Henry V to I

In honor of #Shakespeare400, here's our homage to the famous St. Crispin's Day Speech from Henry V, originally posted 11/4/09.

"King Henry V [led] a sodden and exhausted English Army against a French force that was said to outnumber his by as much as five to one. . . . But Agincourt's status as perhaps the greatest victory against overwhelming odds in military history--and a keystone of the English self-image--has been called into doubt by a group of historians. . . . The historians have concluded that the English could not have been outnumbered by more than about two to one. And depending on how the math is carried out, Henry may well have faced something closer to an even fight. . . . as some historians see it, the English crown then mounted a public relations effort to magnify the victory by exaggerating the disparity in numbers. "
--The New York Times, October 25, 2009


ACT IV, SCENE III: The English camp at Agincourt.

[Enter GLOUCESTER, BEDFORD, EXETER, ERPINGHAM with all his host; SALISBURY and WESTMORELAND]

Glo. Where is the King?

Bed. The King himself is rode to view their battle.

West. Of fighting men they have full threescore thousand.

Exe. There's five to one.

Sal. God's arm strike with us! 'Tis a fearful odds.

[Enter the KING]

West. Oh, that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work today!

K.Hen. What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? Relax, fair cousin.
We won't need 'em.

West. What say you, my sovereign lord?

K. Hen. Really, it's not as bad as you think.

West. But my liege, they number some threescore thousand!

K.Hen. Trust me, they don't even have onescore thousand.

Exe. What! So few?

K. Hen. More like half that! [Giggles.]
No, my coz, wish not a man from England.
We few can whup them with one gauntlet tied behind our backs.
I pray thee, wish not one man more.
For we shall strike them such a blow
That 'twill knock them into the middle of next fortnight.
So sternly shall we smite them
That 'pon their wakening they shall find
Their garments are no longer the fashion of the day.
Oh, do not wish one more! Unless it be my little sister,
For she and I alone could kick those French derrieres.
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart.
His passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse,
Provided he relates to all and sundry
How bravely we faced forty--er, sixty thousand troops.
This day is called the feast of Crispian.
He that shall live this day and see old age
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors
And say "These wounds I had on Crispin's Day,"
Facing a horde of eighty--I mean a hundred…
No, wait, two hundred thousand men at arms.
This story shall the good man teach his son,
Bumping up the enemy numbers in the telling
By a factor of ten--no, twenty--
So that from this day to the ending of the world,
It shall be remembered how
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers
Opened up a cask of whoopass on them,
Though they easily numbered five hundred thousand.
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
Fighting what must have been ten times a hundred thousand--
Maybe more--upon Saint Crispin's Day.

Sal. My sovereign lord, the French are bravely in their battles set,
And will with all expedience charge on us.

K. Hen. Thou dost not wish more help from England, Coz?

West. My liege, would you and I alone,
Without more help, could fight this royal battle!
But a good PR firm would not go amiss.

K. Hen. Well spoken! [To the troops] Once--no, twice more unto the breach, dear friends, twice more!

[Exeunt]

Smoke Signals: Secret Notes From Inside Conclave

From The Huffington Post:

According to Italian media reports, a diary has surfaced written by an anonymous cardinal who participated in the recent Vatican conclave. Here are some excerpts from this remarkable account, which offers unprecedented insight into this secret ancient ritual.

     How strange to be tasked with electing a new Pope while the old Pope still lives! This thought struck me as I passed near the pontiff's private apartments on my way to conclave—I could clearly hear Benedict singing The Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes in the papal shower.

     My brother cardinals and I gathered in the Sistine Chapel, where we would fulfill our sacred duty to elect the new pope. There were many warm greetings and happy reunions, though a certain cardinal from America received a distinctly chilly reception. Many of us were shocked that he was allowed to participate in conclave after he confessed to having a profile on ChristianMingle.com.

     As our first order of business, we engaged in a lively discussion of the many pressing issues the new pope would face. High on the list of priorities were increasing the number of cup holders in the Popemobile, and finding a more delicate term to replace "bishopric." The cardinal from Brazil argued that it was time to drop the Lambada from the Church's list of forbidden dances. There was also consensus that we should solve the enduring mystery of why the Swiss Guard is stationed at the Vatican.

     We then turned to the first round of voting. Not surprisingly, this produced no decisive result, and the ballots were burned in the little stove that has been temporarily installed in the chapel for this purpose. Great attention must be given to the color of the smoke produced in this process: White smoke signals that a new pope has been elected, while black smoke indicates that the vote was inconclusive.

     In this case chemicals were added to turn the smoke black, but apparently the wrong chemical compound was introduced to the fire, for it produced neither black smoke nor white smoke but purple haze. Soon the conversation turned to whether the Pink Floyd laser show was still playing at the Vatican planetarium. Some of the cardinals organized an air guitar competition, and one kept repeating the phrase "Oh wow" in tongues. Another scaled the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and positioned himself directly beneath Michelangelo's depiction of the hand of God reaching out to Adam, which he attempted to high-five.

     Voting was suspended for the rest of the morning.

     Our next round of voting this afternoon was also inconclusive. This time we tried making black smoke by burning Dan Brown novels with the ballots, which worked admirably.

     During a break in our deliberations we noticed one of the American cardinals busy near the little stove, giggling uncontrollably. It turned out he was sending smoke signals up the chimney, which conveyed the message: Many blue coats…2 days' ride…lure them into box canyon…. This prank caused confusion among the crowds gathered in St. Peter's Square, with the result that the gelato wagons were temporarily formed into a circle.

     The abashed cardinal attributed his mischievous deed to "too many spaghetti Westerns." As penance, he is required to give up both spaghetti and Westerns.

     A report of smoke sighted right after breakfast sent more rumors racing through the crowd today. This turned out to be a false alarm caused by several of the cardinals milling on the sidewalk in front of the Vatican, taking a butt break.

     Habemus Papam—we have a pope!

     With joyous hearts we gathered around the stove and ignited the ballots from our final round of voting. To produce the desired white smoke, we leavened the flames with angel feathers and straw from the Christ Child's manger, along with a healthy dollop of potassium chlorate.

     The new pope announced that he would take the name Francis, an unprecedented choice that caught us quite by surprise. It was not immediately clear which saintly figure had inspired this name, but after conferring briefly we arrived at three likely candidates:

            1. Francis of Assisi, patron saint of animals.

            2. Francis Xavier, a founder of the Jesuit order.

            3. Frances Bavier, who played Aunt Bea on The Andy Griffith Show.

The truth of the matter will be revealed in God's good time!

     Vatican workmen made a disturbing discovery at the conclusion of conclave. As they were removing the little stove from the Sistine Chapel, they found the remains of St. Nicholas in the chimney. The new pontiff has already begun drafting what is sure to be a tricky Christmas Eve sermon.

Fifty Ways to Hide the Cover: A Song for Readers of Fifty Shades of Grey

You may be among the many, many people who are reading E.L. James's bestselling work of erotica Fifty Shades of Grey.If you are, I'm guessing that you may not necessarily want people to know you're reading it. I mean, what would your mother think if she knew you were reading that smut? And there's a good chance that your mother, who is probably also reading the book on the sly, is having the same worrying thoughts about you.

To that end, I offer a musical guide to disguising the book so that you can enjoy your visits to the Red Room of Pain discretely. It's called "Fifty Ways to Hide the Cover" and it owes an obvious (if non-financial) debt to Paul Simon's 50 Ways To Leave Your Lover.You'll find it on The Huffington Post. I hope you'll add it to your rotation.

The Hungry Hungry Hippos Games

The Hungry Hungry Hippos Games is up on The Huffington Post--it's a satirical take on The Hunger Games. I know, spoofs of The Hunger Games abound, and a couple of them mash up the movie with the children's game Hungry Hungry Hippos. So I can't claim originality, but at least mine is distinguished by the fact that it spoofs the original novel instead of the movie. That counts for something.

I hope you'll check it out. As you'll see, for me it's all about the games.

Stamp of Approval

I'm flattered that Undead Letter Office is featured on the Bram Stoker Estate's web site.

A Classics Rock! Exposé

Over on my other blog, Classics Rock!, we have our very first foray into investigative journalism with a piece called Highway 61 Revisited Revisited, which uncovers a disturbing trend in the music industry: Veteran rock stars who are rethinking, rewriting, or renouncing their classic songs.

The implications for the music industry are potentially devastating. I hope you'll check it out.

Undead Letter Office

Which experience is scarier: Reading "Dracula" or going to the post office?

No need to choose--these two exquisite horrors are now combined in a new piece on The Huffington Post called "Undead Letter Office." This mashup explores the pressing question: What if the characters in a classic epistolary novel had to use the modern Postal Service?

Hope you'll check it out. And don't worry--it contains nothing liquid, fragile, perishable, or hazardous.

Spring Ahead

Daylight Savings Time begins today--remember to set your clocks ahead one hour.

• This means you lose an hour, so your 5 hour energy drink will only last 4 hours
• 24 hour diners are only open 23 hours today, so plan accordingly.
• Psychiatrists must remember to set their clocks ahead 50 minutes.
• If you happen to be reading Michael Cunningham's The Hours, skip ahead one chapter in observance of Daylight Savings Time.
• Daylight Savings Time music trivia: All the time shout-outs in Bill Haley's "Rock Around the Clock" get moved ahead one hour. This throws the rhyme scheme off and tends to bring the rocking to a complete standstill.

Tonight, a Very Special "Hannibal Lecter". . . .

News of a forthcoming Hannibal Lecter TV series got me thinking about what an amazing coincidence it is that Lecter was christened Hannibal at birth so that when he grew up and became a serial killer who eats his victims, his nickname, Hannibal the Cannibal, would be obvious and inevitable. I suppose if he'd been named Peter Lecter, he'd be Peter the Purple People Eater.

Also, let me add that a Hannibal Lecter TV series is the worst idea since "My Mother the Car." Let me make a few predictions:

• The references to fava beans and Chianti will be overworked.
• There will be excessive use of that modified hockey mask Lecter wears.
• An actor who played Jack Crawford in the movies will also play him in the series (but will it be Scott Glenn? Harvey Keitel? Dennis Farina?). Jack Crawford is to the Hannibal Lecter franchise as Felix Leiter is to the Bond movies--a different actor plays him almost every time.
• Anthony Hopkins will be asked repeatedly if he watches the series and will insist he's never seen it. No one will ask Brian Cox that question.
• At least one actor or actress who starred in one of the movies will stoop to doing a guest appearance during sweeps.
• There will be the inevitable Christmas episode featuring a dream or fantasy sequence in which the characters from the show become characters from A Christmas Carol (I see Lecter as Old Fezziwig.)
• Footage used in flashbacks to Lecter's earlier life will come from the movie Hannibal Rising. It will seem brand new to viewers of the TV series because nobody saw Hannibal Rising.
• There will be a crossover episode with "Dexter."
• At least one episode will be promoted with an announcer intoning "Tonight, a very special 'Hannibal Lecter'..." while weepy piano music plays in the background.
• The show will be cancelled after five episodes, tops.

The Division of Child & Family Services Investigates Reports of Child Endangerment at a Stable in Bethlehem

CFS: Bethlehem, from The Huffington Post:


DIVISION OF CHILD & FAMILY SERVICES

FIELD REPORT

DATE: The reign of Cæsar Augustus, when Cyrenius was governor of Syria, in the days of Herod the king; Tuesday.

COMPLAINT: An anonymous epistle reporting a newborn infant living in unsanitary and possibly unsafe conditions.

INVESTIGATING AGENT: Nicodemus

COMMENTS: Accompanied by Rookie Agent Zebedee, I proceeded to the scene of the complaint. This was easy to locate as it was directly beneath an unnaturally bright stationary star shining in the night with a tail as big as a kite. (Agent Zebedee was once blown several leagues by a runaway kite and can verify the accuracy of this description.) The light from this star was so brilliant that we were temporarily blinded and had to feel our way around the property until our eyes could adjust. During this time Agent Zebedee fell down a well.

Entering the premises, we discovered the child living in a stable family environment, in the sense that the family was living in a stable. We found the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. He appeared to be in good health, but laying the child in a manger was irresponsible in my opinion. The animals quartered there had not been fed in some time, and a few were licking their chops. Fortunately our arrival served to draw their attention, though this resulted in Agent Zebedee suffering a nasty lamb bite to the thigh and some minor goring by a peckish ox. [See accompanying petty cash voucher to cover poultice expenses.]

The scene was chaotic, with people arriving and departing at all hours and various individuals loitering about. We questioned a couple who identified themselves as the infant's parents. Our suspicions were aroused when Mary, the woman claiming to be the mother, also claimed to be a virgin. (We never even asked.) The account given by her male companion, Joseph, gave us strong reason to believe he is not the child's biological father.

Also present were certain poor shepherds who had been abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. They said a chorus of angels, singing of peace on earth, good will toward men, had instructed them to seek out the child. Their own off-key singing, and some depleted wineskins in their possession, made us think there might be more to it than that. When Agent Zebedee asked the shepherds why this jubilee, they smote him on the head with a crook. They insisted their encounter with the heavenly host had left them "sore afraid," but we think they were just sore about their working conditions. Despite their claim of a supernatural encounter, we felt their decision to abandon their flock was more likely a job action to protest having to work the night shift.

While we were there three adult males arrived, dressed in fine garments and carrying gold and other valuable commodities. They were unable to give a consistent account of themselves--for example, they claimed at various times to be "kings," "magi," and "wise men from the East." They told us they came bearing gifts for the child, but frankincense and myrrh seem odd presents to give a newborn when what he really needs are a decent crib and a binky. We suspect they were actually well-to-do travelers from the nearby inn who went "slumming" for thrills in a rough neighborhood. Either that or they got lost on their way to the privy.

We found an unaccompanied little boy on the premises who was pounding a drum in an apparent effort to entertain the infant. The alleged mother, Mary, nodded as if to encourage this awful noise even though the monotonous rum-pa-pum-pum beat shook straw dust loose from the rafters, creating an unhealthy atmosphere.

Also contributing to this miasma were the cows, sheep, and other animals housed in the stable. They produced a powerful stench, swarms of flies, and substantial deposits of solid waste that Agent Zebedee had difficulty navigating. [See attached reimbursement request to cover one pair of soiled sandals.]

Among the livestock was a donkey named Dominick, brought from Italy as the mascot of a Roman legion. This beast was decked out in a harness of bells that produced a chingety-ching sound to accompany the animal's frequent hee-hawing. This racket alone was enough to prevent the infant from getting any sleep. When combined with the lowing and squealing of the other animals, the incessant drumming, and the raucous singing of the shepherds, the result was a dreadful din that was enough to drive one mad. Indeed, Agent Zebedee began twitching and moaning and made several attempts to put his head through the wall. [See accompanying request for indefinite paid medical leave.] Incongruously, in the midst of this ear-splitting uproar, a little lamb asked a shepherd boy, "Do you hear what I hear?"

The number of people and animals present clearly exceeded the legal occupancy limit set by the Fire Pharisee. The radiant heat from the star, in proximity to the hay and straw stored in the wooden structure, presented a real risk of combustion. (In fact, the seat of Agent Zebedee's garment began to smolder, and he was forced to extinguish it in a trough of water, in fulfillment of the prophets.)

One other thing seemed odd: You have visitors coming and going all night and no one puts something out for people to eat?

CONCLUSION: I strongly recommend that the infant be removed from these premises and placed in the protective custody of King Herod at the palace. Admittedly, our stern monarch has not previously shown much sympathy for disadvantaged children, but since the star appeared he has expressed an intense interest in the number, status, and specific whereabouts of all the newborns of Bethlehem. He maintains his custom of stoning or beheading supplicants who displease him, so the agent assigned the task of appealing for sanctuary on the child's behalf should possess the utmost tact and diplomacy. I suggest Agent Zebedee.

The God Particle of Literature

You see this? *

You probably see an asterisk. I see the most potent and powerful typographical symbol of all time. And that includes the interrobang.

The asterisk is no mere glyph. As I explain in a Soapbox piece in the current issue of Publishers Weekly, the asterisk is nothing less than a repository for every book ever written. It is a microdot containing all the volumes ever published. It is the God Particle of literature.

Seriously--no sh*t!

Researching The Rogue: Selected Entries From the Secret Journal of Joe McGinniss

From The Huffington Post:

To research his book The Rogue: Searching for the Real Sarah Palin, author Joe McGinniss spent the summer of 2010 in a house immediately next door to the Palin home in Wasilla, Alaska. The following are excerpts from McGinniss's private diary from this period.

May 23 -- Took possession of the Wasilla house today. There must have been bad blood between the Palins and the previous tenant -- some of it's still on the living room rug.

May 24 -- Todd Palin dropped by to say hi to his new neighbor. You should have seen the look of surprise on his face when I answered the door! I gather he misheard my name as Joe Guinness and was expecting to meet imported Joe Sixpack.

May 27 -- Seemingly overnight, the Palins have erected a huge fence around their property. This temporarily obstructed my view, until I made a few peepholes with some power tools. Drill baby drill!

June 1 -- Sarah Palin called me out on her Facebook page, practically accusing me of being a stalker and pedophile! Is there no depth to which she will not sink? Fortunately I had the chance to air my side on the "Today" show, where I took the high road by saying she'd sicked the Hounds of Hell on me and comparing her to Nazi storm troopers.

June 4 -- Spent the day familiarizing myself with the Wasilla terrain. Turns out the bedroom with the Justin Bieber poster is Sarah's, not Piper's.

June 5 -- I constantly have to ask the Palins to turn the music down. Every night they play the same song over and over at ear-splitting levels. How many times can you listen to "Barracuda?"

June 7 -- The Wasilla Welcome Wagon paid a call today. I can't decide which aspect of this visit was more surprising: The fact that Sarah Palin drove the Wasilla Welcome Wagon; or that she aimed it at my house and then leaped from the vehicle and ran away, sending it crashing through my front door and obliterating my pantry. I called the authorities to complain--they told me Sarah had chosen that moment to resign as Welcome Wagon Lady, half-way through her term.

June 8 -- The Palins challenged me to a hockey game on Lake Lucille today. Foolishly I took this as a friendly gesture. I hurried out to the lake in my skates and pads and nearly drowned. Turns out there's no ice this time of year! I'll bet the Palins knew that the whole time.

June 10 - There have been press reports that Sarah had her breasts enlarged. Sarah went on Glenn Beck's radio show to say that if her bust seems larger, it's because "Joe McGinniss stuffed my bra with surveillance devices." Is she insane? How did she find them so quickly? Beck took the opportunity to endorse the bra as a wholesome accessory for women who love freedom but not too much freedom.

June 11 -- Coming back from the store this afternoon I saw a familiar figure hurrying from my house into the Palins' yard. It was Joe the Plumber -- I recognized his crack as he climbed over the fence. I couldn't imagine what he'd been up to, but when I went inside and ran the kitchen faucet, my dishwasher drenched the room like a water cannon.

June 15 -- In an apparent attempt at rapprochement, the Palins invited me over yesterday for a tea party. Enchanted, I stepped next door anticipating Earl Grey and cucumber sandwiches. Instead, I was nearly lynched by a mob screaming about taxes and limited government. One man shouted about keeping government hands off his Medicare, but couldn't be convinced to keep his hands off my windpipe. Having barely escaped with my life, I have decided to ignore today's invitation to be a fourth at bridge, as I am convinced it will be bridge to nowhere.

June 17 -- Yesterday evening I was indulging in a beloved childhood pursuit: catching fireflies in a jar. Suddenly Sarah was overhead in a helicopter, picking off the lightning bugs one by one with a .30-06. So typical of her to use too much gun! Diving for cover behind the gazebo, I had to admit it was a remarkable display of marksmanship. Subsequent forensic examinations confirmed that each insect was shot between the eyes.

June 19 -- This morning I took a seemingly random stroll along the Palin's fence line, projecting the casual air of a man trying out a new pair of stilts. (I'd borrowed a set from the fellow who plays Uncle Sam at Wasilla's Fourth of July celebration.) From my elevated position I was trying to sneak a glimpse over the fence into my neighbor's yard when suddenly Todd was in my path, sticking out his leg to trip me. Just before I toppled from the vertical to the horizontal, slamming into the ground at a velocity normally attained by only our most daring test pilots, I couldn't help noticing that I could see Russia.

June 27 -- I successfully infiltrated the Palin compound today by dressing as a moose. I enlisted the aid of a local man named Zeb who bears the Palins a grudge -- he once got in an argument with Sarah at a Little League game and she tried to field dress him. With me in front and my confederate bringing up the rear, we crossed into Palin territory, moving with a very satisfactory approximation of the stately gait of the Alces alces. Indeed, our performance may have been too convincing, for as we reached the center of the yard, gun barrels appeared in each window of the house and discharged simultaneously, laying down a withering fusillade that left Zeb and me no choice but to beat a hasty retreat. We did our best to stay in character by imitating the frenzied gallop of a frantic moose, but I fear our cover was blown. An observer in the house would have seen the escaping moose suddenly bifurcate, with the rump preceding the head around the fence to safety. I'm happy to report that I escaped unharmed and my companion suffered only a flesh wound, though unfortunately it was in the fleshy part of his liver.

July 4th -- In anticipation of a quiet Independence Day observance, I purchased some sparklers from a local dealer and thoughtlessly left them on my front porch. I'm certain someone from next door tampered with them. I lit one this evening expecting to enjoy a delightful spray of harmless glittering sparks. Instead, my taper detonated with the same force that must have rocked Indonesia when Krakatoa blew, leaving everything above my abdomen singed and smoking.

July 14 -- The Palins hosted a little dinner party last night in honor of Bristol and Levi's engagement. Sarah even made a short speech. (Note for book: At rallies, Sarah reads speeches off her hand, but in the intimate setting of this casual family dinner she read off the Hamburger Helper hand.) There was a discussion about what song the happy couple should dance to at their wedding, and they quickly settled on "Barracuda." Then they played it. All night.

July 16 -- It was hot today, so I decided to cool off by jumping through my sprinkler. When I turned on the hose, the ice dispenser in my fridge began firing cubes like a Gatling gun. My kitchen is so full of ice it looks like the hold of a swordfish boat. Even now I can hear the Palins and Joe the Plumber sniggering through the fence.

July 20 -- Last night Sarah and Todd had a bitter argument over a Scrabble game. Sarah was insisting that "refudiate" is a real word but Todd wasn't buying it, especially not for a Triple Word score. They both screamed at the top of their lungs, but even with the shotgun microphone I was using I could barely hear them over "Barracuda."

July 28 -- I did some pogo-sticking near the Palins' fence today, which afforded me intermittent glimpses into their den. Here's the amazing thing: I spotted Putin's head in there! It's mounted on the wall, right next to a moose. I guess Alaskan airspace is secure, but it made me pretty uncomfortable. Do they have a similar fate in mind for me?

August 4 -- I realize the Palins are using amplified music as a psychological weapon, in much the same way that Santa Anna had his band play "El Degüello" to torment the occupants of the Alamo. Mustn't let it get to me. Must remain strong. Bar-ra-cu-da. Bar-ra-cu-da. Bar-ra-cu-da.

August 12 -- Had a dream last night in which Sarah Palin literally unleashed the Hounds of Hell on me -- all pit bulls wearing lipstick.

August 17 -- I'm seriously thinking of abandoning the book. Sarah P has told friends she has me in her "crosshairs." When I got home, someone had drawn bull's-eyes on all my pajamas.

August 22 -- I woke up screaming this morning, convinced the Palins had put a horse's head in my bed! It turned out to be the headpiece from my moose costume -- I forgot I was mending the bullet holes last night when I dozed off. Just another indication of the state of my shattered nerves.

August 30 -- I've decided I can't take it any longer. No book is worth this torment! Tonight I tore up my notes and ripped the manuscript to shreds. When I tried to flush the pieces down the toilet, my washing machine overflowed.

In Honor of the 60th Anniversary of The Catcher in the Rye: Still Trying to Rip It Off

Today is the 60th anniversary of the publication of J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye. In honor of the occasion, I thought I'd revisit my brilliant idea for an unauthorized sequel. It's what the kids nowadays are calling a mash-up, combining characters from The Catcher in the Rye with plot elements from Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I'm calling it The Snatcher in the Rye.

The plot: Holden Caulfield has finally realized his dream of working in a big field of rye where children are playing. His job is to catch them before they fall off a nearby cliff. It doesn't pay much, but since there aren't a lot of employment opportunities of this sort, Holden considers himself lucky to have it.

One morning Holden notices that overnight, crop circles have appeared in the field of rye. He soon learns that these elaborate designs are a message from an alien race! They come from a planet almost exactly like earth, except on their planet they don't have to dial '1' when making a long-distance call. Turns out these aliens do all their writing in crops. A field of grain is their preferred medium for writing and information storage, and they have long since run out of room on their own planet, even with abridgements. They picked up an old radio broadcast from earth that mentioned "amber waves of grain," and have come looking for something to write on.

Holden tries to convince the authorities that the crop circles are an advance warning of a secret alien invasion. No one will listen to him, mostly because they can't understand why anyone would give advance warning of an invasion if it's supposed to be a secret. The police also suspect Holden of being an unreliable narrator. He is further hampered in his efforts by the fact that he's about 103 years old. Even kindly Dr. Miles Bennell won't listen because he's too busy hitting on Becky Driscoll.

Back at the crop field, Holden finds strange seed pods growing amidst the rye. They soon turn into exact duplicates of the children, who are then replaced by their emotionless alien doppelgangers.

The story ends with Holden running into traffic in the middle of the Interstate screaming, "They're phonies! All of them! Can't you see? They're all a bunch of goddam phonies!"

Publishers: Don't be discouraged by the fact that the Salinger estate is guaranteed to bring a massive and devastating lawsuit if you attempt to publish my book. It's  just too good to pass up.

Ahab at Starbucks

From The Huffington Post:

Whenever it was a damp, drizzly November in my soul, I would drop by Mr. Starbuck's for a steaming double-cupped grande vanilla latte with extra foam. Our industrious First Mate made a habit of buying coffee from local growers in whatever far-flung lands The Pequod made port -- from Brazil to Peru, from Sumatra to New Guinea -- hand-selecting beans at the peak of their ripeness and flavor. He would double-roast them in the same vats we used to render oil from whale flesh, then grind and blend them into full-bodied brews that bore aromatic hints of tropical flora and blubber. His potables were quite popular among the crew; in particular, I found his Spermicetti Breakfast Blend to have a dark, robust flavor that was more palatable then it sounds.

Such shipboard entrepreneurial enterprises were not unusual among seamen of the day. Many an evening Queequeg and I took our supper at the berth of Popeye, a sailor whose fried chicken and biscuits were counted a bargain; and Long John Silver was said to serve up a hearty batch of popcorn shrimp and hushpuppies for a reasonable price.

Captain Ahab was not known to visit Starbuck's often, nor to partake of his offerings. The Captain kept to his cabin and preferred the consumption of grog to coffee drinks. He was thought to consume the former in such prodigious quantities that it was common for members of the crew to jest that Ahab must have a hollow leg. This witticism was one of the few sources of mirth aboard The Pequod, the other being the assertion that the Captain's wife was named Peg.

One evening a cohort of the crew was gathered at Starbuck's, sipping their drinks and staring at their laptops (where they were carving scrimshaw). Outside in the passage we heard the approach of Ahab's familiar measured tread -- clip-clop...clip-clop... clip-clop. In he limped, a scarred, brooding figure, whose powerful chilling effect on the men was diluted somewhat when his ivory leg became momentarily stuck in a knothole. So fearsome was his countenance that none dared snigger at his predicament.

As Ahab hobbled further into the cabin Mr. Starbuck called out to a waiting seaman, "Here's your white mocha, Dick!" The Captain, who counted poor hearing among his sundry afflictions, misconstrued Starbuck's cry for an alarm that Moby Dick had been sighted. He became violently agitated and barked a confusion of orders at the men -- "In stunsails! Down top-gallants! Stand by boats! Over the side! Larboard! Starboard! Prepare to dive! Luff a point! Hoist the mizzen! Flush the heads!" Soon The Pequod was sailing in figure eights. It was some time before the Mate could convince Captain and crew that Moby Dick was not in the immediate neighborhood.

The White Whale was the object and focus of Ahab's vengeful wrath, but in truth his hatred extended to all cetaceans, no matter their shape, size or species. Some months earlier, on the occasion of Ahab's birthday, the Fourth Mate, Mr. Carvel, had surprised the Captain with his playfully configured comestible Fudgie the Whale. The Captain instinctively snatched up a harpoon and drove the iron straight through the frozen confection. To save face, he then ordered us to take it below and boil it down for the marzipan.

"I would speak with ye, Mr. Starbuck," said Ahab.

"Aye, sir," said Starbuck. "But first, might I get thee a cup of joe?"

"If ye must," growled the Captain. Starbuck then pressed him for his preferences, employing the arcane lexicon of his avocation as if he were a medieval alchemist. The captain grew increasingly perturbed as the First Mate wielded cryptic words such as grande, venti, trenta, and frappuccino.

"Damn it, man!" thundered Ahab. "Are ye speaking in tongues?"

"I'll just give thee a latte," said Starbuck, and set about preparing the captain's libation.

"I wish to speak again of Moby Dick," said Ahab.

"Thou knowest my feelings in the matter," said Starbuck. "'Tis blasphemous to seek vengeance on a dumb brute. I have told thee this before."

"Hark ye," cried Ahab, "I strike at the inscrutable malice behind the White Whale! All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks--"

"Speaking of pasteboard, Captain, here's a little sleeve for thy cup, that thou wilt not burn thy fingers."

"Hmm? -- er, thank ye," said the Captain, accepting the cup from Mr. Starbuck. As he raised the brew to his lips, Starbuck said, "That will be $4.86," which caused Ahab to spew foam like a typhoon straight into the First Mate's face.

"Mr. Starbuck," said Ahab, his brow darkening like thunderheads on the horizon, "I would sail round Good Hope, and round the Horn, and round the Norway Maelstrom, and round perdition's flames before I'd pay five dollars for a cup of coffee!!"

"'Tis the customary price," said Starbuck firmly, "the same for Captain and seaman alike."

"Blast!" cried Ahab, and swearing oaths that were terrible to hear, he checked all his pockets and looked inside his lone shoe and the band of his Quaker hat, but came up empty. Then his stern visage brightened and he snapped his fingers. "There's a gold doubloon nailed to the mast!" he cried. He scurried out to fetch the coin as quickly as his mismatched legs would carry him, and we listened to his staccato steps sounding twice as fast as when he entered -- clipclopclipclopclipclop -- which faded as he mounted to the upper deck.

I immediately took out some foolscap and a quill and began this account of all that had transpired. Mr. Starbuck stood over me and inquired about my labors.

"'Tis a book," I told him, "a full account of our voyage."

"That's grand, lad," said he. "Perhaps when ye publish it, I could make it available right here. Folk like something to read with their coffee. Have ye a title for it?"

"I think I shall call it A Long Way Gone."

"That's a fine title for a whaling man's book," said he. "We'll make it a Starbuck's Book Pick!"

"Call me Ishmael Beah," said I.

Second Anniversary

Two years ago today, HarperCollins and I parted ways. One year ago today, I took stock of my situation on the first anniversary of my layoff. This second anniversary seems an appropriate occasion to do so again.

This is my fourth day into my new job at Free Press and it feels good. Coming here felt a little like coming home. There are so many familiar faces, from the distant past and the more recent past--there are more than a few alums of Harper now roaming the halls of S&S. I’m glad to have colleagues again, and I’m glad to have these colleagues in particular. It’s all very new--I’m still in the process of figuring out how to access digital assets, get an outside line, or find a serviceable pencil—but it’s familiar too. I think it’s going to turn out to be OK, and even better.

I was sustained in the last year by a freelance association with the renowned publishing PR firm Planned Television Arts. It was an arrangement that suited me very well and saw me through some thin times. I’m grateful to my friends at PTA and hope they feel they got their money’s worth.

My blogging and some of the other writing I do has continued to draw occasional attention from trade press such as Shelf Awareness and GalleyCat, as well as other outlets. This blog you’re reading right now, and the role it played in landing my new position, became fodder for Joyce Lain Kennedy’s “Careers Now” column, syndicated by Tribune Media, which hit earlier this week--just in time for my first day on the new job.

I continued to contribute to the health, feeding, and education of my children. I still managed to have some fun along the way.

This will be the last time I will use my layoff as a reference point for taking stock. That incident fades with each passing day, and I can’t be bothered with it now. From here on, I’ll be fully occupied with looking ahead to see what comes next.

Enter the Free Press: One Door Closes and Two Years Later, Another One Opens

Here's the lede: I got a job! Starting February 7th I will be bookflacking full time for the Free Press, an imprint of Simon & Schuster.

Here's the background: I started this blog about 21 months ago to chronicle my efforts to publicize myself into a new position. The month that HarperCollins folded the Collins division and my colleagues and I were laid off--February 2009--about 650,000 other people also lost their jobs. The economy was such a basket case, the unemployment rate so high, and competition for jobs so fierce that I knew I had to do something beyond sending out resumes, searching job sites, pressing for "informational" interviews, and all the traditional things you do when looking for a job. So being a publicist, I decided to publicize myself.

I met with some significant success too. I was featured by CNN, Fox News Channel, BusinessWeek, U.S. News & World Report, the New York Post. I started this blog and another, Classics Rock! Books Shelved in Songs, hoping they would help keep me in front of the publishing industry. Those efforts also met with some success, getting me into such industry media as Shelf Awareness, GalleyCat, Publishers Weekly, the New York Times's "Paper Cuts" blog, CNBC's "Bullish on Books" blog, BookSlut, and Publishing Perspectives. I started writing for The Huffington Post, McSweeneys, and other outlets hoping this would be another way to stay visible, and that too has paid off. (A full list of these media hits appears on this page.)

So: Did all this self-promotion ultimately lead to the new job? Hard to say. In the end, it came about the way it often does--through a friend, who alerted me to an opening and connected me to the appropriate party. Still, I have to believe that the publicity I generated played a part, even if it was a subliminal one. No one ever said, "I saw you on CNN and I'd like to hire you." But I like to think that if someone in the industry was looking to fill a position, and my name came up, they would at least say: "Oh, yeah--I've heard of him."

It all goes to a point that I try to make with authors: Publicity isn't always about making the sale. Sometimes it's just about being visible and spreading awareness.

Thanks to those of you who've been following along. This blog long ago strayed from its original mission, and it will continue on an irregular basis, whenever inspiration strikes (or I get a major media hit!).

Here's the announcement from the Free Press, sent out by my new colleague Carisa  Hays, V.P., Director of Publicity:

I am very happy to announce that on February 7th, Laurence Hughes will be joining the Free Press Publicity Department as Associate Director of Publicity, reporting to me.  

Larry has proven himself, over many years in the business, to be one of the leading book publicists in our industry.  He has held senior publicity positions at several major houses, including: HarperBusiness/Collins, NAL, and Dell/Delacorte.  Most recently, Larry has worked as an independent publicity consultant  working with publishers, literary publicity agencies, and authors who have hired him directly.

In addition to his work as a book publicist, Larry blogs for the Huffington Post, and also writes two personal blogs:  Classics Rock! and Book Flack at Large.  He has written articles that have been published in The New York Times, New York Post, Publishers Weekly, The Author, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, and the anthologies Mountain Man Dance Moves (Vintage, 2006), The McSweeney’s  Joke Book of Book Jokes (Vintage, 2008), and Book: The Sequel (Public Affairs, 2009).

In addition to working on many of our upcoming titles, Larry will be responsible for  Free Press’s online publicity campaigns, which have become a  significant part of our overall publicity efforts.

Please join me in welcoming Larry to Free Press.

Belated Birthday Greetings for Edgar Allan Poe

[Today is the day after Edgar Allan Poe's 202nd birthday--time to revisit "Five Belated Birthday Greetings for Edgar Allan Poe," from The Huffington Post.]

"It is what Edgar Allan Poe might have called 'a mystery all insoluble': Every year for the past six decades, a shadowy visitor would leave roses and a half-empty bottle of cognac on Poe's grave on the anniversary of the writer's birth. This year, no one showed. Did the mysterious 'Poe toaster' meet his own mortal end? Did some kind of ghastly misfortune befall him? Will he be heard from nevermore?" - Associated Press, January 19, 2010

Hope you're not inclined to scold me, but a little birdie told me
That I missed your birthday, which I've never done before.
With the dawn I should have hurried to the place where you are buried
But the dawning found me napping, napping with a lusty snore.
When shall I next miss your birthday, napping with a lusty snore?
Quoth that birdie: "Nevermore!"

---------------
It's not 'cause I'm forgetful that I missed your birthday, surely!
I just went catatonic and was buried prematurely.
Which means I had to spend the anniversary of your birth
Clawing through a coffin lid and several feet of earth.
Caked in blood and dirt, and raving mad, I'm here to say:
So sorry that I missed it--hope you had a special day!

---------------
I know I'm late! I thought this year I'd take a different tack
And bring Amontillado, not the usual cognac.
I sought some from old Montressor, an amiable feller--
Until he chained me up behind a wall down in his cellar!
So on your special day I wished us both returns, we two:
That Montressor returns for me--and returns of the day to you!

---------------
I know I missed your birthday--a serious omission.
I confess, I didn't expect the Spanish Inquisition!
Imagine my surprise to find that on your special day
I was brought to trial, followed by auto-da-fé.
The pendulum swings lower and will soon cut me in two,
So I want to say I hope your day was really swingin' too!

---------------
True! Your birthday's come and gone with no cognac or roses.
The old man said they're wasted on someone who decomposes.
For that remark, I did him in! He'll bother me no more.
I chopped him up and stashed the bits beneath my humble floor.
And yet from underfoot I hear his heart's incessant beatings!
So, from both our hearts, we send belated birthday greetings.

Sanitizing Twain--To the Nth Degree

[From The Huffington Post]

When I saw the recent headline that Mark Twain scholar Alan Gribben was removing all the n-words from Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer, my first thought was: Good! Those narratives will flow a lot better without words like neologistic, numismatic, and nanotechnology cluttering things up.

Then I thought: What if he goes too far? Do we really want all the n-words removed? Would Twain's humor and stylistic charm shine as brightly without words like Nerf and nudnik? We might even want to add some n-words. I think Huck and Tom's adventures could be spiced up considerably by more frequent use of the words naked, nude and nubile.

I became alarmed: Just how far would Gribben take this crusade? It's possible that perfectly blameless words that merely sound like n-words would fall under his editorial scalpel. How empty and lifeless would Twain's prose be without words like pneumatic, knockwurst, and gnu? It would be a tragic case of lexicographical guilt-by-association.

I resolved then and there to counter Gribben by creating my own editions of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, which would consist entirely and exclusively of n-words. Of course, I'd have to change the titles to Nom Nawyer and Nuckleberry Ninn, and the author's name to Nark Nwain [née Namuel Nlemens]. I just hoped I could interest a publisher like NAL or Norton in the project. It might look silly coming from Nandom Nouse or Nimon & Nuster.

All that thinking and reacting and resolving left me exhausted. I fell back on my beanbag and tried to relax by moving beyond the headline and actually reading the accompanying story. There I learned that Gribben didn't have it in for all n-words--just certain n-words. In particular, the n-word. A word that can lead to violence, provoke outrage, inflict pain and reduce people to tears. A word used to hurt and repress. A word weighted with centuries of racial hatred and conflict. A word with more power to make your head explode than the Ark of the Covenant.

The word is "nigger," and it appears 219 times in Huckleberry Finn alone. In each instance, Gribben has substituted the word "slave" in his edition. "I found myself right out of graduate school at Berkeley not wanting to pronounce that word when I was teaching either Huckleberry Finn or Tom Sawyer," Gribben told the New York Times. "And I don't think I'm alone."

We've all heard that sticks and stones will break our bones but words can never hurt us. Of course it's nonsense--words can hurt deeply. But I've always believed that words, in and of themselves, only have the power to hurt us if we grant it to them. Easy for me to say--I've never been on the receiving end of the n-word myself (incoming for me is more likely to be "dork" or "jackass"), and history has shown that people who use the n-word are often perfectly willing to underscore it with sticks and stones and whips and chains and nooses and guns and fire hoses.

Still, there is some truth to George Carlin's observation that there is no such thing as a bad word--just bad thoughts, bad intentions. What were Twain's intentions? He wasn't being hateful in using the n-word--he was offering an accurate depiction of an idiom in use in the period and location he was writing about. As for his broader intentions--well, his depiction of Jim's efforts to get to freedom can hardly be considered an endorsement of the institution of slavery. But who can be bothered considering historical context or literary themes or the author's intentions? That just sucks up precious time that could be put to better use getting offended.

Of course, the n-word is hardly limited to Twain's work--there are plenty of other offenders around that might require attention. Charles Portis's novel True Grit is enjoying renewed popularity thanks to the new film version, and guess what? There's the n-word right on pg. 19 of my ancient Signet paperback edition--and again on pg. 84. Mr. Gribben--your next project! Unless it's a matter of degree. Portis's two references compared to Twain's 219 may not be sufficiently offensive to make it eligible for altering. Nor does the fact that, unlike Twain's work, Portis's is protected by copyright. Or that unlike Twain, Portis is still around to object.

Perhaps we could take on the rap music industry, where the n-word is ubiquitous--even celebrated--and then perhaps go after any number of stand-up specials on HBO and Comedy Central. And Jabari Asim, author of The N Word: Who Can Say It, Who Shouldn't, and Why--better watch out: we may be coming for you too!

Or we could take another approach: Just leave it alone. Once you start sanitizing it's hard to know where to stop. Huckleberry Finn is a product of its time. Hate it, debate it, deplore it, ignore it, but don't take it upon yourself to change it to suit your own mores and values. I suspect that if Twain were alive today, he'd have another n-word for someone who presumed to rewrite his work: Knucklehead.

Santa's Privacy Policy

[From McSweeneys.net]

At Santa's Workshop, your privacy is important to us. What follows is an explanation of how we collect and safeguard your personal information; the kind of information we collect; and your choices regarding our use and disclosure of this information.

Why Do We Need This Information?
Santa Claus requires your information in order to compile his annual list of Who is Naughty and Who is Nice, and to ensure accuracy when he checks it twice. Your information is also used in connection with delivering the kinds of goods and services you've come to expect from Santa, including but not limited to toys, games, good cheer, merriment, Christmas spirit, seasonal joy, and holly jollyness.

What Information Do We Collect?
We obtain information from a variety of sources. Much of it comes from unsolicited letters sent to Santa by children all over the world listing specific items they would like to receive for Christmas. Often these letters convey additional information as well, such as the child's hopes and dreams, how much they love Santa, and which of their siblings are doodyheads.

The letters also provide another important piece of information—fingerprints. We run these through databases maintained by the FBI, CIA, NSA, Interpol, MI6, and the Mossad. If we find a match, it goes straight on the Naughty List. We also harvest a saliva sample from the flap of the envelope in which the letter arrives in order to establish a baseline genetic identity for each correspondent. This is used to determine if there might be an inherent predisposition for naughtiness. A detailed handwriting analysis is performed as part of a comprehensive personality workup, and tells us which children are advancing nicely with their cursive and which are still stubbornly forming block letters with crayons long past the age when this is appropriate.

Our network of fully trained, duly deputized mall "Santas" file reports from the field, telling us which children are well-behaved, which are elf-phobic, which are prone to sphincter control issues, and which are squirmy beard-pulling monstrous little brats. Digital copies of photos taken with these "Santas" are automatically sent to our database for further evaluation, with particular attention given to the ones where the children are crying.

Santa also employs a paranormal method of observation known as "remote viewing." This enables him to see you when you're sleeping, know when you're awake, and know if you've been bad or good. He even knows if the cookies you're leaving out are homemade or store-bought.

What Do We Do With the Information We Collect?
Sharing is one of the joys of Christmas. For this reason, we share your personal information with our affiliates, non-affiliated third parties, and anyone else who has a legitimate financial stake in a successful holiday season. Mrs. Claus also likes to have a look-see.

Our affiliates include partners of Santa's Workshop who are actively involved in making Christmas happen. They include toy-making elves, flying reindeer, and Jesus. Non-affiliated third parties might include the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and Hanukkah Harry.

We may also share your information with mental health practitioners—especially if, as a child, you asked for a particular present every Christmas but never got it. This information gives your analyst a better understanding of why you sometimes feel sad at this time of year and why you resent your parents.

Occasionally we share your Christmas wish lists with professional lyricists seeking inspiration for a catchy holiday song. In the past this information has inspired such holiday favorites as "All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth," "All I Want for Christmas is You," "My Grown-Up Christmas List," and "Santa Baby." Should your wish list inspire a hit single, you may be entitled to royalties, payable in the form of sleighfuls of Christmas cheer.

Finally, we make note of the condition of your roof and chimney in the course of our Christmas Eve deliveries. We share this information with appropriate third-party contractors, who may contact you to warn that your aging roof will soon be leaking worse than Julian Assange, or that you will die in your sleep of carbon monoxide poisoning if you don't replace your chimney liner right away.

How Do We Secure This Information?
We secure your information by keeping it at the North Pole, one of the most remote, inhospitable and uninhabitable places on earth. It is stored in a secure gingerbread facility deep in the Candy Cane Forest, behind an impassable barrier conjured by Elven magic. The facility is guarded by a full brigade of life-size wooden toy soldiers armed with Nerf Blasters and Super Soakers. The area is also patrolled by ravenous polar bears.

You Have Choices
You have "opt out" choices regarding certain disclosures we make about you. Please indicate your preferences below:

____ I'll be nice. Please collect, collate, analyze, disseminate and disclose my personal information in any way you see fit. I understand that my cooperative attitude will be taken into consideration when it comes time to compile the Naughty/Nice list next year.

____ I'll be naughty. Please don't share my personal information with anyone. You may use it only to ensure that I get as many of the specific items on my list as possible. I understand that my uncooperative attitude carries the risk that a lump of bituminous coal will be deposited in my stocking annually, either for the duration of my life or until I change my preferences.

You may forward your completed form to: Santa Claus, c/o Santa's Workshop, The North Pole. Or you may retain it for your own records—it doesn't matter. Whether your form is on file with Santa or not, he's gonna find out who's naughty or nice.

Please allow twelve days of Christmas for your choices to take effect.

Steve Martin Starring in Rashomon

By now you've heard that Steve Martin's appearance at the 92nd Street Y in New York on Monday night didn't go so well. Martin was interviewed on stage by Deborah Solomon, who interviews famous folks for The New York Times Magazine and has also written extensively about art. Martin is an art collector and his new novel, An Object of Beauty, is set in the art world, so it seems like a natural, right?

But halfway through the session, a representative of the Y walked on stage and handed Solomon a note suggesting that she ask more questions about Martin's career as an actor and entertainer, and less about art. When Solomon read the note aloud to the audience, they cheered.

The next day, the Y offered refunds to everyone who attended the event (including those watching via satellite in remote locations), saying that "We, too, were disappointed with the evening."

In short, this was a disaster on par with the Spider-Man musical. Think of it as Steve Martin: Turn Off the Art. Or more appropriately, think of it as a spin on the classic film Rashomon, because no one can agree on who is to blame. Solomon and Martin seem to think the Y was out of line for forcing the conversation toward more celebrity/pop culture topics. The Y says they expected a more rounded discussion of Martin's career instead of an in-depth discussion of art. And some people who were actually at the event blamed Solomon for forcing the direction of the discussion and asking granular questions about Martin's novel, which presumably most of the audience hadn't read.

What we need is for video of the event to surface so we can know the truth. Kind of like the Zapruder film—we all know how that settled things once and for all regarding the JFK assassination. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be any cell phone video available—the event was so tedious, even cell phones went into sleep mode.

Meanwhile, it's clear from Martin's Twitter stream that he is still miffed at the 92nd Street Y. It wouldn't surprise me if he canceled his Y membership altogether and joined Curves instead.