by Nate Freeman

Last night publishing giant Farrar, Straus and Giroux hosted people at Lolita, on the Lower East Side, to celebrate the launch of its new monthly online newsletter, Work In Progress. Lolita is small and black, and it intimates nighttime even when the day is still going strong outside. A hung-up canvas has the words “Life is Art” painted over a metropolitan landscape; the guests drank an inordinate amount of rosé. Ryan Chapman-an online marketing manager at FSG and the guy spearheading the new venture-was in the back, toying around on an iPad. His tie was marked by a nifty clip, and he had on thick-rimmed glasses.

The FSG site had just gone live a hours earlier. “What if,” Ryan said, setting down the iPad in favor of his beer, “we came up with our own hybrid-it’s not a blog, it’s not a magazine. It’s about both the 50 years of FSG’s past and the really fucking good books coming out now.”

To illustrate the past-present dynamic, Chapman handed over the iPad, which had a yellowed typewritten letter from 1963 displayed on its screen. It was a distribution list sent from FSG to a fair smattering of the world’s greatest writers-Auden, Capote, Nabokov, Paley-trying to secure a blurb for the debut novel by the then-unknown Susan Sontag.

Ryan has pulled that up from The Archives section of Work in Progress, where FSG will scour its vaults and cabinets of literary miscellany and post the gems in the form of jpegs.

“Books are in a weird spot,” Ryan said. “We do this long enough, we can say, ‘Hey, we have this debut writer….’ That’s the goal.”

This month for the site, FSG’s president and publisher Jonathan Galassi “virtually” interviewed Jeffrey Eugenides (via IM? Skype?), who talked about his next novel-”A college love story? Maybe.”-and joked about naming his son after his social security number.

“I was really very taken with it,” Mark Krotov said, tipping back the last of his beer. Mark Krotov and Chantal Clarke co-produce the FSG Reading Series at Russian Samovar. “It was charming! To get that comfort out of Eugenides is a really cool thing.”

Paris Review editor Lorin Stein had come in some time ago, toting a Paris Review bag and wearing a mild-colored button-front shirt and that particular cut of pant-leg-not cropped, but high enough to reveal a few inches of skin at the ankles. He went for the bar.

He was later found perched on the armrest of a couch, chatting with FSG editor-in-chief Eric Chinski. He had a drink that was down to just frayed innards of a cocktail wedge. He said he enjoyed the The Snuck Wars between his publication and this one. Though he’s no longer running books at FSG, Lorin still comes to functions, Mark said, and is much loved in these parts.

“It’s not about plugging books, it’s not about FSG-it’s just about the writers,” Chinski said, of their project. “It’s not supposed to be a press release. I still think people think of these publishing companies as these opaque machines that don’t really care about people, so it’s a great way to start a conversation.”

And, you know: everyone really is on the Internet now, at last! The Paris Review Daily is a good example of a venerable institution jumping face-first onto the Internet. Why has the “literary world” kept itself so insulated, while in the real world, we mix-why, yes, look, here’s Details nightlife columnist (and blogger!) Molly Young!

At home later that night, in a non-iPad situation and with a comfortable buzz from the free drinks, I checked out Work in Progress properly. I like it. I’ll probably read it again. But not anytime too soon. The next new content won’t get posted for another month.

So goes the Washington Post news alert: “BP says oil has stopped leaking into the Gulf for the first time since April. BP has been slowly dialing down the flow as part of a test on a new cap. Engineers are now monitoring the pressure to see if the busted well holds.” The Times says: “Oil Flow From Well Has Stopped as Cap Is Tested, BP Says.”

HEY CHICAGO! Your hosts Tyler Coates and Maura Johnston would love to receive you at 11 a.m. on Sunday, at WestEnd, on Madison west of Racine. Location chosen due to its 11-minute walking distance from the Pitchfork Festival! Time chosen so no one has to miss Best Coast!

by Charlie

SEEKING: “ethnically ambiguous” women with “regal faces” who “must be comfortable with artistic nudity” for an “Egyptian themed,” Helmut Newton-esque (read: drop them draws, Nefertitty!) “artistic video promo.” I received this invite on Facebook and thought to myself, “easy money? I’M THERE.” Then it occurred to me that I hate videos with half naked women posing next to rap stars who lip-sync songs about bitches and hos while blithely holding a bottle of Cristal in one hand and money in the other. Newton inspired or not, the image of a black woman standing next to a be-blinged rapper conjures stereotypes I’d rather not perpetuate. QUERY: Could this be one of the reasons why I find the idea of dating black men so unappealing? Has the doctrine of “big pimpin’” and the gospel of R. Kelly ruined my chances with (li’l) Romeo?

If you put a gun to my head and asked me to tell you the truth about dating, romance and love I’d say, “you can feign competence and knowledge of the first two, but you can’t learn how to fall in love nor can you choose who you fall in love with.” I keep failing at love because I keep trying to choose who I fall in love with. “White is right” is all wrong. Mayhap I’m simply paranoid. Just because I’ve not dated a black man seriously doesn’t mean I’m avoiding them and just because ersatz rap star personalities look like assholes to me, it doesn’t mean dating one would make me look like an asshole too, does it? Maybe it does.

I was scratching my head when Beyonce married Jay-Z. Has she seen the video for “Big Pimpin’”? Has she heard the lyrics on “Who You Wit?” Because I don’t think she’d want to be wit him after listening to the song. Maybe Jay-Z and all rap and R&B; stars are truly personae, far removed from the black man within who wants nothing more than some Cheese Whiz with crackers, grape soda and a few Oreos. Even so, isn’t there something to be said about entertainers earning massive amounts of money promoting false images? Rap and R&B; music and their bastard videos are American inventions firmly established within the cultural metasphere. Even if the black gangsta rapper cum millionaire story is all a charade, it’s not perceived as such by most and at the very least it still needs to be held accountable for my racist dating record!

Today’s blacks are in desperate need of serious artists to offset some of the harm caused by the explosion of gangsta rap and its weak ass steeze. More women would help. Which reminds me: Missy E, drop a new one! Where the hell is Lauryn Hill and why the fuck did Erykah Badu get neekid in her new video? (This is the point where I throw my hands up and ask for a popsicle before naptime.)

Rap and R&B; music videos probably shouldn’t be held responsible for impacting one’s dating life, but do care that much about music. Listening to records at night alone in my room with the lights off or watching hours of music videos on MTV (when they still had those) was what I did for many years in between driving my parents totally bananas. Music was the snakeskin jacket-a symbol of my individuality and my belief in personal freedom. Everything else was fuck all. If you didn’t get MY music, you didn’t get ME. So witnessing those videos go from this to that was very damaging after all and someone (black men?) needs to be punished (they’re used to it anyway?).

Trying to find similarities between the Sugarhill Gang and Twista is like trying to find a straight man with a waxed chest in speedos in the Pines on Fire Island. While I don’t think one video can be identified as the pivotal turning point between then and now, the video for Bell Biv DeVoe’s 1990 hit “Poison” is a strong candidate (among several others directed chiefly by Hype Williams and almost anything from R. Kelly.) In addition to featuring a series of complicated dance moves, you may also notice the ubiquitous presence of several skanks standing around in tight miniskirts looking superfluous and lost in the video. I suppose if you’re going to caution one to “never trust a big butt and a smile” you may need several big butts to illustrate your point, but more importantly, the content of the song and the video serve as precursors for things to come: the growing presence of hyper-sexualized images of black women in music videos that evolved in tandem with the catapulting success of black entertainers in the 1990s.

Of course, black men can’t take all the credit for exploiting naked women in their music videos. Travel back to 1983 when Kiss removed their make-up and released the video for “Lick It Up” or 1987 and the release of Mötley Crüe’s video for “Girls, Girls, Girls” or Warrant’s 1990 “Cherry Pie.” All of these videos fit the rubric-woman with open legs, literally, playing sluts on screen. Fortunately (on that count), hair metal wasn’t afforded the same longevity that has sustained rap music and allowed rap music videos to devolve into their current state of utter repugnance. Had Vince Neil et al continued to make their trashy music videos,, my dating pool would be even smaller. The absence of drunk, long haired, tattooed, leather clad white dudes and black men who spend 90% of their time glorifying ice and booty and all those who want to be like them? (Lest we forget: “The people that I really love are these kind of larger-than-life figures-somebody like Lil’ Wayne, who’s, like, the same age as me. For me, loving somebody involves an element of unapproachability.” That’s from “Ryan Dombal, 28, the only Pitchfork writer in New York.”)

So that pretty much leaves me with Thais and nerds of all stripes and colors.

Rap and R&B; owe this endurance to hip-hop, a movement inspired by the socioeconomic realities of black life in the ghetto. Rap represents the underbelly of that movement, with an “in-your-face-homeboy” attitude. Its attendant controversy generated appeal for me! But, when rappers weren’t telling the police to go fuck themselves, they bitch slapped each other over rhyming skills (a reshuffled version of the dozens), threatened to kill you and talked about bitches on their nutz. Guess which one struck a chord with the populace? It’s worth pointing out that there’s a striking difference between the videos for Ice Cube’s “Check Yo Self,” or Wu Tang’s “Protect Ya Neck” and Jay-Z’s “Big Pimpin’” or Lil Wayne’s “Mrs. Officer.” It’s excess. More money more problems, as they say. And one of those “problems” happens to be bitches on deez nutz. So maybe I’m doing black men who subscribe to the rap star as paragon of success model a favor! I certainly don’t want to burden you all with more “problems.”

To set the record straight, there’s nothing wrong with being a black woman with nice tits and an ass the size of Jupiter in some man’s music video. It’s a job and a girl’s gotta eat. My beef is with the bitches and hos design that dominates the genres, how it has stunted the quality of this music and, by sheer omnipresence, created a standard black men think they must achieve even though it is unrealistic for almost everyone. Nothing will not stop a broke ass black man from wearing “bling” purchased on Lenox Avenue. I made a decision not to turn up for the “promo” because I don’t want to contribute to the farce. Also I probably would have been sent the fuck home anyway. But in terms of dating, I don’t care what color you are, just RESPECT, don’t use products in your hair and don’t worship at the altar of Young Jeezy.

Charlie is the pen name of a super-profesh young black lady in New York City.

Why I Stalk A Sexy Italian Jew On Google, And Why You Should Too (Hint: It’s Because He’s Super Super Sexy)

It all started one day when Choire Sicha pointed out how few Jewish Italian bloggers have people looking for their Google alerts. I realized most of my Google alerts are set for people who aren’t me: non-Jewish Italian bloggers. So I picked out my new target and started to pay attention.

He’s an atheist, and he loves blowjobs. He seems to have some issues with alcohol, but he keeps drinking. He’s very proud of his remarkably talented penis (which apparently has a sideline as a respected writer). He seems stunningly handsome in the rare photos that pop up, although it’s hard to tell because he’s always covering his eyes. His home is New York and he’s finding the process of walking up subway steps totally frustrating because he’s not in the greatest shape. He spends an embarrassing amount of time writing about a place called Knifecrime Island.

Sometimes I find his lack of faith charming; other times it is frustratingly repetitive. “This fucking day!” can be followed by “If there were a God I would stop believing him because of this fucking day!” All that can be followed by hysterical, professionally-crafted scenarios portraying a beloved author as being a “squirter” in bed. I try not to extrapolate about his culture from just one person’s Google alerts, but that’s also sort of exactly what makes following a random person so interesting. Are Jewish Italian bloggers more open about their deep appreciation for blowjobs and their gigantic, incredibly skillful cocks? Old people? Northern people? I’ve just got this single data point, but it’s more than I had before.

One of the best things about Google alerts is how, once you’ve populated it with friends genuine or aspirational, it feels like a slow-burn house party you can pop into whenever you like. Yet even though adding a random person to your alert list is just a one-click action, most of us prune very judiciously to prevent tedious or random bulletins to pollute our inbox. Understandable! But don’t discount the joy of discovery that can come by weaving an amazingly complex, intelligent, dare I say heroic blogging megastar’s life into your own. You can start simply, like I did, by finding someone handsome and brilliant like I did. Of course, once you do that there’s only one way to go, and that’s down. That’s right, after you take a Google alert out on “Alex Balk,” you will go down. YOU KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT.

It’s been a billion degrees in Russia since mid-June, and as a consequence, 1200 people have drowned-and”49 people, including two children, had drowned in the last day,” is what CNN says. “The majority of those drowned were drunk,” said Vadim Seryogin, a department head at Russia’s Emergencies Ministry. “The children died because adults simply did not look after them.” I don’t really have a funny name for Russia to go with this because somehow this seems sadder than English people stabbing each other constantly, though it’s probably not.

by Seth Colter Walls

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6YKcVWVuq4Q

About this time last year, an editor of this site and I were emailing back and forth about fun things to maybe write. (The formula was basically: negligible numbers of comments + high degree of personal satisfaction = let’s rock.) Along those lines, he proposed a column: “Also do you want to write about weird music in general??? Stuff that editors are like ‘Ha um NO THANKS.’ Difficult Listening Hour with SCW. Heh.” This was the first time anyone had proposed, to me, a recurring feature based on a piece from smack dab in the middle of Laurie Anderson’s 7-hour performance work “United States I-IV”. (The clip of “Difficult Listening Hour” above comes from her out-of-print film Home of the Brave.) But then Shared Laurie Love — that’s the kind of thing that makes you want to write for free.

I was about 10 years old and the crazy librarians in my small town — all of whom will anonymously, collectively hold a spot in my heart until I die — actually bought the 5-LP version of “United States Live” and put it out next to, well, an awful lot of Wings records. I picked up “United States Live” one day while browsing with my dad. The cover showed Anderson with a hot, yellow-ish light emanating from her mouth. “Who’s this?” I asked. My dad responded with something like a proto-Wikipedia entry: “Important downtown NYC artist, collaborated with Burroughs, I don’t know her stuff that well, but check it out it if you want.”

We only had one turntable in the house, in the living room, so I played it there. I didn’t know what to expect at all, but was intrigued by opener “Say Hello,” a spoken word piece in which Laurie proposed — based on a religious sect’s calculations — that New York City had been the Garden of Eden, and Upstate New York the locus of pre-Flood civilization. Then she spun it out to a weird parable about the head-spinning, Babel-like impossibility of understanding language qua language, with a vocal filter that made her sound like a bemused, middle-aged car salesman dude. Then came “Walk the Dog” — more odd voices and jokes. (This song was also the b-side of her surprise British hit “O Superman.”)

A solo piece for her specially prepared violin followed. But it was really “For A Large and Changing Room” that made me think “I’m actually going to listen to this whole thing.” It had woodblock percussion, keyboards, and gorgeous violin on top that danced between long-bowed lines and minimalistic ones. (Many of the same melodic themes crop up again in “Born, Never Asked.”)

Later (of course), I’d learn that the Warners recording of “United States Live: was just excerpts from the even-longer stage piece. They only released it after Anderson’s first two studio albums proved solid enough sellers. Which is why her 1984 live audience was clapping at the opening synth-saxophone strains of “From the Air,” which, along with “O Superman,” had both been on “Big Science already.” To me, as a pre-adolescent starting off with “United States Live,” it just sounded like people spontaneously clapping. Happy for the weirdness and the smartness and the humor. Happy for the difficult listening hour.

Laurie lost her media buzz in the 90s. People still came out to BAM for her new stage pieces, but the record industry’s niche-game had been figured out to the point where “alternative” was maybe big business. Performance art simply could not compete with nu-grunge as a loss-leader that might actually go platinum. During college, one of our deans took a bunch of art students out to see her Moby Dick piece, and almost nobody seemed to care. I tried to cheer him up by talking about “United States I-IV” on our walk to the subway.

But now Laurie’s back. “Homeland,” her new record for Nonesuch, is, at the moment, my third favorite album of 2010 (behind Erykah Badu and Big Boi). The song that has confused the youngs today, after her appearance on the David Letterman show, features Lou Reed on guitar and Kieren Hebden (better known as Four Tet) on keyboards. It is not to be summarily dismissed — as it is one of the best singles of the year. You may hear it in its 7-minute plus entirety below:

[wpaudio url=”http://3-e-3.com/05%20Only%20An%20Expert.mp3″ text=”Laurie Anderson, ‘Only an Expert’” dl=”0″]

She and her husband, Lou Reed, recently recorded a live-improv jam with John Zorn, as a benefit for the latter’s quite-awesome and artist-friendly club, The Stone. It’s also worth your time, if you like instrumental screaming. But even if not, there have been more gentle collaborations between Laurie and Lou of late, like this interesting song from a 2008 performance:

I talked to Laurie at my day job recently, and told her that I thought she was more intense now than she’s ever been — that whereas she once preferred to react to contemporary provocations with cool bemusement, now she was opting to burn at a higher temperature. I think that’s a pretty good look for an artist kicking off her fourth decade of relevance. And it’s surprisingly easy to listen to, as well.

Seth Colter Walls has a day job.

Does Starbucks Wifi Kinda Suck Now?

ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE: The Starbucks Wifi has turned terrible since it went free on July 1! Increased load? Decreased service? Who know, the anecdote ends here… with a frappuccino!

Oh Karl, you KILL ME: “We know President Bush did not intentionally mislead the nation. Saddam Hussein was deposed and eventually hung for his crimes. Iraq is a democracy and an ally instead of an enemy of America. Al Qaeda suffered tremendous blows in the ‘land between the two rivers.’ But Democrats lost more than the election in 2004. In telling lie after lie, week after week, many lost their honor and blackened their reputations.”

by Meghan Keane

It is fitting that the most intriguing character in “The Hills” series finale was a two-dimensional backdrop. On a show known more for its uncomfortable silences than anything that was actually said, the producers used the parting shot to pull away the Hollywood sign in the background and remind viewers why they ever cared about the show in the first place.

The rest of the series’ final episode was punctuated by a whole lot of nothing. After gifting its reality stars with outsized salaries and Hollywood careers, MTV-in its reality TV generosity-rewarded each girl left on “The Hills” with one last gift: a plotline that made her look less pathetic than she had previously.

Audrina Patridge, the quiet biker chick with the awesome body and weird lips, finally extracted herself from her weird non-relationship with existentialist hipster Justin Bobby (who was prone to philosophic aphorisms such as, “When something’s working, you don’t go and fuck it up by throwing labels or doing stupid things like throwing a ring on your finger because society or friends said so.” Word.). Stephanie Pratt, the former methhead and DUI recipient, cleaned up her dirtbag habits and found herself a boring tattooed boyfriend. Lo, the other one, moved in with her boyfriend and prepared for the future possibility of “little babies!!”

There was nothing particularly interesting in the last episode. Then again, “The Hills” was never known for witty dialogue or gripping scenarios. Other shows have girls in expensive clothes going out to well-known bars, trying (but mostly failing) to pick up guys. On “The Hills,” there was someone off screen that brought it all together. That was you.

Watching “The Hills” was less of a lean back experience than many TV series. Rather than bothering with jokes or engaging situations, “The Hills” documented its players making a series of bad decisions and left the audience to sift through what actually had or had not happened. While events rarely ascended above the mundane, the process of picking apart fact from fiction often provided the only fascinating aspect of the show. The participants in MTV’s non-scripted series often admitted that the stories on screen were fake, but the presence of MTV’s cameras in their lives unavoidably affected them. And yet, the show soldiered on, pretending that this is how life goes for attractive, skinny girls trying to make it in L.A.

MTV made a smart choice putting Lauren Conrad at the forefront of its “Laguna Beach” spinoff. That original series capitalized on the popularity of “The O.C.,” a scripted show about affluent young Californians, by putting cameras in the faces of actual teenagers growing up on the outskirts of L.A. Unlike most of the rich suburban kids on “Beach,” Lauren appeared to have ambition, and, comparatively, some skills. More useful on “The Hills” were LC’s feelings of inadequacy. She became reality television’s Jan Brady.

And “The Hills” really hit its stride in the tension between Conrad and her ditsy sidekick Heidi Montag. Heidi was a ratings gift for MTV. Or rather, boyfriend Spencer Pratt’s influence over her became one. A series of rotating male costars may have appeared on the series to promote themselves or their bands, but Spencer astutely played the role of villain, and brought Heidi into the storm with him.

But his ability to create drama and ratings gold took a weird turn last summer when Heidi underwent 10 plastic surgeries, transforming herself from an easily manipulated blonde girl into a warped Barbie doll. The surgeries certainly brought the pair more attention, but after a secret marriage and the cover of People, they used up their dramatic collateral. In a final moment of irony one would not have expected from the show’s creative team, all the attention seeking eventually got the pair booted.

Lauren Conrad was smart enough to get out in season five, leaving a gap that “Laguna Beach” cast member Kristin Cavallari was brought in to fill. Did Kristin kill “The Hills”? Probably not. Her casting was less an active choice and more a stopgap aimed at keeping the show rolling for a little while more.

Apparently there is a limit to how long people want to watch young girls prolong miscommunications and petty disagreements. By the end, the real drama was happening off screen. Heidi, now estranged from her family, had apparently separated from Spencer. The only hint of this drama bubbled to the surface in an appearance by Heidi’s mother, who seems to have shown up in a last ditch attempt to communicate with her daughter.

That effort, as I see it (insert your own interpretation here), is one of the few true tragedies you’ll watch on reality television. As much as these girls have benefited from the lens and earnings of reality TV, their lives have been warped by the choices it has encouraged. Their salaries are about to dry up, and while many things will easily be forgotten, some of their rash decisions will stick with them. Marriages can be annulled. Bad boob jobs are forever.

That’s where the now famous backdrop came in. In the final scenes of “The Hills” this week, Kristin and Brody Jenner, a recurring character who gamely appears whenever romantic-interest drama is required, dutifully played out the end of their scripted, dull attempt at a love affair. In a nod to Lauren’s earlier, ill-fated trip to Paris, Kristin randomly decided to pick up and move there. (In the insular world of “The Hills,” there exist three cities: L.A., New York and Paris. Hopefully the girls will get out more now that the show has ended. Portland is lovely this time of year.)

Watching the pair attempt to emote their scripted melodrama bordered on painful. Most notably, both players were able to bring a few tears to the situation. As Kristin pulled away in her black car, she tried to look wistfully out the window (missing the mark, she managed a mix of happy and stoned instead), scenes of “Hills” gone by flashed on the screen. Images of the show’s more memorable moment added a bit more heft, but it was mostly forgettable as far as series finales go. And then the shot threw back to Brody, standing broadly in front of the HOLLYWOOD sign. Suddenly, the iconic fixture started moving, and revealed a Hollywood studio backlot behind him.

Thankfully, “The Hills”’ flailing attempts at deeper emotion were usurped by that missing third wall. Was that entire scene really just filmed on a fake set? Was the notion of Kristin moving to Paris a fabrication? Will Brody start a line of Bro-themed trucker hats now that his acting gig has finished? “The Hills” leaves those questions up to the audience to answer.

But in that final moment, the producers defied the odds, and succeeded, however briefly, in making “The Hills” interesting one more time.

Meghan Keane wonders if she will ever feel the rain on her skin again.