lying for a living

Parents, if you ever feel the urge to push your kiddies into show biz, don’t. Take a look at this photo of the Olsen twins, and stop yourselves. Violently, if necessary.

(Via Ann Althouse, who calls the photo “something akin to ‘The Portrait of Dorian Gray’ — except the aging entity is not a painting — it’s a living woman!”)

Last night at the Gore Hotel in London, Sue Grafton received the Cartier Diamond Dagger, awarded by the Crime Writers’ Association for sustained excellence in crime writing. I’m a member of the CWA’s committee, and it was a huge kick to see my fellow Santa Barbaran pick up this award. BookTrade has the official press release, but here are a few photos from the event.

Ms. Grafton, speaking to the crowd:

Me with Ayo Onatade, who writes for Shots and Mystery Women, judges the CWA’s short story Dagger, manages the office of the high court at the House of Lords, and still finds time to attend literary events.

With David Headley of the wonderful Goldsboro Books.

With Sue Grafton, her charming husband Steven Humphrey, and my own charming husband, the Husband (also known as Paul Shreve, on the right).

Amazon has thoughtfully e-mailed me, recommending these products I might like to buy “based on items you purchased or told us you own.”

• The Simpsons Movie
• The Serial Killers: A Study in the Psychology of Violence
• Fancy Dress Handcuffs with Key (Metal)

How’d they know about The Simpsons?

The Magical Mystery Tour bus, Alice’s Restaurant, and a Led Zeppelin rollercoaster: it’s the Hard Rock theme park.

The Eagles’ “Life in the Fast Lane” roller coaster spins through what appears to be an abandoned saw mill as the hit song plays. “Nights in White Satin, The Trip” winds through the dark amid psychedelic lights and images set to the 1960s Moody Blue’s [sic] hit.

I’m sorry, but “Nights in White Satin” is not rock and roll. And yes, “Whole Lotta Love” has that swooping guitar glissando, guaranteed to make riders hork up their popcorn, but let’s face it — it’s not the Zep song that deserves its own ride. Didn’t Hard Rock realize that park visitors would buy, over and over, a stairway to heaven? Especially if they got to the top and had to pay to get back down. That’s the time to have Robert Plant screaming in their ears.

Park visitors can also “see swimmers and divers perform in a show called ‘Malibu Beach Party,’” or “play arcade games such as Whack-A-Boys-Band.”

They could do better. At the very least, they could have guests stay at the Hotel California. “Sorry, sir — the system’s slow. Just let me run your credit card again.” And if they’re going to have a magical mystery tour, they should put the “Rehab” ride next to it. Then there’s the “Thriller” playground. Okay, maybe not. But how about a “Jesus, Take the Wheel” go-kart track?  And, of course, the “Janie’s Got a Gun” shooting gallery.

Your suggestions?

I love it when the doorbell rings and it’s not religious proselytizers hawking salvation, or a neighbor holding a box of puppies sired by my dog, or the National Guard warning me that the toxic cloud is ninety seconds away. It’s the FedEx driver, bearing books.

My books. After close to two years of brainstorming, outlining, writing, erasing, rewriting, editing, talking with editors, rewriting again, proofreading, and copyediting, here’s The Dirty Secrets Club, so fresh off the printing press that I can still smell the ink. Call it proof, validation, vanity, reward, or joy — whatever it is, I’m going to go wallow in it.

(And yes, Mom: One of these copies is for you.)

In the Observer, Henry Porter wonders why, in an age of unprecedented prosperity, “smart aleck cynicism prevails” in western popular culture. Time to put an end to this age of cynicism and scorn.

This weltschmerz and hardened bitterness goes unchallenged. We don’t question why the last couple of generations, brought up in the West with such plenty and ease, with advantages and privileges unimaginable 60 years ago, so often default to pessimism and irony.

Porter calls this attitude “a pose which has become a habit we can’t shake off for fear of seeming hopelessly naive, of the derisive voice that says human behaviour is never virtuous or motivated by altruism.” It’s a “gritty modern ‘realism’, forged in luxury, not by hardship or insight.”

This knowing and fearful cool allows for the expression of very little else - hope, joy, unguarded sentiment, compassion, faith in others, sincerity or the love of simple things.

As one who has fought her own battle against the impulse to snark (we’re talking relentless, unthinking, attack-dog snark, mind you — not good snark), I couldn’t agree more.

How to convince your teenager that you’ve finally lost your mind:

When he walks into the room, be kneeling next to the end table where you’ve set your laptop, frowning industriously at the screen.

Make sure that your search engine is displaying “Results 1-10 of about 3,350,000 for beavis and butt-head.”

Fail to notice your child approaching as you type variations in your search terms: Butthead. Butt-head. Butt-Head.

When he says, “Mom,” shriek, jump, and shout an epithet that sends the dog running from the room.

Explain that you’re fact-checking the correct spelling, capitalization, and hyphenation of a cartoon character’s name. Because you’re correcting the page proofs for the new edition of Crosscut. In which your own fictional characters debate the merits of an animated show. It all makes sense!

When the official MTV site brings up “Beavis and Butt-Head,” say, “Hyphen and capital H. See! See?”

Later, spend an hour with him watching Family Guy and South Park, laughing really hard.

Here’s the cover of the U.S. edition of China Lake. 

It’ll be published in July. 

Here’s a good story. Beauty has been allowed to outshine, if only briefly, fear and oppression.

RIYADH, Saudi Arabia - It’s probably as revolutionary and groundbreaking as Mozart gets these days. A German-based quartet staged Saudi Arabia’s first-ever performance of European classical music in a public venue before a mixed gender audience.

The concert, held at a government-run cultural center, broke many taboos in a country where public music is banned and the sexes are segregated even in lines at fast food outlets.

Any government that distrusts Mozart rates low in my estimation. Still, I wish the editors at Yahoo News had written a less provocative headline for the story: A first for Saudis: Mozart performed publicly and women come.

Sharon Kendrick, a regular commenter on this blog, continues her run as Britain’s most articulate — and funniest — advocate for romance writing. Last night, BBC TV’s The One Show had a feature on the 100th anniversary of her publisher, Mills and Boon. With her usual panache, Sharon described the key ingredients in a successful romance novel, beginning with “A powerful, passionate, autocratic, and filthy rich hero.”

Of course the feature included the usual “Who admits to reading these books?” bit, along with some unsurprising cultural commentary. Romance novels are… unrealistic. (No kidding.) Escapist. (That’s the point of romance novels.) Slight. (Duh — by definition, frothy entertainment shouldn’t be heavy.)

Are they my thing? No. But whenever a feature on romance writing develops a sneer, or quotes a woman (as the BBC did) who says, “We don’t believe in romantic fantasy. We’re liberal feminists,” I roll my eyes. Stop sounding so stale. What is this, 1971? Quit acting like a Ms. magazine cliche and come up with a fresh critique of the genre. (It harms sheikhs and Greek tycoons, who face pressure to live up to unrealistic expectations about their romantic prowess. Or it monopolizes the world’s supply of adverbs.) Besides: frowning, ideological condescension makes me want to take to the barricades in defense of frothy entertainment. Romance novels aren’t going to undermine women’s rights, any more than Barbie is going to destroy the revolution in Iran.

But the Mills and Boon segment was merely the prelude to a glorious display of idiocy. Another guest on the show was Geri Halliwell, alias Ginger Spice. She looked great, with her red curls and frothy miniskirt, and was obviously delighted to be in the studio, judging from the manic, hedgehog-in-the-headlights gleam in her eyes. After the feature she was asked whether she read romance novels. The next minute went like this.

• Geri admits that she loves romance novels. (When she was eleven, she discovered Jackie Collins.) At this point, she crosses her legs and her filmy skirt whisks into the air, wriggling higher and higher up her thighs, until the host finally asks her to pull it down. And tack it to her knees.
• She explains that her mom has the novels in Spanish. And so she “nicked” a title and used it “when she was writing” one of her songs: “Donde esta el hombre con fuego en la sangre?” ( “Where is the man with fire in the blood?”)
• After watching a montage of (hilarious) Mills and Boon covers, she gets an intense look in her eyes and says, “Are they still going, then?” Keeping their faces heroically straight, the hosts tell her, yes — it’s Mills and Boon’s 100th anniversary. Unsaid: Yes, you twit — that’s why we’ve been talking about them here on national TV for the PAST FIVE MINUTES.

Flashing, a confession to plagiarism, and a display of ignorance that would shame a moldy head of cauliflower, all in the space of 45 seconds. You can’t beat live television.

(If you’re in the UK, you can watch the episode until May 8 here.)