Jeff Ford has been blogging up a storm (always an uplifting development). His commentary on the crappiness of HBO and War of the Worlds: I left it on, figuring, "How bad could it be even with Cruise — aliens, killing, running, explosions, more killing. What the fuck." It was about what I expected until it got to the part in the basement and Dakota Fanning (like this is a real name — winner of the golden corn dog award) asks Cruise to sing her a lullaby. Oaf that her old man is, he doesn’t know any, so he sings "Little Deuce Coup" by the Beach Boys. I couldn’t fucking believe it — Cruise, breathlessly squeaking out in verbal mouse farts the lyrics to the tune. I was laying on the bed and had to sit up straight. He had tears in his eyes. Oh my Christ, oh the humanity. I knew I was witnessing film history — a bona-fide Five Star Simpering Moment.
New SF ezine Heliotrope is live, featuring lots of interesting stuff; see here for details. A very welcome development.
Glen Hirshberg finally makes good with the next installment on writing implements: For me, writing really is somewhere else, an island I can’t live on, but that I need to visit every single day of my life, because it resists mapping, keeps revealing itself with every new ridge I climb or cove I duck into. The challenge is getting there.
Justine weighs in with a fabulous post on the Tiptree bio, about how it is a book she once intended to write herself. The bio also received a very odd review from Martin Morse Wooster in the WaPo over the weekend. Odd, in that this sentence, the last in the review, is pretty much the only part that deals with Julie Phillips’ writing: "Julie Phillips does an excellent job in telling Sheldon’s story." The rest of the review summarizes Tiptree’s life. Seems ODD.