Category: Myyyyyy Good Friend

It's a rare thing when Gawker is unwilling to pierce someone's over-inflated ego before we are, but today is one of those days. The mystery young Yalie novelist appears to be one Nick Antosca. No one seems willing to confirm that he sent that charming email to the New York Daily News' Chris Rovzar, but the facts match, and a commenter on Gawker linked to a charming story written by him.)

Current New Republic reporter-researcher Eve Fairbanks recently offered a brief history of Antosca's nascent literary career in "Every Nation Needs a Tsar" a Wolfean wade through the Atlantic Monthly slush-pile for the Yale Daily News Magazine:

Nick is one of the best undergraduate fiction writers on the scene, according to his former professor, John Crowley, who has taught fiction at Yale for nine years. He is certainly one of the most serious: He has been widely published in online and small press forums, and he has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He took the fall semester off of school to work on his second novel.

"Nick tells me he wrote his first novel in a manic burst of energy, 60,000 words in 11 days. "I was really excited about it," he says. "Dangerously excited. I went back and read it, and thought I had gone insane." Nick has long eyelashes that remind me of a camel's, a five-o'clock shadow, and an aloofly seductive air. His camel eyes droop languidly to where I've made note of his words, and he pauses, revises. "I mean, not insane. I was just excited to find out that I could write a novel, you know?"

"...[H]e is restrained when discussing his work. When I ask him, "Why do you write?" he explains that there's no good answer because the question is reductive and facile: It's all about finding the balance between storytelling, character and style. His favorite author is Vladimir Nabokov, because "his evocations are so idiosyncratic. He's just a beautiful writer." The craft of fiction writing, the manipulation of the raw material of language, thrills him, and he's excited because he's beginning to master it.

But Antosca isn't as generous with all his fellow Yalie first-time novelists as his e-mail pimping of his roommate's book might suggest. See last year's Yale Herald reviewof Natalie Krinsky's first novel Chloe Does Yale:

"Ultimately, though, what makes the book a grueling read is simply the prose. Whether Chloe is flitting around "in a crazed state of madness" or just amiably abusing her haggard stable of adverbs ("excitedly," "sternly," "angrily," etc.), you can be sure she's not wasting much thought on how to compose a decent sentence. Virtually every paragraph of Chloe contains either a leaden cliche or a glaring (and oblivious) authorial misstep. The sentences seem to cringe as you read them -- they're understandably humiliated to be seen in such penurious surroundings, dressed in such rags. Chloe, poker-faced, offers up narration like, "I swallow my tongue and smile sweetly." The reader will be relieved to know that Chloe does not choke to death in the next paragraph, and indeed totters cheerfully off on her heels toward the book's conclusion.

Remember that karma can be a bitch, Nick.

"Leakers beware.

"A freelance researcher at Conde Nast lost his job yesterday apparently because he leaked internal information to Gawker.com, the dishy Web site that makes fun of just about everything that passes across its screen.

"Gawker broke the news itself.

"In a posting yesterday afternoon, it said that Andrew Krucoff, a blogger and freelance research analyst at Conde Nast, ''was just moments ago fired'' for leaking an innocuous internal memo about the magazine company's server being down.

"Maurie Perl, a spokeswoman for Conde Nast, confirmed that Mr. Krucoff was no longer working there, but said that because he was not an employee, he was technically not fired. Still, she said, ''He was told today that his services were no longer required.'' "

-- Katharine Q. Seelye, "Memo Passed On; Job Is Lost," October 25, 2005.

"I want to thank some of the people who worked impossibly hard to get us functioning today. First off, Cheryl Brody, whom I conned into the job of Web editor telling her it would be, yes, fun! Cheryl input everything here, made sure that certain things linked to other things and that the magazine was well represented on this site. She really deserves (or possibly now requires) a month of comp time. Jeff Johnson, who has overseen our TV channel on the site and who is constantly whipping out the digital video recorder to immortalize some of the more insanely stupid moments in the office and elsewhere. Thanks to Free Love Forum, who create the videos and edit them down. Julie Bloom and Andrew Krucoff, who made some great suggestions about organization and writers. And the good folks at CondeNet, who have worked around the clock to meet our Feb. 21 deadline. Thanks to Jo, Denise, Charles, Scott, Zane and everyone at CondeNet."

-- Brandon Holley, the editor of Jane,a Conde Nast magazine, which just launched its full-fledged Website this afternoon.

Salon, you got our attention with the redesign but this is the most utterly riveting trainwreck of an article I have ever seen: a feature on "Real Dolls" and the men who love them. For a mere $6,500, these men can find the partner of their dreams, who as the article points out "don't talk back" because they don't talk at all.

With shades of "it rubs the lotion on its skin" and definitely the creepiest thing I've seen online since Coincidence Design, Meghan Laslocky's article is seriously riveting, just because it gets more and more unbelievable as you go on. A sampling:

When Davecat was a child in a department store, his mother emerged from a dressing room to find him talking to a mannequin who was wearing a short tennis skirt. "I was trying to chat her up," he says. "I remember the beauty of her stillness." With Sidore, he's gotten past just chatting: "I like having her in bed beside me, holding her, cuddling her," he tells me. "I like to sleep with my doll. I'll be blunt: She's a girlfriend."

When asked how many times each week he has sex with his dolls, Kelly is quick to correct: He doesn't have sex with them, he masturbates with them. Twice a week. (Ed. - This guy has three dolls. You're telling me that for $19,500 he's not getting laid?)

"If I were to go to a bar and try some pick-up lines, the chances of coming home with someone like her are highly unlikely," he says. "No real woman seems to think I'm good enough for them."*

If you don't have time to read the article, why not check out the photo gallery? Because THAT will creep you out just as much. I don't know if there is anything creepier than the pic of the guy in his backyard with his RealDoll, lounging beside him dreamily as he types away on his laptop. An idyllic picture until you think about the fact that he had to dress her up and haul her out before she'd submit to his little fantasy. I'm glad I'm not his neighbor. Oh yes, and with respect to this article, he also had to get to a place where he was cool with being PHOTOGRAPHED so doing. Just pause for a moment and think about all the mental steps necessary in order to get to a place where that's okay.

My favorite** part of the article (although the word "favorite" implies the fact that the entire article did not make me feel vaguely ill): "Davecat and his doll, Sidore, do everything together, including playing video games." Here's a tip for you, buddy: you're probably gonna win.

Update: Aaaaall riiiiight, ladies - apparently there's a boy version, too! Someone told me about it, there's no way in hell you'd catch me on that creepy website.

Just Like A Woman [Salon]

*The scariest paragraph in the article begins: "Another time, an Asian undergraduate student at a university in California dropped his 1-year-old doll off for repairs. Fiero says the young man told him that his parents bought him the doll so that he would stay at home and study rather than go out chasing women." It then goes on to describe the state of 'disrepair' which is horrifying.
** The article does give a showtune shout-out: Laslocky pseudonames the doll-lover's community website "Hello Dolly."

Well, that didn't take long, did it? As we predicted, someone's been leaning on Judas Iscariot-of-the-moment Doug Wead, who has suddenly had a change of heart about leaking the Bush tapes to the Times. He's cancelled a Hardball appearance and wants to give back the tapes, the cash, the whole thing.

Hate to say Fishbowl told you so, Doug, but this is only the beginning of The Treatment. Time for plastic surgery and plane tickets to countries whose names you can't pronounce.

While Scott McClellan & Co. are dreaming up ways to get back at Doug Wead for breaking the POTUS omerta, it's clear to Fishbowl that this guy will be easy prey. He apparently thinks he can convince Bush that he really let the Times have a gander at those tapes while still remaining pals with him.

Doug, wake up. No way back now. The articles about anything you've wanted to hide are already being written, bank on it. Might as well release all the tapes and cash the check. And then change your number. Payback costs.

This was supposed to have been a simple little post about how you can enjoy your President's Day Weekend all the way thru Tuesday morn without your daily Fishbowl fix, but now Bush has gotten himself unwittingly recorded, Linda Tripp-style, natch, by an old (ex-) pal.

We can't believe this isn't already splashed all over the Blogosphere but, hey, Saturday nights, and all; maybe only Drudge is awake out West. Check the Times. Then sit back, turn on Meet The Press tomorrow and watch the fur fly. Have a fab weekend. 1600 Penn Ave. won't be.

Advantage: One Doug Wead, whose 15-minute clock starts now and who can watch it tick down double-quick once Karl Rove gets done with him. One (easy) prediction: Maureen Dowd will be ecstatic. Hitch won't. Frank Rich will try hard not to be. Stay tuned.

The AP reports that helmet-haired diplo-superstar Condi Rice has "deepened the friendship" with Europeans, if we're to believe the EU's foreign affairs head Javier Solana. Apparently, Condi's new counterpart in France called her "my good friend" (that's ma chere amie, and three kisses to the cheek, to you and me).

Riiiight.

The AP drank the Kool-Aid, wethinks: No quote in the story from the wary Germans, who insisted, as late as two days ago, on being heard in Iraqi matters. And let's not forget Jacques Chirac, who still maintains that Europe be an "alternative" power bloc to the U.S. and who won't be inviting Bush to the Elysee for tea anytime soon. Next time, just place a call to the new Spanish PM, or to all the angry Labor backbenchers who would sooner see Condi's upcurled neck than her face, any time.

New York writers (and writers who tend to write for New York publications, but live in, say, Paris) tend to exhibit a strange literary tic that involves inserting "my good friend" before recognizable names—or, more often, finding recognizable names to insert after "my good friend" and deftly working them into whatever they happen to be writing or casual conversation. For example:

Christopher Hitchens: Myyyyyy good friend, Emile Zola...
Edit: Zola is dead, Chris.
Hitchens: Myyyyyy good friend, the late Emile Zola...
Edit: Dead since 1902.
Hitchens: Myyyyyy good friend, Salman Rushdie...

In media, the my good friend (MGF) invocation often precedes the swift and violent insertion of a sharp metal object into the recognizable name's rear torso. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

We were going to leave this week's Bernie Weinraub piece to FishbowlLA to dismantle, but everyone else has already dismantled it along the expected lines and besides, we found another angle that was far more important. Instead of writing about Weinraub's article, we'll write about people writing about Weinraub's article. Like Nikki Finke, who exhibits clear signs of MGF syndrome, invoking her relationship with Weintraub ("my pal"=Los Angelese for "my good friend") early and often in her critique of his farewell piece:

First, let me fully disclose that I won't be attacking my pal Bernie personally over what is a beautifully written, though emotionally befuddled, look back at his 14 years inside and outside the entertainment business. (I'm especially sad that he revealed that incident in which he fell asleep during an interview with Jim Carrey, because I used it to blackmail him almost daily.) But for days now, my answering machine and e-mail have been filled with "What did you think of it?" messages, so I feel compelled to publicly examine Bernie's 2,800-word tale of his Hollywood-style seduction.