I was stopped at the corner of Jackson and 21st Street when a woman approached me. She was pretty, blonde, maybe in her mid-30s. She said, "Can I give you a dollar?"
Now the first thing I thought was: Oh my goodness, does she think I'm homeless? I mentally catalogued what I had put on that afternoon: dress, leggings, suede boots, coat. Not too horrible. (In the '90s, I went through a Mary-Kate-esque baggy clothing period. I also wore a backpack 'cause I was in college. Once, standing in line for a movie with my friend Kelly like that, she remarked, "You look like a homeless person." The fact that I was homeless chic before "bobo" was cool still doesn't make me feel any better.)
Anyhow, this woman asks me today if I will take her dollar. I must have looked confused because she said, "I broke a promise to myself, and I told myself if I broke that promise that I had to give a dollar to a stranger."
Then she slipped the lone dollar into my plastic grocery bag, next to the cornflakes. I meant to say, "Thank you," but instead, "Good luck" came out of my mouth. And then, "take care." And I wanted to ask what promise she had broken, but it seemed inappropriate. I decided she probably slept with someone whom she promised she would never sleep with again. Or maybe she fell off the wagon or something like that, but she seemed way too put together to have just gone on a bender.

Covers Serve as Grim Reminders That We Will All Grow Old and Unsexy Someday

There is a lot that we can learn from Rolling Stone. OK, maybe just one thing. And that is that we will all age and wrinkle and shrink (or in some cases, expand). Glance over the RS covers, from 1967 to the present, and you'll see that the girl you totally would have banged in 1972 now looks like, well, like she is 72. Obviously, everyone grows old, but some do it better than others. Here are some celebs who brought sexy back and then lost it:

Linda Ronstadt? Totally hot in the '70s.
James Taylor? Ditto.
Michael Douglas? Young and cute.
Mick Jagger and Keith Richards? Looking remarkably sprite and not too dead.
It's been awhile since I've seen Bruce Willis with hair.
Gary Busey looked better as Buddy Holly.
Sally Struthers was totally cute!
Jon Voigt looked a lot like Liam Neeson.
Michael Jackson still looked normal in 1984.
And, of course, Britney Spears was once pretty.

There are look-alikes, too. Is this Dash Snow? It also kind of looks like an "If They Mated" photo for Jack White and Kid Rock.

Rolling Stone Covers

Mirror, Mirror On the Wall, This is the Stupidest Idea I Have Ever Heard

I personally think this is taking technology a little too far. It's a mirror that talks back to you. Like you're out shopping and then you try something on and then the mirror says, "Your ass looks fat," or, "Nice rack in that dress." Actually, I don't know what it says or how it says it. All I know is that if you're at Bloomingdale's in New York, there are people out in cyberspace who can see you try on outfits and then they give you advice about your choices. And then they suggest outfits for you to try on and those outfits appear in the mirror like holograms. So Star Trek! This is dumb. Maybe this is why:

“The idea of being able to take your whole social network with you when you shop is a concept that any kid who leaves their house every day with their social network in their phone will understand,” said Tom Nicholson, the chief executive of IconNicholson. “They are already sharing everything with 500 contacts on Friendster, so if five of them happen to be online, why not ask them whether you look good in green?”

When did our society become that co-dependent? Have we always been? And is the convenience that services like these supposedly offer worth the sacrifice of one's privacy? IconNicholson, the manufacturer, explains on its Web site that the mirror also "further serves to help retailers monitor inventory in real time and collect data that provides valuable insight into customer mindsets, behaviors and evolving needs." Once again, it's a clever way for big business to assess consumer wants in order to sell them more. Like those grocery store discount cards that chronicle everything you've ever bought.
But more importantly, I'm dying to go to the Web site and make fun of people trying stuff on. But the Times article doesn't link to the site, and neither does IconNicholson. Boo.

If the Mirror Could Talk (It Can)
IconNicholson

Craigslist Lonelyheart of the Week

This is a new feature on Lorem Ipsum, in which I'll choose a particularly sad and pathetic Craigslist personal. Natasha, a 25-year old with a penchant for bad boys, almost won after I read her ad, which requests that ex-cons contact her. She's only interested in men who have been to prison, and if you haven't, don't bother.
Still, I couldn't be sure that Natasha was such a loser. Sure it looks that way; but she also could be a very successful woman with poor grammar and a fetish for perps. Some men, especially those who've been cooped up in a cell for awhile, might even find this Natasha girl appealing.
So our winner is this 22-year-old girl from Jersey. She sounds like a hoot! She doesn't know what you're going to do on the first date. (Eating, drinking, sex and even holding hands are total no-nos!) But I'm sure you'll think of something. Here's some things you should know about your new gal:

She's starving herself for the next month.
She's not drinking alcohol for the next month.
She's not going to sleep with you on the first date.
She bears a striking resemblance to Cousin Itt from The Addams Family.
She will see to it that your first date includes a quiz on current events.

So good luck, kids! Also, she notes that guys with facial deformities, married men and baldies need not apply. Sweet girl.

Wine and Dine Me...Well, Not Really

Dear Mr. Cab Driver (#3N39) Who Refused to Take Me to Long Island City

Dear Mr. Cab Driver (#3N39) Who Refused to Take Me to Long Island City:
Where do you get off? All I wanted was to go home. And while it was, admittedly, 2 in the morning and you had just dropped off some drunken hipster on the corner of Bedford and North 6th in Williamsburg and you were maybe really annoyed at having to work so late and maybe just wanted to get home to your wife and kids, your light was on. There was no “off-duty” light, or worse, a completely dark light – no, you were ready and willing to take someone somewhere – just not me.
See, my friend and I hailed you and I guess we just didn’t look like your cup of tea because you rolled down your window, heaved your chin in the air and asked, “Where you going?” in an accent I couldn’t place. You eyed us suspiciously like we might ask to go to New Jersey or Florida or even farther, like wherever you picked up that accent.
“You can’t ask us where we’re going, it’s illegal,” I said, grabbing the back door; it was locked. “You have to take us where we want to go,” I continued. My friend, who had faith in you, said, “Greenpoint,” and you sighed and you said, “OK,” like you were doing us a favor.
But what you apparently did not anticipate was that my friend and I were going to different apartments, and being tired and not wanting to be stuck in Greenpoint instead of home, I quickly added, “And Long Island City.” See, Mr. Cab Driver, I would expect for you (someone who drives professionally and for a living) to understand that Long Island City, though it is in Queens, is only a hop, skip and jump from Greenpoint, an extra two minutes, really, but no! Apparently you have some problem with Queens, Mr. Anti-Queens Cab Driver. I understand that the media portrays Queens in a weird light, and there are all those sitcoms with the fat, annoying husbands and pretty wives who would never really marry guys like that, and they always, always live in Queens in residential neighborhoods where you actually need cars and where grass actually grows, very far from the city. There are no lawns where I live, Mr. Cab Driver.
I live on a dark, deserted street in a converted factory building and it’s so desolate that once, when another cabbie turned the corner to my apartment, I could see him getting nervous cause it didn’t look like anyone lived there and he said, “So is this the part where you kill me?”
OK, so maybe that story helps me to understand your point, Mr. Cabbie, but still! This is your job! So as my friend and I stood by your cab in Williamsburg, you barked “No!” and sped off as my fingers were still gripping the back door handle. You were not nice. Just what do you think: Perhaps you think I am happy about having to live in Long Island City? Do you think it is fun, Mr. Cab Driver, being a small, dark-haired girl with no formal martial arts training who has to walk home alone down a deserted street on an industrial strip at 2 in the morning? Can you see where I might want some help with that?
It’s not like when I was a little girl, I used to daydream and say, “Someday when I’m older I want to live across from a factory just down the street from a homeless shelter and with a strip joint on the corner!” Not so much, Mr. Cab Driver, not so much. Do you think it doesn’t hurt a little every time I tell people where I live and their faces scrunch up like I just announced I have some sort of fungal infection? Thanks a lot, Mr. Cab Driver. You’re a jerk.

TONY Editors Like It When It Hurts So Good

Anyone who lives in NYC knows that Time Out New York is not a very good magazine. It has such potential, but their design consistently sucks (what's with all the bland cover art and italicized headlines?), their cover stories lack any substance whatsoever, and the only reason you really subscribe is to browse the listings and make sure you're not missing out on your favorite band playing.
What's funny, though, is that TONY seems to know it sucks. And it's punishing itself. Each issue editors choose a "letter of the week" from someone who bothered to write. The winner of the "letter of the week" gets a Time Out guide of his or her choice for free. You would think that maybe the editors would choose laudatory letters, but no. They know they suck. And so, those masochistic TONY editors choose letters that abuse, taunt and criticize. Let's take a look at a recent example:

Every year you bait me with your Valentine's Day suicide special. But this year, you totally outdid yourself. Not only was this year's guide to low self-esteem downright offensive, it was just the ammo that I needed to break up with you and look at my other New York magazine options. (Letter of the Week, Feb. 22-28, 2007)

Sweet, right? Here's another winner from someone who's pissed off about the "50 Greatest New York Musicians of All Time" issue:

Dion, Seanchai and the Unity Squad, Black 47, Shangri-Las, the Chiffons, the Chantels. Shit, even the fucking Blues Magoos and the Bullys before some of the pretentious bullshit you have. Since you have Madonna, then how about Louis Armstrong, the Reverend Gary Davis and Hot Fucking Tuna. No fucking Dion? Fuck yer mother, ya lousy fuckin' cocksuckers. (Letter of the Week, March 8-14, 2007)

Harsh! So, point of the story: If you'd like a free Time Out guide (not like you would, but just in case you're headed to Bora Bora soon and need some hotel listings), simply e-mail a nasty, curse-laden letter to letters@timeoutny.com. You're welcome.

Update: The March 15-21, 2007 "letter of the week" accuses theater editor David Cote of ageism. I love the progression here. The letters began with mere criticism of the mag, but now we're moving into the prejudices of individual staffers. Can't wait till next week when someone accuses Beth Greenfield of being a homophobe.

Not Only Do Long Island City Delivery Men Lack Balls, But They Also Like To Taunt You With Food You (Apparently) Can't Afford

So I've had my share of troubles with Long Island Shitty's delivery men. But no one has ever brought food to my door, dangled it in front of me and then shrugged and walked away with it.
I will explain. I have no cash and no money in my checking account. I have only one way to make purchases right now: a Visa gift card with $30 left on the balance. There is definitely at least $30 left on the balance because I just checked the balance online. So I called this greasy little piece of hell (whose Web site advertises it as "not your ordinary, run of the mill diner" - they're right; it's worse) and ordered mozzarella sticks, a Caesar salad and a diet Pepsi. They took the number and expiration date for my Visa gift card; it's easy and works just like a credit card and I've used it at a number of places this weekend, including over the phone. They said, "Be there soon."
Thirty minutes later the delivery jerk shows up with my food. I answer the door with a pen, expecting to sign for my food. He informs me that the credit card has been declined. I tell him that's not possible because I just checked the balance. We stand in the hallway, going over the numbers together. They are correct. He tells me I have to pay cash. I say I have no cash. He suggests that maybe I could use a different card. I say I can't. He is holding my food and I can smell the mozzarella sticks. He says, "Well, sorry, I have to take the food then," and he leaves, merrily swinging the bag from one hand as he exits down the hall.
I hope he enjoys those mozzarella sticks. And I hope they make him very fat.
Seriously, though: Why would a restaurant even bother to send their delivery guy if your credit card didn't go through? Wouldn't it make more sense to call you and let you know to see if there was some mistake? Not in Long Island City, I guess. Worst. Neighborhood. Ever.

Me and Al Gore Totally Have So Much in Common

I rushed to pay a ConEd bill this morning before the bastards decided to stop by and turn my electricity off. They send me weekly shut-off bills, threatening to leave me in the dark. You can tell the difference between these and a regular bill because they have a thick red line across them with the crimson warning, "Important: Dated Notification."
It's not that I don't want to pay; it would be easy if the bill were $25 or $50 or even $100. I live in a small studio apartment. I barely cook, I often turn the heat off, and it's not as if the TV were on all day. So I can't figure out why, today, when I called to pay my bill, my previous balance of $477 is now more than $600. In a matter of two weeks. For a studio apartment.
But I felt not so alone when I read that none other than the Goracle is having trouble keeping his bills down, too. Al Gore, who was the belle of the ball at this year's Oscars and basked in the light of environmental do-goodery, is being criticized by a small research group who discovered that his Nashville home's energy consumption was twenty times the national average.
Well, he's rich. He has a large house. He's a busy guy. It kind of makes sense that his consumption would be greater than the average American's. Just because he got all Ed Begley Jr. on our asses doesn't mean we should expect him to sit around in the dark. Besides, a member of Gore's team explained:

All the energy used for the Nashville home came from a green power provider to the Tennessee Valley that draws its energy from solar, wind-powered and methane gas supplies, among other sources. The Gores were installing solar panels on the roof of their home, Ms. Kreider added, and making efforts to reduce their energy needs. Besides, Mr. Gore had adopted a "carbon neutral" life whereby any emissions for which he was personally responsible were offset by buying green credits such as parcels of forests.

Yes, he's clearly a hypocrite. A solar-loving, panel-installing, wind-powered hypocrite.

An Inconvenient Truth: Eco-Warrior Al Gore's Bloated Gas and Electricity Bills

Eat Drink Man Woman: This Week in Food News

If you have the diet of an Olsen twin, check out these places.
If you do like to eat (see gentlemen above), and you enjoy meat and being greased up while you nibble, make a reservation here.
If you eat before you see this performance, you will probably vomit.

Assholes Drive Son 350 Miles to 'Cure' Homosexuality, Humiliate Him on Public Radio

So here's the bad news: Back in November, pastor Ted Haggard resigned from his church in Colorado 'cause he was screwing a male prostitute. But there's a silver lining! He's on the road to recovery and has brought attention to the "ex-gay movement," whose proponents believe that homosexuality can be cured. Really. Just listen to a few speeches, like this one, by Alan Chambers:

"The truth is, I used to be gay," he said at one point. "Big whoop."

Umm, can you even picture a straight dude saying that? "Big whoop?" Someone is in major denial. Even the title of the conference, "Love Won Out." It has "love" and "out" in the same sentence. Gay!
And who had to sit through Alan's shitty speech? Brett, a 16-year-old from San Diego whose Christian parents drove 350 miles so their son could hear Alan say "whoop" and be not gay anymore. Did it work?! Uh, no.

"Don't tell my parents but no; I know I'm gay, and like, their stories are really inspiring but I know this is me and I don't really want to change."

Poor kid. You just wanna give him a hug. And then see if he wants to go shopping or something.

Church Hosts Conference on 'Ex-Gay' Therapy