A few years ago, Chris Anderson, editor of Wired Magazine, published a book called The Long Tail. The phrase — and the idea — entered the language; I’m sure you’ve heard by now that because everything is available on the Web, everything sells. Now he’s back with Free: The Future of a Radical Price — and this time the knives have been sharpened. Here’s Malcolm Gladwell taking “Free” down in The New Yorker. What’s the fuss about? Use my Q&A with Chris Anderson in Reader’s Digest as a primer.
It’s frustrating to be a friend and client of Pamela Miles and not be able to explain how Reiki works. All we know in our house is that the “magic hand” puts the kid to sleep when nothing else works, sucks the stress from our psyches, and reduces our need for prescriptions and doctors. So it was nice to see a piece on Huffington Post that points readers to this effective if little understood form of self-healing and the practitioner who is its best ambassador. Here’s her book. And here’s her web site.
A big thank you for mentioning The Tender Bar. I’m halfway through it and have mixed feelings: I can’t wait to get to the next chapter, and I don’t want it to end. He adds those wonderful ‘hit you in the heart’ sentences at the end of many of the segments, and I have to pause and absorb his ‘heart speak" before reading more. It’s so good to read words from such an honest writer, although I suspect he embroidered a few episodes. Nevertheless, there are times I wish I could give him a hug.
Sometimes, though there’s no paper in our communication here, you can sense when a message is blotched with tears. So it was yesterday, when a California reader forwarded a link to a site called Get Well Pablo. But Pablo didn’t get well. He died last week, of a rare cancer, just six years and six days old. He was very much loved — the website is a diary of hope and grief — and if you can stand it, I encourage you to click here. Weeping? Unavoidable. As are tighter hugs for the kids in your life.
The novelist has issued an apology: "I feel this whole situation has been completely blown out of proportion…Of course, I was dismayed by Roberta Silman’s review, which gave away the plot of the novel, and in the heat of the moment I responded strongly and I wish I hadn’t. I’m sorry if I offended anyone. Reviewers are entitled to their opinions, and that’s the name of the game in publishing. I hope my readers understand that I didn’t mean to hurt anyone and I’m truly sorry if I did." In the heat of the moment? She sent two dozen Twitter messages! And her “apology” reads as if it were written with fingers crossed — or, more probably, by others. But there’s one indisputable piece of good news here: Hoffman has closed her Twitter account.
The Boston Globe reviewer didn’t like Alice Hoffman’s new novel. This happens. Hoffman was unhappy. This also happens. But then, in a Twitter post, Hoffman called the Globe reviewer, Roberta Silman, “a moron” and said she wasn’t qualified to criticize her book. (In fact, Silman has had a respectable literary career. Look for yourself.). And then, in another Twitter post, Hoffman published Silman’s home number and urged readers to call and “tell her what u think of snarky critics.” That strikes me as the media equivalent of right-to-life crusaders publishing the home addresses of doctors who perform abortions — I doubt Hoffman’s fans will call, but still, that’s unforgivable. In response, I won’t be reviewing Hoffman’s book. And I’m sending this post to her representatives in the hope that they’ll pass it on with this message: “Alice, want to explain yourself? I’m listed in New York. Feel free to call me. So we’re clear: every word will be on-the-record.”
I interviewed Farrah Fawcett several times, but I can’t say I understood her. The immensity of her fame separated us, of course — it’s hard to imagine any single woman as the fantasy object of an entire generation. But there was also the looming figure of the thuggish Ryan O’Neal. The night we met, he practically threw me out of the house for the offense of giggling with his son. Later, a weepy Tatum O’Neal called to beg me not to publish the list of men she’d slept with — a list, she said, that her father had given me. [He hadn’t.] Through it all, Farrah was warm and helpful. In a number of roles, she showed she was more than a cute blonde, but her greatest acting may have been to convince others — and herself — that her home life really wasn’t a war zone.
Joyce Wadler, a hard-to-fool New York Times reporter, visited the author of Perfection in her Brooklyn apartment. How did the woman who confronted five of her dead husband’s lovers fare? Read all about it.
I stopped playing "war" around the time I started reading. If that connection between war toys and books isn’t unique to me, it’s not surprising that men who seem never to have read a book are the loudest cheerleaders for a big stick in international matters. This time around, they see Iranians as brown-skinned, sword-wielding infidels. No point telling these guys that bombing Iran would kill a lot of people who watch “The Daily Show” — that is, people like us. Are you also puzzled about men (and, I guess, some women) whose first response to crisis is to ratchet up the threats? Read War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning and consider its spooky thesis: Some of us are addicted to bloodshed.
I was reading. So was she — and she was laughing. I looked over and saw: The Tender Bar. “That was the best book I read whatever year it came out,” I said. She said she was loving it. “Later, it will break your heart,” I said. She said, “It already is. But it’s worth it.” The train slowed. My stop. We shook hands. It seemed like the right thing to do.
I didn’t trust my own reaction, so I took friends with me to see Amadou & Mariam. From pretty much the start of the show, we were all equally stunned — nothing prepares you for a band this exciting. “Is there anything more beautiful than a gold Fender Telecaster against a purple dashiki?” one of my witnesses asked. Another said, “They should perform at the White House!” What’s the fuss about? A well-oiled machine of a groove band, with a lot of brainy, sophisticated stuff going on above the rhythm. Like in the beautiful Sabali, which Mariam sings. She stands still, regal as Callas, while her voice covers the spectrum over music reminiscent of Philip Glass. The blind duo from Mali and their band are touring with Coldplay; see dates here. Ok, so you missed greatness of the first order. Don’t miss the CD.
The point of cosmetic surgery is to make you look as if you’ve had a good night’s rest, not as if you’ve been lifted by cranes. That’s what I wanted from a new, improved Butler, and that’s what the exceptionally talented crew — that’s you, Eric, Sunil, Erin and Litza — at the Book Report Network created. What’s in it for you? Now you can print reviews. The RSS feed is back. And, most of all, YOU CAN NOW SHARE BUTLER WITH REMARKABLE EASE. Yes, you can now forward to a friend, and more: You can Twitter, Twig, Facebook, Delicious, LinkedIn, Reddit, Digg and Buzz Up. And signing up for the Newsletter is now as simple as typing in your e-mail address and clicking. Is there anything left to do? Yes, and it’s a favor — would you share Butler? I’d be extravagantly grateful. And your friends and family will, I hope, be impressed by your good taste.
In a sea of banality, Paul Hawken delivers a fireball of a speech.
