GOP now going out of its way to irritate Franken, Keillor, staff of Utne Reader

(UPDATE: Lileks sprouts anticipatory boner.)

The Auld Sod

Spent the bulk of yesterday morning on my hands and knees digging potatoes, and the thought occurred: If my grandfather could see me right now, he’d wonder why in the hell he ever bothered to leave Ireland.

To Kyria, In Hopes That She Will See This

...because, as much as I loathe these kinds of cheapjack “open letters,” that fact is you’ve got comments turned off in your Live Journal and my e-mail bounced back to me, and I need to tell you this somehow. The fact that you’ve gone and locked or deleted the relevant entry in your LJ would seem to make it plain that you don’t want to hear it; but I’m gonna say it anyway. And I’m gonna say this because I like you, and this book sounds like something I would one day like to read.

From what I’m seeing—following this at a remove—you don’t sound to me like someone who’s reached the end of her abilities. To me, you sound like somebody who is scared shitless, and who is rationalizing like a motherfucker because she’s afraid to dig deep and tell the truth she needs to tell.

Maybe it was out of order. Or maybe I made it all up. I didn’t tape the phone conversation. I don’t remember what happened. Do you know what that sounds like? It sounds like denial.

Maybe you’re afraid you’ll hurt somebody, or further damage an already-damaged relationship. I don’t know. I’m not good with the therapy-speak, and I think it would probably be counterproductive at this point anyway.

I do think it’s no coincidence that you’re losing your will to do this book right after getting a monster guilt-bomb e-mail from your Mom.

But, you know, the cancer is her shit to deal with; and your story is your shit to deal with. And deal with it you must. It doesn’t matter if your shit isn’t as bad as her shit: yeah, I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet, and all that stuff; but y’know, I still need some goddam shoes.

And you still need to write your book.

You’re getting close.
You wouldn’t be so scared if you weren’t getting close.

Right now, you’ve got to do the thing that scares you, and do it any way you can. Get it out. Write it as stage directions, write it as free verse, tell don’t show (e.g., “Then she says something like if I’m so smart why don’t I do it myself”), make it all up, IT DOESN’T MATTER. Obsessing over “inaccuracies” is self-sabotage. The only accuracy you need worry about is accurately conveying your emotional state—the meaning of the events is moreimportant than the events themselves.

You’re not telling THE TRUTH ABSOLUTE here; only God knows God’s Own Truth. You’re telling your story. A friend of mine who teaches memoir-writing says something pretty goofy, but also pretty true: Memoir has “me” in it. It’s not THE TRUTH ABSOLUTE, it’s a personal truth, focused through the lens of personal experience.

Don’t worry about telling the truth: just tell your truth. Your truth, as best as you can tell it, and by whatever means necessary.

The rest is a technicality. The rest is something you can cover in a two-line disclaimer that you add after the book is written.

You’ve got to do the thing that scares you, and yeah, it’s gonna suck, and yeah, you’re gonna hate yourself for a while. There are plenty of people who love you and who want to see you get through this; but don’t do it for them. Do it for you.

Because I kinda think you have to, yeah?

Why am I telling you this?

Because right now I am balls-deep in a book of my own, and I may need you to tell me the same damn thing when I choke, as I inevitably will.

Don’t give up.

Love,

Jack Fear

Hurry On Boys

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot?

U2 and Green Day will perform together at a pre-show for a NFL game at the Superdome in New Orleans ... [They] are expected to perform three or four songs, including [a cover of] The Skids’ “The Saints Are Coming,” which they recently recorded together.

That sound you hear, as that long piano chord fades and the drums come crashing in? That's the sound of my head exploding.

The Rub

With the kids back in school, my attention is no longer shattered by the distraction of having to break up fights every five minutes, so I’ve been able to get back to a lot of things that were put on hold for the Summer. I’ve going steady to the gym again, for one thing; and I’ve been thinking about the bargain I’ve got myself into on that score.

The deal is this: I can get strong, I can be fit and healthy, I can get my ticker tuned and humming and legs that run and never tire (or as near to never as makes no damn-it-all). And for that, I will wake up stiff and aching every morning for the rest of my life.

Downright Faustian, that, and every man his own Devil.

Glassed!

It was immediately clear that Lee Siegel was not the man for the job. Renowned critic and essayist? Yes. Very bright guy? Sure. But those bona fides were beside the point. After only a few weeks on the job as culture blogger for the new, comments-enabled New Republic Online, it was obvious that Siegel was temperamentally unsuited to his new gig.

His writing style—imperious, condemnatory, contemptuous—wasn’t necessarily a deal-breaker; indeed, it suits him well in print, where he can issue lofty, often amusingly-wrong statements from the safe perch of his high horse. But when thrust into the rough-and-tumble world of blogging, where his holy opinions could be instantly (and violently) refuted throughout the blogosphere and indeed on his very site, he reacted as any self-regarding academic would: he freaked right the fuck out. His skin was too thin; he bled, and proved himself a prick.

Even so, even so; Who would’ve thought that Lee Siegel would end up getting shitcanned from TNR for using a sock puppet?

What’s that sound?

PLINK

CRUNCH.