02.29.04 get bruce!

I'm a huge "Lord of the Rings" fan, but once it started racking up trophy after trophy, I became bored of the "Rings." Not one major upset or surprise, unless you count "Harvie Krumpet"'s shocking win for Best Animated Short Film. (Hey, they were up against Salvador Dali!) Sofia Coppola's best original screenplay win may be controversial, since her film seemed so improvised. But maybe that was part of her genius?

TiVo's program guide had allotted three hours to the awards show, which seemed laughably optimistic. It ran about three hours and 45 minutes, downright speedy compared to 2001's four hour, 15 minute behemoth. And they didn't even strike up the band to interrupt the big winners' speeches! I'm so glad we got to hear Charlize Theron thank her lawyer.

Peter Jackson is the most rumpled-looking man I've ever seen who wasn't hanging around on Market St. asking for spare change... What was the deal with Liv Tyler taking her cat-eye glasses on and off? She's surely too young to need reading glasses -- maybe bad Lasix has taken its toll?... Will Diane Keaton succeed in bringing back the Annie Hall look?... Michael Moore, you are a sport for poking fun at your 2003 Oscar speech during the intro!... Speaking of the filmed intro, I'll bet its budget was higher than those of "American Splendor" and "Pieces of April" combined... Someone please stop Billy Crystal before he sings again... The Academy doesn't permit movie ads to air during the Oscarcast, but shameless shilling by "Starsky and Hutch" stars Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller is OK?... Nicole Kidman has the most Botoxed forehead I've ever seen, allowing her to show no emotion when the camera cut to her at an onscreen mention of ex-hubby Tom Cruise... Blake Edwards must be well-loved in Hollywood because boy, has that man made some stinkers. I mean, "Skin Deep"? "Switch"? "S.O.B."?... Errol Morris wins for Best Documentary, and it's about time, in my opinion (and his own, too).

02.26.04 light of falling objects

"Bachelorette" Watch: I totally think Meredith had confided to Matthew on their "overnight fantasy date" in Puerto Rico that she had fallen in love with Ian. Since they were both contractually obligated to see things through 'til the end, I believe Mere (and perhaps the producers) convinced Matt to "act" the part of a smitten suitor. I mean, his graceful good-bye speech to Meredith sounded totally rehearsed. I didn't believe for a moment that he was shocked that she'd rejected him. The whole show is as phony as a three-dollar bill, and yet I can't stop watching it. When it starts up again in April (back to "The Bachelor"), I'm sure I'll be there. Meanwhile, I'll betcha Matt is already auditioning for parts on soap operas.

Forgot to mention that all of the clients I met for the first time in Monterey had exactly the same reaction when they saw me: "You don't look at all what I expected you to look like!" These are people with whom I'd been corresponding via e-mail for two to four years. I didn't have the nerve to ask what they thought I would look like. Older, younger, prettier, taller? Hmm.

One of the most depressing things about getting older has been my gradual loss of interest in music. I realize that's a strange confession for someone who owns a record company, but I think it's allowed me to take a more hard-nosed "business" approach to the whole enterprise. Meanwhile, I sit around all day working and listening to NPR. However, I've fallen head over heels in love with a CD for the first time in ages. I can't stop listening to it. I replay my favorite songs over and over again and sing them, badly, in the shower. The guitar solos make me swoony; the harmonies thrill me. And, for now, it belongs only to me (well, almost; it's an advance copy of a CD that won't be released 'til the spring -- and no, not on my label). I wish I could buy a copy for everyone when it comes out; I want it to outsell Norah Jones and Outkast. In reality, it'll probably sell like 1,000 copies, because life is sad & unfair.

02.25.04 ego trippin'

Those of you who read about my fruitless quest (see 02.02.04) to have a character named after me in the next Michael Chabon novel may be interested to know that I just won a similar auction at Left Coast Crime. One of my favorite mystery writers, SJ Rozan, was among the authors offering the prize in LCC's silent auction, a benefit for Friends of the Sea Otter. This time, I was not going to be thwarted. I even skipped a panel to hang out in the silent auction room just before the deadline. Unfortunately, someone else also wanted the prize -- for his mother, he said. He was willing to spend a lot on Mom, bidding $400 just as the clock was about to run out. But wait, I said, thinking fast. What if we both offer $360 (my final bid); Ms. Rozan can use both of our names. Or, uh, my name and your mom's name. If only I could have reasoned so civilly with David Radwin, the rapacious $803 bidder in the Chabon auction. (Where does a "Ph.D. candidate and Graduate Student Instructor" get that kind of money, anyway? For that matter, where does a web designer & record company owner?)

So thank you, Kevin Tiemeyer, for your generosity. And SJ, I will now have even more reason to await your next book. By the way, I just found out that SJ has a blog. It turns out she had food poisoning and almost didn't make it to the convention. You learn so much from blogs!

02.24.04 where i've been

I'm sure all six of the people who read this blog missed me dreadfully. I was at Left Coast Crime, a mystery readers' and writers' convention in Monterey. I am not really a "convention person" (huge gatherings of people and all that...), but I was on the organizing committee for this one, thanks to my friends & convention co-chairs extraordinaire, Bill & Toby Gottfried. I also moderated a panel called "Making the Most of Your Web Site." It was a fun event, probably because I was so darned busy all the time -- if I ever had a spare moment, I was recruited to chip in at the registration table or fill book bags or something. Organizing LCC took two years' worth of hard work, so it's difficult to believe it's actually over now!

02.16.04 the squeaky wheel

This afternoon: Curves. I go in and start exercising, and within a minute or so, I realize what is playing: the dreaded 50s novelty song CD, which I've previously maligned in this forum. And it's only, like, 3 songs in. Oh well, I figure; I'm already here, I need to exercise, I'll suck it up and deal. Then, as "Yakety-Yak" segues into the atrocious "Mr. Bass Man," one of the employees heads over to the CD player and asks if anyone would mind if she changed the disc. "No! I hate this CD!" I exclaim. "You know, we have a suggestion box over there for comments," she says. "Well, I thought maybe other people enjoyed it," I answer meekly. "Someone just complained about it," she says, hitting "disc skip." In seconds, the B-52s' "Roam" is playing. I look around the room; out of the dozen or so people exercising, maybe one of them is old enough to have firsthand knowledge of the 50s. But really, it would have never occurred to me to ask them to change the music, which has always seemed immutable to me, kind of like the presence of erectile dysfunction commercials during televised sporting events, or Lyndon LaRouche's name on presidential ballots. So thank you, Person Who Is Much Bolder Than I, for making my exercise experience so much more enjoyable today.

Last night: saw "The Cooler," which is basically a movie built around the literal definition of "getting lucky." William H. Macy's Bernie is a sad sack who works at a casino as a cooler, which means that he is so unlucky, he just goes and stands next to a person who is on a winning streak, and all of a sudden the poor bastard will start losing money. However, once Bernie hooks up with Natalie, a hot cocktail waitress played by Maria Bello, and, more importantly, sleeps and then falls in love with her -- well, suddenly, he's no longer the kiss of death at the gambling tables. The people who stand next to him start to win, and win big.

I had seen the trailer for "The Cooler" approximately eleventy-zillion times, but there are a couple of interesting ancillary plot points that didn't fit into the two-minute-long condensed version of the film. One involves Bernie's long-lost son, and the other features Alec Baldwin as the owner of one of the last Rat Pack-era casinos in Vegas, being pressured to tear down his slightly rundown establishment and build a new one that will compete with the flashy, high-profile joints on the Strip. Baldwin is great in the role, which has earned him an Academy Award nomination. I'm really glad Baldwin has made a comeback of sorts lately -- he's a wonderful actor, not to mention one of the best "Saturday Night Live" guest hosts ever. Verdict on "The Cooler" -- pleasant, maybe a little too heavy on the magic realism, but worth a rental if you have a big enough TV (it's widescreen, which means it would look like a tiny band in between two giant black stripes on my set). Yes, I mean you, Roger!

Speaking of SNL, did anyone else think that Fred Armisen playing Prince looked more like Ron Mael of Sparks?

02.12.04 and now for something completely different

"Bachelorette" Watch: Meredith goes on four dates, to the four remaining bachelors' hometowns. Cute cowboy Lanny's chances are completely destroyed when he shows Meredith what he does for a living (it involves collecting horse semen, and is this the first time an artificial horse vagina has ever been shown on prime-time network TV?) and introduces her to his mom. Ma Lanny turns out to be a conservative Christian who lectures her would-be daughter-in-law about the importance of a wife's being "submissive" to her husband. Entertainment Weekly's recap: "She explained her priority system, which she strongly implied oughta be Lanny's future wife's priority system: 'God first, your husband and family second, your job third.' And Meredith started counting the seconds till the producers yanked her out of there."

Last night: John Cleese, Esalen benefit, Herbst Theater. And the sheer joy of leaving the house again after suffering through 10 agonizing days of The Cold From Hell. I wasn't sure what Esalen was, but it turns out it's a retreat center in Big Sur that holds workshops on topics such as "Shamanic Cosmology," "The Bioenergetic Basis of Emotional Transformation" and "Psychic and Intuitive Healing." I am sure that I am far too cynical for Esalen, but I'm glad to support their efforts anyway.

The evening started with a number of film clips from Cleese classics like "Monty Python's Flying Circus," "Fawlty Towers" and "A Fish Called Wanda." Then KQED's Michael Krasny, a man I've listened to almost every morning ever since I moved to California, interviewed Cleese for about an hour. There was the standard "how did Monty Python get together?" type stuff, and some fascinating anecdotes about Cleese's mother, from whom he inherited his dark sense of humor. And we learned that the family name was actually Cheese (his grandfather changed it when he joined the military).

Then Krasny left the stage and Cleese did a presentation about Christianity, illustrated by clips from "Life of Brian" and "Meaning of Life." Did you know Cleese is extremely thoughtful, intelligent and well-read on the topic of Christian mysticism? No, really! He had a canvas tote bag in which he carried a variety of books on Christianity (including the Bible); he'd pull them out and read short excerpts to illuminate his points. I've been struggling for, like, half an hour now to summarize what he said, without any luck. I'm terrified of messing up his carefully constructed arguments. What kind of bad reporter am I, anyway? I should have taken notes!

One thing I did write down: Cleese mentioned in passing a woman named Pam Reynolds. I Googled her name today, and it turns out she reported a near-death experience in extreme detail.

In the end, it all came down to this: Cleese played the scene from "Life of Brian" in which an enormous crowd has gathered in front of Brian's home, and the exasperated "messiah" tells them they should think for themselves -- "you're all individuals!" And they reply, "Yes! We're all individuals!" Cleese is obviously someone who's learned to think for himself and it was a treat to see this side of him.

I have to give a shout-out to my mom for letting me see "Life of Brian" when I was a young teen, and the film was extremely controversial. In Grand Rapids, it was routine for "blasphemous" entertainment to be denounced from the pulpits of the city's Dutch Reformed churches. I remember one of my friends reporting that her pastor had told the congregation that watching the TV comedy "Soap" was practically tantamount to booking a one-way ticket to hell. So, thanks, Mom, and thanks, John Cleese, for your part in creating a film that's both hilarious and thought-provoking.

02.11.04 voting is for old people

Apparently someone from the Republican Party is designing T-shirts for Urban Outfitters. That's right, kids -- voting is not for you! Leave it to rich old people who, uh, have nothing but your best interests at heart. Deficits, schmeficits!

The always witty and articulate Jeff Norman favored me with a response to yesterday's entry. "I thought of Stew, too: of course, to me that's one reason he calls the band that [The Negro Problem, though lately he's been releasing CDs simply as Stew]. To the music industry, a large black man fronting a group playing the kind of music Stew writes is a huge problem; they simply don't know how, or whom, to market it to. (To be fair, if the band were all white, they'd still have a problem marketing it -- it just doesn't fit into existing marketing niches.)" Jeff goes on to write:

You ask whether black hipsters shun a guy like Stew: obviously, I can't know (I see your Grand Rapids and raise you Wauwatosa, Wisconsin, in the anti-hipster sweepstakes -- plus, uh, I'm not a black guy. Hope you're not too surprised...) -- but my guess is that it depends which sort of hipster you mean. Surely, the people who want to enforce hip-hop as the most "real," the most authentically black music today, probably look askance at Stew... but at the same time (as I said at Paula's site, I think), it's probably true that a lot of hip-hop heads -- certainly, a lot of DJs -- know the history of white popular music more than white hipsters know black pop. Part of that is saturation exposure: who growing up in the 70s could not know "Stairway to Heaven"? But part of it is that this kind of black hipster probably prides himself (as near as I can tell from reading reviews) on finding the most out-of-the-way samples, and if that means building a rap around the percussion part from the opening of "They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Ha!" -- well, that would happen.

And I think the same is true of what Tris wrote: yeah, lotsa white hipsters like Outkast because it's cool to like hip-hop (but they don't, really) -- but plenty of other ones probably do like lots of hip-hop. As far as I can tell, for example, Tris himself has listened to hip-hop pretty steadily for some fifteen-odd years... same with Aaron Mandel. I think it's an age thing: they're of an age where hip-hop was part of the cultural surround growing up, no matter where you were. You, probably -- and me, definitely -- are old enough that that wasn't true, that hip-hop came around a little later, after the foundations of our musical tastes were largely established. So whatever liking for hip-hop people like us might have, it tends to have the character of an overlay -- except if you really make an effort to get into it.

One of my college professors, Craig Hankin, had this to say about rap several years ago, when he was in his late 30s and the father of two young boys: "I always knew that someday, a style of music would come along that I would hate as much as my father hated rock 'n roll. I just didn't think it would happen this soon."

02.10.04 bring on the carbs

I didn't need to report for jury duty today at the brutal hour of 8:30 AM (which would have involved getting up at, like, 6:30), and just got the all-clear for the afternoon roll call as well. So this particular civic duty is over for another year. Serving on a jury would be fine, really, but considering that California pays its jurors the princely rate of $15 per day, who can afford to do so besides retirees and the idle rich?

News: Report: Atkins Had Heart Disease History. "Before his death, he had suffered a heart attack, congestive heart failure and hypertension, The Wall Street Journal reported, citing a report by the (New York) city medical examiner." At the time of Dr. Atkins' death, I espoused the dark theory that he had actually died of a heart attack, and that tripping and falling on ice was a convenient cover story. I consider this partial vindication. Of course, bread is practically my favorite food, so I'm biased against the diet doc's regimen. (In the interest of fairness, I'll mention that the article goes on to report: "Stuart Trager, chairman of the Atkins Physicians Council in New York, told the Journal that Atkins' heart disease stemmed from cardiomyopathy, a condition that was thought to result from a viral infection.")

Readers write: The very smart and talented Tris McCall responds to yesterday's comments about Outkast. "i found speakerboxxx/love below easier to get through than stankonia," he lower-cases. "actually, speakerboxxx is a pretty coherent record. it's only the second half of love below that becomes an obstacle course for attention. i think 'roses' ends the pop segment of the album, and ushers in the twenty minutes of weird genre experiments." He continues:

i've been writing a lot on the tris mccall report about outkast's popularity among white hipsters (and i'm going to have to write more, because it's been frequently discussed since), but here's something that occurred to me just last night: to appreciate a record like, say, blueprint, you have to know nastradamus, otherwise you don't know what jay-z is rapping about in 'takeover.' likewise, if you pick up stillmatic without knowing blueprint, the first two songs don't make any sense. this is not unusual in hip-hop; i remember the days when every new record from the native tongues crew assumed you knew all the other records chapter and verse. even the 50 record that's so deliberately commercial doesn't make as much resonance if you don't know the history of his beef with ja rule. you know what i mean? enter outkast. they're the one popular rap act where you don't have to know any other rap act to make sense of their lyrics. so in a sense they're a perfect entry-level group, but there's nowhere to go from there -- they don't talk about other groups, and other groups don't talk about them.

not to disparage outkast in any way; i love outkast. that's one of the things getting lost amid all my analysis of the phenomenon.

I can't speak about the "hipster" subculture, since I don't belong to it. (Let's be honest: nobody who grew up in Grand Rapids, Mich., can ever, ever be hip. The place is a veritable vortex of uncoolness.) But let's take a look at the content of the music instead of the color of the musician's skin, as it were. Last week on the hilarious sketch comedy series "Chappelle's Show," Dave did a piece in which he and musician John Mayer went around New York to test the effect on guitar music on white folks. Mayer's playing caused whites to noodle-dance ecstatically, while blacks clapped their hands over their ears. Then Chappelle unveiled (literally -- the man was hidden under a tarp) Roots drummer ?uestlove; his funky beats had the black listeners moving their feet in no time.

Let's look at an African-American singer/songwriter whose audience is almost exclusively white, based on the half-dozen times I've seen him perform: Stew. The press clips on his web site compare him to Robyn Hitchcock, Bread (!), Kurt Weill and Burt Bacharach. I don't think tokenism has anything to do with Stew fans' appreciation of the performer. He has a great voice and writes melodic, literate pop songs. I'll leave you with the following: why are there so few Stews (blacks working in what I'll call, for lack of a better term, "traditionally white" music styles)? Would black hipsters shun them? Is there room for more than one "black guy" in the record collections of white pop fans, or is Stew a token of sorts? Discuss.

02.09.04 i, the jury

I didn't watch the Grammys, but it's always interesting to see who won and will go on to be tomorrow's Christopher Cross or Milli Vanilli. Best album: Outkast, Speakerboxxx/The Love Below. Maybe it's just because I'm a white chick/non-hip hop head, but let's be honest -- this is the Moby Dick or "Berlin Alexanderplatz" of albums. You know it's supposed to be a masterpiece, but who can get through the whole damn thing? I swear it's at least five hours long. Best new artist: Evanescence. I have no idea who they are or what kind of music they play. I've seen a photo of the lead singer and she looks kind of goth. Are they the new Bauhaus? Song of the year: "Dance With My Father," Richard Marx. Richard Marx?! OK, I think Luther Vandross actually sang the song, but who knew Richard Marx was still around? 80s revival indeed. Alternative Music Album: The White Stripes, Elephant. Best Rock Album: One by One, Foo Fighters. I own both of these albums, and now they have received the imprimatur of excellence from the 60-year-olds who make up NARAS -- hooray! Best Native American music album: Flying Free by Black Eagle. Is there really a lot of competition in this category? And how long has it been around? I'll bet Buffy Sainte-Marie had a lock on it during the 70s.

This afternoon, I have to call and find out whether or not I have to report for jury duty tomorrow morning. It's at the Superior Court in Hayward, which is distressingly far away. Alameda: it's a big county. My concern is that I've been called for jury duty so many times in the past, and either (a) the recording tells me I don't have to show up or (b) I have to go in, hang around the jury room for a few hours, and then get sent home. I've never even gotten to the stage of being interviewed for a jury. Will my number finally be up?

02.05.04 reality show republicans

"Bachelorette" Watch: Darn it, Meredith sent home Brad. I didn't particularly care for the bug-eyed pharmaceutical salesman, but next week is the episode where Meredith visits each of her remaining suitors' hometowns, and Brad is from Grand Rapids. Where would Brad have taken her? On a romantic stroll around the Calder stabile? The Gerald R. Ford Presidential Museum (which is a lot more fun than you might think)? Lunch at Arnie's Bakery Cafe? Perhaps a tour of the Amway factory? We'll never know...

Watching Mere gab with her bachelors -- asking them about their families, life goals, hobbies, etc. -- I thought about what my number one question to an ABC-selected potential life mate would be: "Whom do you plan to vote for in November?" Because Carville/ Matalin aside, I don't believe in mixed marriages. Dunno about Meredith, but I'm getting a serious G.O.P. vibe from the remaining men. Heck, two of them are Texans.

You know what would really be cool -- if they could get one of the Bush twins to be the next Bachelorette. The twist would be that they'd try to find some young, hot Secret Service men to throw into the mix. Along with competing, the agents would also be required to accompany Barbara or Jenna on all of her "fantasy dates" in order to provide protection. Imagine the potential for jealous rages... torrid threesomes... and, of course, lots and lots of drinking! And just think how much fun the obligatory "meet the bachelorette's parents" episode would be. ABC, if you hurry, I think you could get this on the air before election day.

02.04.04 coming soon: howard dean guest stars on "scrubs"

Press release du jour, from CBS:

FORMER CALIFORNIA GOVERNOR GRAY DAVIS TAKES A STAB AT ACTING

LOS ANGELES, Feb. 3 -- In an occupational switch, recalled California Governor Gray Davis tries his hand at acting when he guest stars as himself on YES, DEAR, Monday, March 1 (8:00-8:30 PM, ET/PT) on the CBS Television Network. When Greg (Anthony Clark) scores tickets to the owner's box for a Los Angeles Lakers game, he invites his and Jimmy's (Mike O'Malley) fathers (guest stars Tim Conway and Jerry Van Dyke) to join them. He quickly regrets the invitation when his dad gets into a fight with a fellow ticket holder, former Governor Gray Davis, in the middle of Staples Center. Jeanie Buss, Executive Vice President of Business Operations for the Los Angeles Lakers (as herself), and Vicki Lawrence, also guest star.

For some reason, the Chronicle has started running the musings of elderly gossipeuse Liz Smith on a daily basis. To be honest, I would rather read a Jon Carroll cat column than La Liz prattling on about her pet celebs (Rosie O'Donnell, Barbara Walters, Bette Midler, etc.). Yes, I know I could skip it, but for some reason, I find myself unable to do so. Heck, I've been trying for years to train myself to ignore the Worst Comic Strip Ever, B.C., and yet I can't. It's a sickness, I guess.

Anyway, I thought this little item provided the ultimate proof that Liz's readership consists mainly of people over the age of 75:

MANY PEOPLE want me to print the lyrics of the theme for the popular Jerry Bruckheimer TV hit "CSI." They simply can't understand them as sung on the air. A reader writes: "The lyrics sound as if they are singing 'New Orleans -- umph, umph, umph, umph,' but the show is set in Las Vegas!" Well, the lyrics go: "Who are you?" and are, of course, by Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey of The Who.

02.02.04 a tale of two cities

I'm not much of a football fan. When the Oakland Raiders were playing in the '03 Super Bowl, I went to the movies (double feature: "The Lineup," "Experiment in Terror"). This year, I sorta-watched the commercials, which seemed awfully mean-spirited to me: old people fight dirty over a bag of potato chips; a ref learns to tolerate abuse because he's constantly yelled at by his shrewish wife; kids are so awed by a pick-up truck that they curse, causing their parents to (literally) wash their mouths out with soap; a mutt helps his owner steal a bottle of beer by attacking a guy's crotch. Oh, and don't forget the potty humor (gas-passing horse) and bestiality (a talking monkey hits on his owner's date). Yuck!!!

Of course, I didn't watch the halftime show -- Justin Timberlake, Janet Jackson, Kid Rock, zzzzz -- and as a result, missed the moment everyone (even NPR's Talk of the Nation!) is talking about today. Yes, I'm referring to Janet's exposed breast. Was it intentional? MTV was promoting a "surprise appearance" in its preshow press releases. Well, leave it to me to miss all the zeitgeisty goodness.

When I lived in Baltimore, my house was a few blocks away from that of my favorite author, Anne Tyler. I would occasionally drive past, hoping to see her out doing yardwork or something. I heard that she was a regular patron of Eddie's Supermarket; I also shopped there, but I never caught sight of the famously reclusive writer. For three years, I worked as the personal assistant to an actual friend of hers. But did she ever happen to call when I was there answering the phones? No. I left Baltimore without a single Tyler sighting.

Coincidentally, I moved to the city where my other favorite novelist, Michael Chabon, lives. He is not reclusive and for the record, I have never driven past his house. I've attended two of his book signings and his appearance at City Arts and Lectures. I am a fan of Chabon and a fan of libraries. So when the opportunity to insert myself into Chabon's fictional world and help the Berkeley Public Library, of which I am a regular patron and supporter, I couldn't resist. The BPL was auctioning off the chance to appear in Chabon's next book -- "a character named after you!" For almost two weeks, I was the high bidder, but anyone who's ever tried to buy anything on eBay can guess what happened -- toward the end, the bidding got hot and heavy, and despite a last-ditch attempt, someone else was willing to put up $803. Eight hundred and three dollars! OK, I silently said to him/her, you must really, really want this, so Godspeed.

So there will be no Sue Trowbridge in Chabon's forthcoming novel Hotzeplotz -- "set in the Alaskan panhandle, in the present day, in the territory that was opened to the Jewish refugees of Europe... The precarious balancing act of this Yiddish-speaking nation-within-a-nation is imperiled by the discovery of a mysterious skull in a construction site, and the novel unfolds as its protagonist, a homicide detective named Meyer Landsman, investigates." I don't know that I would have fit in there, anyway, unless he needed a token shiksa to make an appearance.

Michael, if you happen to be Googling yourself someday and find this: for the record, I'd be happy to donate, say, $350 to the BPL if you'd be willing to put me in your next New Yorker short story. And as much as I love libraries, I'll be buying my own copy of Hotzeplotz when it comes out. Your books are keepers.

All content © 2004 by Sue Trowbridge