Jon Friedman on the purported National Magazine Awards snub (the magazine got five nominations).

Since I learned that Jim Donahue regularly dreams about celebrities, I’ve been thinking of Dreaming Arnold Schwarzenegger, the hypertext project by Michael Blitz and Louise Krasniewicz that, of course, documented dreams about Arnold Schwarzenegger. While researching their book about “Arnoldness,” Why Arnold Matters, the authors found themselves having dream after dream of the lumpy grunter, and encouraged the webby (before or during the book-writing process, I forget) to share their stories with the known universe. From a summary of Blitz and Krasniewicz’s creation:

The content asks questions about American popular culture and the nature of dreams (including American ones). Numerous hyperlinks spin off into various essays and web sites, a number of which are only tenuously connected to the central theme of the project. Apparently, Mr. Schwarzenegger was not directly involved in the production of this site.

I imagine not. Arnold may have wandered through a snooze or two of Connie Bruck’s, for all we know. What’s confounding is that I can’t seem to find the subconcious-anthology online anymore, though I admit I haven’t googled with my usual fire in the browser. What kind of vast right-wing Hollywood-liberal Kennedy-compound Mr. Universe media-elite ivory-tower California-utilities Bain de Soleil conspiracy might be at work here, I wonder?

“That’s a hell of a bit of pillow talk, that”

Post a comment with your own celebrity dreams, if they don’t make you too shy. So far, only my daydreams are about Stephen Merchant—a man of intense and glad appreciation who laughs with delighted daring and little malice, and who should be properly appreciated himself by a girl who knows how—but I know (and like) the way I let things take over. It’s a tall tail I’m chasing in my head.

Speaking of celebrities, in case you’ve somehow missed this, I read How to Dress Like the Pope (which has a faint to strong connection with baby mixologists/fry cooks and Lemony Snicket) today and it’s pretty damn funny. There’s still more commentary on Pope-onography in this no doubt offensive series, “Pope vs. Gays: SMACKDOWN!”

James Wolcott is a little concerned about his neighbor David Denby after reading Denby’s V for Vendetta review.

Robin Cembalest reviews a recent event in which Alex Melamid (of the elephant paintings and Art Poll, on which I worked in a lowly capacity many years ago), Art Spiegelman, et al. talked about Neosincerity, the Israeli Anti-Semitic Cartoons Contest, Tom and Jerry, etc.:

Later, at home, I wondered if the panelists were right. “Is irony over?” Typing it into my computer, I felt like Carrie Bradshaw. I continued. “Is it possible to develop antibodies? And if we are finally resistant to irony, is Neosincerity the new zeitgeist?” I thought about the success of Jon Stewart, who has become hugely popular by making a comic show the most honest news broadcast on TV—and even managed to make a Munich joke at the Oscars. Maybe we’re on the cusp of a new age of shtick.

I’m celebrating with coffee straight from the source, Cafe du Monde, which, I recall, kept its online store running even right after the hurricane. Order some chicory coffee now, along with the cafe’s legendary beignet mix. Yum!

Joining the recent cover flap, Louisiana’s Shreveport Times has reprinted artist William Joyce’s original story as well as his already reported indignant response (“Louisiana had received its share of coverage lately, I was told. They tried to find a place for it inside the magazine. Everyone said they were sympathetic. But nothing happened. So we’ve been shunted aside again”).

I, too, think a Mardi Gras cover would have been right for this week. Nevertheless, the magazine’s continuing coverage of Louisiana in general, and New Orleans in particular, has been in-depth and exemplary. Katrina’s environmental implications, the bars that stayed open, the pregnant girls who live in the heart of more than one kind of storm—it’ll be a long time before I forget these New Orleans stories in The New Yorker, because they were done so especially well, even for a magazine that does things well pretty often.

A profile of New Yorker poet Jane Hirshfield, “The Zen poet of Mill Valley,” in the Marin Independent Journal:

If you’re a poet, and you want to get read by a lot of people, which doesn’t happen very often in the esoteric world of poetry, you have to get published in the New Yorker.

For a poet, that would be the equivalent of a musician having a pop radio hit, an actor landing a part in a blockbuster movie, a grand slam in the major leagues.

Marin poet Jane Hirshfield has experienced that rare feeling of reaching a mass audience, of being at the top of her game, many times.

“The thing about having a poem in the New Yorker is that it’s read by more people than anywhere else,” she said as she sat cross-legged, lotus-like, barefoot, with her back to a mullioned window overlooking the immaculately-tended garden of her cottage in Mill Valley, home for the past 22 years….

Jane, sister in arms, I’m delighted for you, and I’m not being sarcastic (I rarely am, in print anyway), but did you have to be sitting “cross-legged, lotuslike, barefoot,” against a garden backdrop? It seems only steps away from weeding in a dramatic velvet dress, and we all know how much ridicule that can provoke. And further fame. On second thought, wear the velvet—it works! Now, everyone, give yourself the treat of reading some Hirshfield poems. Then help the undeniably needy and deserving cause of poetry in general, and Hirshfield via the trusty trickle-down effect, by adopting her through the Academy of American Poets website. She might give you some leeks, plum tomatoes, or spare ladybugs, if you’re lucky.

Dear John Lahr,

Please tell me you liked The Pajama Game, which is one of the first musicals I really loved (my sister and best friend and I danced and sang to the soundtrack LP for years before we saw the movie), and which I can’t wait to see on the stage at last. It also probably had something to do with my continuing affinity for the best of what labor unions can be and do for us. (Ribald picnics, for one!) I’ll be saddened if you hated it, but I’ll be going anyway, just because I can’t stay away.

You did? Hooray!

With admiration, as ever,

E.G.

Canada’s National Post thinks about the new Gladwell blog:

How he reached The Blogging Point

In his book Blink, Malcolm Gladwell explores what he calls, “the power of thinking without thinking.” Now that The New Yorker contrarian has his own blog, it’s clear Gladwell also believes in the power of writing without thinking.

Last Wednesday, the best-selling, crazy-haired author began posting at gladwell.typepad.com and outlined his reasons for joining the blogosphere. “I have come (belatedly) to the conclusion that a blog can be a very valuable supplement to my books and the writing I do for The New Yorker,” he wrote. “What I think I’d like to do is to use this forum to elaborate and comment on and correct and amend things that I have already written.”

One of the first things The Tipping Point author decided to amend on his blog was his opinion of the Canadian health care system. In his third post, Gladwell noted that he has seen the light on Medicare since debating fellow Canuck New Yorker writer Adam Gopnik on the subject in 2000 for Washington Monthly. “In our debate, Adam vigorously defended the Canadian system, and I attacked it. But wait! That was six years ago! I’ve now changed my mind. I now agree with virtually everything Adam said and disagree with virtually everything I said. In fact, I shudder when I read what I said back then.” So, what exactly is Gladwell’s current opinion on socialized medicine? Does it have anything to do with power law distributions? You’ll have to stay tuned to his RSS feed to find out.

And so does The Torontoist. I love these -ist blog titles. I hope there’ll be a Duluthist, a Moose Jawist, a Jakartist, a Marseillist, etc., etc.

From Cartoon Brew via the enviably resourceful The Millions, a Mardi Gras-themed New Yorker cover conceived, executed, and apparently pre-empted. Louisianan Bill Joyce, the creator of the cover and story (seemingly) bumped for Brokeback Cheney, heads his summary: “DICK CHENEY SHOT HIS FRIEND BUT HE KILLED OUR COVER.”

Update: Gothamist has a definite opinion: “Well, that’s a pretty sad statement about the state of media today. Shame on you, New Yorker cover people! Jen also adds: ‘Brokeback Mountain references are soooo 2005.’ “

And from Scott McLemee, of the keen eye and swell taste, the tip that led me to “A Lexigraphical Lament about Probationer Prosody.”

While you’re being webby (which is the rest of the day, so why fight it?), read Nancy Franklin on the Olympics TV coverage, since she’s always great, and the latest deep silliness, the Amazon.com kind, from Minor Tweaks.

but however you lean on your vowels, there’s a whole lotta head-shakin’ and resigned capitulatin’ going on about the new Ricky Gervais cashcast.