On Literary Divadom

I had not encountered this Salon essay, “Didion as Diva”–It is from 1997! When the internet was written on cave walls with sticks and a paste of crushed berries and ash, or so I’ve been told!–until I came across it researching something else. But I think some of the points still have merit. (Perhaps I’m viewing it through the oversize, dark sunglasses of an Didion admirer?)

Though, if the idea of a literary diva still holds up, and since the word and its embodying attitude has not left the lexicon yet in relation to pop icons adored by the gays, however troubling (see: Gaga, Lady) then who might be our reigning divas of letters in a slight update of this premise?   Remember:   “The opera diva’s performance is immediate — and immediately gratifying — but the literary diva must create in solitude, then wait many agonizing months, sometimes years, for her voice to reach its audience through publication. This time lag places her at still greater remove from her followers, which only adds to her mystery.”

So then: Mary Gaitskill? Mary Karr? Lydia Davis? Or does it now fall on the likes of a Candace Bushnell or even an Amy Sohn?  Before you answer, maybe refer back to author Bill Hayes’ conclusion upon seeing Ms. Didion speak in the flesh:  “the literary diva exists only on the page. In person, this diva is unremarkable, forgetful of her lines, absent of herself. She is the antithesis of the legendary showbiz or opera divas, like Monroe or Callas or Garland, who had to be seen in the flesh or on-screen to be experienced, and who are reduced to ordinary humanity with the written word.”

Oh NaNo! (Gone Till December)

Oh hi, where have I been? Since the whole sky-darkening-earlier thing and the upcoming holidays doesn’t feel mentally punishy enough, I’ve gone and begun this whole NaNoWriMo thing.  Again!  (Third time is a charm, yes?) Oh and did I mention I neglected to make this decision until this the third day in? So I’m already behind and a slave to the word count.  I’ve upped my caffeine intake so much my eyes are vibrating and I’m already eating in a less healthy way (if that is possible).  So I will not be here for awhile, unless I’m procrastinating or whatever.  Send e-mails of encouragement.  Or money orders and cigarettes.   It’s so dark outside.  I’m contemplating ordering this stabby hat. I’m so excited!  I’m so scared! I miss me already.

Blog-To-Book Bait: My Parents Were Awesome

Here is your latest entry in the Tumblr blog that will soon be a book sweepstakes:  My Parents Were Awesome. “Before the fanny packs and Andrea Bocelli concerts, your parents (and grandparents) were once free-wheeling, fashion-forward, and super awesome” goes the tag line.

Actually, the ink will probably have dried on their contract by the time you click through.

[via Dangerous Minds; image]

Marc Spitz and His New Bowie Biography

Oh, so that’s what he’s been up to!  Quite excellent music journalist (and sometime playwright) Marc Spitz has written a new biography on David Bowie. In his introduction, Spitz answers the question you probably just asked in your head, “why do we need another Bowie biography?”    Indeed.  Well, after wrestling with himself, the decision was cemented in the author’s mind by a chance encounter on the street, one of those patented “New York moments.”  An excerpt:

Screenings: ‘Monty Python: Almost the Truth (The Lawyers Cut)’

The problem with a red carpet event in New York, in October, is that the vagaries of the weather might actually make the temps feel closer to that of a December evening, and it is likely to be windy, and there will probably be rain.  And so now some sort of water-repellent tents have to be erected around the check-in table, and guests are queued up umbrella to umbrella, and some poor publicist’s expensive shoes are likely to become soaked.

That fairly represents the scene outside the  Ziegfeld Theatre for the screening of the new documentary “Monty Python: Almost the Truth (The Lawyer’s Cut),”  being presented by IFC and coinciding with the 40th anniversary of the troupe.  The Pythons were also on hand to receive a special BAFTA award for Outstanding Achievement in Film and Television.

Celebrity arrivals were photographed in the plush lobby, while attendees were ushered upstairs and proffered free concession stand staples:  popcorn and soda.  Which, yum.  Unless, say, you hadn’t had dinner, and on your trip to the bathroom you snagged a second bag of overly-salted popcorn.  Then it could be a tad sick-making!

Besides the honorees, comedian Steve Coogan, who is interviewed in the documentary, was present.  As was Jeremy Piven and two cast members from Mad Men.

An abridged, two hour version of the six-part series was shown to the crowd.  While the examination of comedy rarely yields laughs,  the documentary succeeds when it focuses on the absurd, groundbreaking material  rather than the gushy remembrances of fanatic talking heads.  The film doesn’t shy away from addressing the internecine squabbling, and took a touching turn in the  section devoted to the funeral of Graham Chapman.

The six Pythons (with Chapman represented by a cardboard cut-out) took the stage to a standing ovation for the Q&A portion.  Which, thankfully, questions were submitted beforehand, to minimize the awkward moments when a trembly kook of an audience member might, presented with a microphone and a captive crowd,  take the opportunity to meander on about labor strikes and grain prices in something not quite phrased as a question and only tangentially related to the proceeds at hand.  (There is always one guy!)  Not that there were not some awkward moments.  But mostly is was dry, droll banter and quippy interplay. (Perhaps you caught the live stream of that portion from the warmth and solitude of your living room?)

The question session wrapped with Eric Idle singing  “The Galaxy Song,” after which each member was  presented with their BAFTA award.  Cleese deadpanned  to the audience upon receipt, “If you want to get a better view, this will be on eBay tomorrow.”