NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS

Eat better.

No, I don't mean just eat better foods. After all, disinformation aside, at this point I feel reasonably confident that "eat food. not too much. mostly plants" works just fine for my body type, metabolism, and tax bracket. Granted, I don't always take that advice. But I mean eat in better ways. Don't choke down breakfast; chew, savor, appreciate, think of the all the days I woke up sad and punished my system with a Bustelo-only diet.

And on the flip side of this, no more gorging - whether stoned, in a hurry, or having just come off cardio. No matter what basal command urges an ever-ramped chew/swallow/repeat, slow down. Create a reasonable portion. Dip over the boundary of that portion only when appropriate, not just when available. Quit eating with a scarcity mentality.

Binge good TV, use bad TV as emotional caulking

I was piercingly depressed this week and I watched the 2nd half of THE LEFTOVERS first season, which for all its shaky starts turns out to be the truly bleakest and most perfectly depressing show on the current roster. This is good TV. HOMELAND, for all its stupidity, can be binged in two days for an experience akin to classic 24 with better casting and half the episodes. 

Bad TV is used to muffle the buzz of boredom when nothing more healthy will do. It is a way of sitting in one place, alone, dislocated. When you must exist in empty space. But it should seal narrow cracks, not shingle your roof.

Stop softpedaling language

Professional interactions in publishing (and I'm sure it's not alone) so often subsists on a mat of insincerity and complicity in that insincerity. We say that sounds great but we mean that sounds like words. We say we'll do it but we mean we'll do it when you prompt us the 2nd time. We say it'll be good when we mean we have no fucking clue how it'll be. We say we're excited when we mean we don't want to say we feel nothing. We say she's nice when we mean she's boring. We say that's unfortunate when what we mean is that we're happy they're failing. We say all good when we mean some good. We say we really enjoyed it when we mean that we burst into fractured sobs upon turning the final page because somewhere in this mound of edited text was a sharp edge that rent a hole in our heart's exoskeleton and we don't like that such a thing can happen because it hurts and pain is bad. 

Stop being so negative to seem cool

Negativity and irony in media and publishing is easy and comforting. By saying something is terrible or the worst thing ever or the worst or pretentious or flawed or just awful or stupid or that it's your most hated example of another thing you don't like, you're very quickly and efficiently saying I'm Not Like That. Compulsive othering is a human feature but it's not a good thing. Especially when it's used to silence benign positivity; "I was happy because of this thing, it made me feel good" "you must be naive and stupid and if you really think that you're not one of the cool kids" it's fucking sickening and it drives so many ad-revenue engines and while I recognize nobody can always exist in a perfectly warm bath of good vibes about any and all things unless that person is literally a god, it is tiresome and boring to read and listen to people who can never be expressly and messily vulnerable about the many things that make them feel comforted and beautiful and perfect in the moment and strip away every ounce of self-consciousness like a cleansing fire, because they are afraid of sounding happy. Criticism and lazy outrage are not easy unless that's all you do. A heart that beats with emotional flab is not one I wish to sync with.

Defend Kid Rock

Kid Rock writes great songs, he's very talented, he gives a lot to charity, he likes a lot of the same music as me, and I've been listening to him for years. He has a new album out. I'm gonna probably like it just fine and continue to argue that anyone who doesn't listen to him because a mean kid in fifth grade used to yell the lyrics to Bawitaba during recess (or equivalent) is being needlessly self-limiting.

Be skeptical and call out when appropriate the people who use texts to validate their opinions poorly

Smart people have nuanced ideas of how "the world works" and "how humans think" and yet I see some cling to the idea that one book like sof (or similar) has unlocked the secret molecule of Truth about all humans and therefore they can make sweeping statements on how neuroscience works is gonna be getting a frowny face from yours truly. I'm drawn to these people, but I prefer smart people who remember they're tiny and stupid and insignificant sometimes.

Visit every NYC bookstore new and used

Every Barnes and Noble, every tiny stack of used books on the streetcorner table or in the cramped floor-through apartment, every place that sells books in every corner of this ridiculous city. Staten Island, Gravesend, Bronx, I'm coming, I swear.

Panic better

Every time I panic now I set my phone timer for 45 minutes, to trick my brain (panic part) using another more powerful part of my brain (procrastinating part). I can panic in 45 minutes. It's working.

Read white guy novels with healthy and skeptical abandon

I like Knausgaard, Richard Ford, John Updike, and DFW. Don't need to defend that because nobody is threatening this. Nothing wrong with enjoying books by or about members of your tribe - just as long as you don't get hung up on it. (This includes books only set in the last decade.) There's a lot of good- and bad-natured criticism of white dudes who write books, and none of it should stop you from reading their books if you want to. Just read non-white non-guy books with abandon too. This is part of the "like what you like" thing. 

Re-embrace uncertainty

I have a Career now, but I still don't know how my 401k works, the difference between "then/than" every time, or when my parents will die. I have a new nephew but I don't know what his life is gonna be like (though it'll be filled with love and good food because my sister's a bomb-ass cook and nurturer). But in order to not get riveted by the Now and spiral into a pit of depression, I must remember that I cannot understand the ramifications of every single action I do or do not take. Sometimes shit is just going to happen and no amount of control-freakiness can change that, so I might as well quit worrying so much.

Trust the right doctors

Before I switched jobs I got a physical where the doctor found a suspicious mole. I then visited a dermatologist (my first - I don't have the world's best skin but it's always been a'ight) and got a biopsy that said nothing cancerous but the doctor still urged that I should get the whole thing removed.

Then I got a new job and switched insurance and suddenly I had to start the process again - find a new dermatologist and find a surgeon that wouldn't ask for two week's pay up front. Months went by. And every month, that first dermatologist emailed and called to check if I'd gotten the mole removed. Without any possibility of financial compensation, she urged me over and over to address the mole, get it cut off, do it quickly, wherever, whatever it took. I resented this. Not everyone is a rich doctor, right? Not everyone can afford to get surgery for a benign cluster of cells at any point in the pay month.

So I finally slipped in an appointment with a new doctor before Christmas, who biopsied the rest of the mole to be absolutely sure what the follow-up treatment would be. Turns out I have a stage zero melanoma. Which is exactly as unconcerning as skin cancer can possibly be - you basically just get it snipped off and that's it - but I wouldn't have known if it wasn't for the first doctor, who gave so much of a shit that she hectored me like a good doctor should. When I emailed to thank her, she just said "I just wish we had national health care. I'm glad you did this."

Find good doctors, stick by them, keep yourself alive.

Say I was wrong

Admitting you fucked up when you fucked up will make your life a lot easier. Just don't admit it all the time and for no good reason.

Don't smoke things you find on the street, it never ends well

Street weed gave me a headache and street Newports gave me the hangover equivalent of Ragnarok so, yeah.

Read more poetry

The more good and blood-drawing poetry I read the cleaner and stronger I get. It's expensive to buy. It's worth it.

And finally...

Read what scares you and makes you angry

Patricia Lockwood scares me. She's so good and writes such terrifying things. Kiese Laymon scares me. He describes anger and paralysis and fear and systemic injustice so perfectly and so VITALLY. People who are either so talented or are so good at describing terrifying realities or fictions that they make you question the entire cocoon of ways you make yourself Feel Okay are the people you should read. People who disagree with you and who say things that offend you and frustrate you are always hard to read and you can burn yourself out but if you approach them out of a sincere desire to understand who they are, why they do and say what they do and say, and what big tectonic forces and filters have shaped their perceptions to make them so different from yours, are the people who will save a significant part of the intelligent person's life, every time.

Happy new year!

NATIONAL BOOK AWARDS AFTERPARTY

I'll be the one in the almost-fitting suit and the impressive facial hair tweeting earnest stuff SO COME ON BY AND SAY HELLO.

This is my first open bar party in at least a year so I apologize in advance for the things I do and say. Except for that thing about Jonathan Safran Foer and weed delivery, which is absolutely true.

Oh and RIP Leslie Feinberg.

AMAZON AND ANDREW WYLIE ACROSS THE AGES

In his keynote address at the International Festival of Authors, wildly successful and powerful agent Andrew Wylie, in his latest public salvo of anti-Amazon rhetoric, compared the retail giant to Islamic terror group ISIS. This may seem like it crosses the line, but it's certainly not out of character, especially when you look at the public history of Wylie's statements on Amazon.

In 2013: "Amazon and Bashar Al-Assad, have way more in common than anyone in the publishing world would admit. And both of them collude with the US Government!"

2012: "Amazon wants to knock the publishing industry in the head with a shovel, tie it up, drive it to the top of the Fiscal Cliff, and push it off."

2011: "Make no mistake, we're facing a Fukuskima-esque catastrophe, and Amazon is the one buying up all the lead underpants."

2010: "If it was up to Amazon, the entire ocean would belong to BP and the Chilean miners would rot underground. Free Assange!"

2005: "Amazon has too much ambition. And they want to blow up ALL the levees."

2001: "More like Amazon-Quaeda."

1996: "Make no mistake, there's only one mail bomber you need to worry about. And that's Amazon."

1980: "The goddamn Russkies have nothing on Amazon. At least communism is morally good in theory."

April 10, 1970: "You won't have to look far to figure out who really broke up the Beatles, and her name ain't Yoko."

1950: "That's right, I'd rather Russia have the bomb than those godless heathens at Amazon. You can quote me on that,"

1942: "(something wildly racist about Japanese people)"

1929: "Al Capone is like Amazon, but with scruples!"

April 15, 1912: "Amazon's buying stock in icebergs right now, mark my words."

1888: "If my time in England taught me one thing, it's this: Amazon is as courteous to its vendors as Jack The Ripper was to his."

1773: "If you told me that tea was sold by Amazon, I'd dive into the harbor, scoop it up, and throw it back in again."

August 24, 1572: "Huguenots? Sounds an awful lot like "Amazon"."

1095: "To quote the Pope, Amazon is a Seljuq-Turk-like distributor."

218 BC: "Amazon doesn't need drones. It's got elephants, and it hears the Alps are lovely this time of year."

Pleistocene: *grunts and gestures that say "fuck Amazon and the mammoth it rode in on"* 

THE DUDE READS #4: WOLF IN WHITE VAN

John Darnielle can’t shut up, and that’s a good thing.

I listened to one Mountain Goats album closely, which is “All Hail West Texas” - for those who haven’t had the pleasure, it’s one of his press-record-on-a-boombox albums where he wraps short stories into verse/chorus over solo acoustic guitar - the last one he recorded on his boombox, in fact, and I’d wager that it’s a piece of equipment that for LD/MGs fans has the legend and weight of Van Halen’s Frankenstrat, or Cormac McCarthy’s typewriter. “All Hail West Texas” was suggested to me by someone who gladly wasted a couple years on me, as did I her; the album has not stuck nearly as much as the others she pressed on me, but I’m always reminded of the commute into my shitty retail job, taking the bus to the subway, listening to songs where even the tape hiss sounded plaintive.

But here’s the thing about this book; clearly you don’t have to like JD’s music or even know it exists to enjoy it, or to recognize the skill in its construction, pacing, and full-on weirdness. If this was “debut novelist John Darnielle” (which some reviews claim is true, and then someone’s all “uhhh he wrote a 33 1/3 book which was basically a novella” and to that I say anyone who gets the chance to write a 33 and 1/3 book and comes back with fiction can deal with being called a debut novelist a few years later), this would be just as menacing, uneasy, and fluid of a novel. Its surface is smooth as glass but it curves in so many strange directions like an avant-garde opera hall facade - finely tuned and fussed-over prose, a character whose regular plunges down the memory hole and laps run through his own thoughts are perfectly contextualized (he’s a scarred recluse who spends his day writing letters and turning emotions over in the rock polisher of his skull) and an effectively rendered portrait of childhood unhappiness and instability that may not mirror JD’s but certainly carries the same gear. It’s hard not to read this as a young JD, lying alone in his room, sweating and uneasy, finding fixed points in sword & sorcery and in-skull adventures.

Sean, in the meanwhile, is a bit of a cypher - which is a functional device because Sean has had a life of interiors; actions playing out through barriers, distance, and remove, despite any claims that Sean makes to a life of inner vividness. And vivid it is - the analog MMORPG that Sean uses as both a source of income and a reason for continued existence, a social network with plenty of safe distance between him and others in which the goal is the journey, not the (unreachable) destination. The game, Trace Italian, is played through the mail - players are given context and options, and they then make “moves”, which they send to Sean, who responds with more context and directions, etc - and this pursuit, no matter how implausible, is so finely described and so compassionately constructed that the question becomes: does Sean run Trace Italian because he’s a recluse, or is he a recluse so he can write Trace Italian? And why is he all scarred?

To go to into detail about this book’s plot would not be hard, because in truth only a few things actually Happen to Sean, the narrator. This book concerns itself more with the why, not the how, and the jumble of memories and flashbacks and significances takes on a horrifying dream logic as we further understand why Sean’s disfigured, and why he dealt with the aftermath as he did. So my view is that as a self-contained, ornately crafted box of a book, WIWV unquestionably succeeds. It is not large, or overly ambitious, or concerned with much beyond Sean’s unique brand of solipsism - but it doesn’t need to be, as JD has never been someone to do The Expected Thing, or even The Trademark Thing. Ss an extension of JD’s refusal to sacrifice nuance for effect, the book handles itself as admirably as any of his many, many hyperliterate song lyrics. I would warn anyone looking for a satisfying narrative to not approach this book as such. It’s a literary automat of constant low-band loneliness, eerie resignation, truncated sadness and ennui that ends on a textual knife-twist. Do not expect to walk out of this book with a full and balanced heart.

Cover Unveiled For The 10th Anniversary Edition of ‘Looking For Alaska’

So how long before John Green is straight up forced to become a chalk drawing with FAULT IN OUR STARS tattooed on his forehead by a cabal of power-mad brand managers

SHORT SHORT STORIES FOR DONATIONS #2: THE DEVIL IS BEATING HIS WIFE

Lincoln has a lot to say about Metallica. Which he fucking better well because he's got Dell in the automotive equivalent of a full nelson - on a high July heatstroke of a Monday, in sphincter-tight traffic, air conditioning wussing out the vents. Dell wouldn't get six feet if he bailed - he'd de-shape like a butter pat and end up a blot of bubbly flesh on the asphalt. But there will be much to discuss about Metallica, much indeed - and Lincoln produces thoughts with such agility and flavor that Dell's resentment settles at the sump.

The story of the Metal Up Your Ass pressings is nearing the denouement; Dell unslumps, avoiding the gasrange window. The plug ahead is an empty construction patch, an entire unsullied lane roped off with carrot-colored plastic stumps. "Do you know anyone who works construction?" asks Dell. Lincoln finishes his sentence and clearly plans to begin another - Dell scoops the moment. "Do you know anyone who works construction?"

Lincoln allows a "nahdude" and continues. Dell, unfazed, reclaims the air and continues. "Because we should know someone who works construction. It is so hugely a moneymaker in this county. I was a kid who thought that when I grew up they'd be finished with the construction. Which is dumbshit thinking but it's not just because stuff breaks but because it's a moneymaker."

"I know," says Lincoln. "City contracts are gluetraps for lawyers and mob dudes. Everyone knows that."

"Con law people know that," says Dell.

Lincoln snorks, a zing of mucus in his skull. "You should go to law school. You'll see how stuff works. So says my uncle."

A burning oil derrick in Dell's guts - buffalo chicken tenders and burnt coffee. Dell can feel his body softening. No ready and cheap access to a gym, and the roads of his hometown taunt his gasping ass when he jogs them, gravelly noodles that drain him brutally. Running the grid of the city was checklisted deadline. Suburbs are melting him from inside and out.  

If you want a short short story writen just for you, donate to Tim's page and email your receipt at dudeinpublishing@gmail.com.

SHORT SHORT STORIES FOR DONATIONS #1: THE CRACK FORTRESS

Forms of ingress into a location with unknown hostiles and/or civilians are divided into two types: warm and cold.

Cold ingress points rely on externalized sourcing; blueprints, visual surveillance, and any intel we can gather from locals if it's a residence. We work up a complete outside profile - there's not a single hole or seam visible that we don't work into our planning. You'll know the obvious - doors, windows, skylights, chimneys, vents, and the odd ventilation shaft - but the subtle cold ingress points are the trickiest, and the most rewarding if you like tricky, which I very much do.

Consider, par example, a scrounged blueprint that indicates an addition was build on within the last few years. Say we do our research and discover that there's no insulation in the addition - maybe they couldn't decide between fiberglass or blown cellulose or maybe they're just short on liquidity or motivation - and what this tells us is that there's a cold ingress point in the space behind the drywall. Not large enough for a human (or at least not one that's legal to employ for the hours we'd need her) but large enough for a directional mic with a thermal sensing feed and who knows, maybe a directional charge. That's how you make a door in less than three seconds. Try to hit a cold ingress point with a battering ram and it'll take three seconds, assuming there's nobody on the other side. Impossible to detect the heat signature unless you've got the sensor on the door, and any location that we put this much calories into crafting the perfect breach will have at least one shitty camera trained smack on that door. Know when to make a door. Measure twice, cut once.

Warm ingress points are cold ingress points that for become viable for their minimal obstacles and time sensitivity. Say the loading dock is unmanned during shift change, only two minutes a week but that's the chance. Maybe the side office is closed while the manager takes a vacation - once every three years. Maybe the sunlight hits the north face of the bank building on November 18th at 2:13 PM and dazzles the entire block like disco. Warm ingress points are like the boy in high school you never considered viable until a few years later, when you're riding that hometown bar into the witching hour, and he shows up all cute and airy and well-dressed as if all the work you passed on putting into him got picked up by some other nobler girl. The warm ingress point and you may not work out, but the golden window is there. You will laugh about the three things you both held onto from school - the molest-y teacher, the stolen trophies, the mold. will You drink in a livid sort of joy. You will toss off his mention of a girlfriend. You will breach him.

If you want a short short story writen just for you, donate to Tim's page and email your receipt at dudeinpublishing@gmail.com.

LITERARY SPEED DATING AT HOUSING WORKS IS THE ONLY THING YOU NEED TO BE THINKING ABOUT RIGHT NOW

Dear men of the tri-state area who feel hemmed in by the swipe-left philosophy that extrudes the dating process through a series of sterile tubes: STOP.

There is hope. There's also beautiful women. Real ones. Not just avatars. Note that I said beautiful - beautiful in soul, spirit, bookshelves, and probably glasses. Not just pretty. Beautiful.

Then stop fucking around and go to literary speed dating at housingworksbookstore on 10/16, courtesy of coverspy. 

I'll be honest with you - the joke of "oh wow if you're a straight (Editor's note: or straight-passing) guy in publishing you really just have an embarrassment of dating options" IT'S TRUE IT'S TRUE IT'S TRUE but you NEED TO MEET THE RIGHT PEOPLE. As the Cat In The Hat (an icon all males should aspire to) said, "it is fun to have fun but you have to know how."

So come to Housing Works, have a drink, buy that copy of A Girl Is A Half-Formed Thing, make fun of Knausgaard despite having not read him, and meet the best eligible ladies that the city has.

And save money by entering promo code "WOOLF" at checkout. Spelled like the author, not like this:

MORTIFICATION OF THE FLESH FOR CHARITY

By now, the bloom is still on the crowdfunding rose, but it's not nearly as dewy fresh as it once was. Whether it's the backlash at celebrities who use the system to gain independence from their corporate overlords, the inanity of certain projects, or the fact that the hard unglamorous toil of charity is still not fully compatible with a browser-eye-view of the world that values short, hot, and sexy (content-wise), the process of using direct-to-donator approaches to cut through the bullshit and amass necessary resources without having to kowtow to (too many) middlemen is still valid - it's just being marketed now, which distorts any idealism that's run through it. 

Tim is one of my best and oldest friends and he has seen me through many phases of my life, often seeing me at my worst. He's a strikingly noble person with a mind the size of a country and an iron sense of community that he's retained despite New York City and associated elements' best attempts to dispell or deteriorate it (remember, it's harder for people to sell you stuff when you don't feel alone). 

And you don't know him. You very well never may. (Though considering how small this city is I'd be unsurprised if you did.) What's worth knowing is that he's running the NYC marathon in November for the simple reason that he's a runner who wants to make money for an organization about which he cares a great deal. They give STEM classes and training to high school students who'd otherwise have the socioeconomic deck stacked against them. Pretty fucking awesome stuff.

I lived with Tim for a year and a half, while he was teaching school in Connecticut and commuting from New York. It was grueling. He spent his time teaching, commuting, and running. He never became bitter, and now, he's in a better place - and he's giving to a cause he aligns with, using the hard-won skill of being able to beat the shit out of your body over long distances.

I don't expect that you'll read this and immediately donate; that'd be insane, right? Altruism to a Tumblr stranger's friend makes little sense without the element of trust. Sure it's tax deductible. Sure it's good to give. But there must be more to this. So here's what I'm proposing:

If you find it in your heart and pockets to donate to Tim's fundraiser, send me the email confirmation at dudeinpublishing@gmail.com, and in return for your generosity, I will write you a brand new short short story, and either post it for all to see to remind people of your generosity, or keep it just between you and me, whatever you prefer. And Tim will beat the shit out of his body using the streets of New York as a weapon, and high school gets get a bigger slice of the pie of chance. 

Tim's page is here.

THE SLEEPING POINT

When I first heard Suzanne Collins’ name it was right as Mockingjay came out. I was working in a bookstore, so I had no fucking excuse for this oversight. But I snagged a copy of Hunger Games from the table and read it on my lunch break and immediately tore through the next two (which, for those of you who have not yet read the trilogy, I don’t recommend doing at this pace. Mockingjay is largely incoherent if fascinating and it requires a full night’s sleep and at least two square meals under your belt at all times.) 

A piece of writing like Collins’ has a cultural footprint, and it expands on the basis of three things, the first two of which can be directly managed by authors and publishers.

The first is marketing; which is how the book looks to those who haven’t yet read it.

The second is publicity; how it looks to those who have read it who are talking to others who haven’t read it.

The third, which is largely outside of publisher control, is word-of-mouth, which is an amalgam of the previous two, and I designate it as a third category because it’s the uranium standard of a book’s success. Which is to say that if you can gather and refine and centrifuge word of mouth using a qualified crew of sellers and readers and marketers, you can power the whole goddamn company. Or you can scorch the earth (more on that later).

Years ago I recall that my dad mused out loud about what makes a “sleeper”; a book or movie or whatever that experiences a growth in popularity over time rather than an initial burst which quickly fades (as most art commodities do). This was of course before the advent of the Internet as we now know it, so his musing was very open-ended and there were no analytics or archives that he had at his disposal to consider; what’s the stochastic system that culminates in someone you trust pleading/demanding that you read/watch/listen to this thing? Which, for the purposes of this piece, I’ll call the sleeping point.

The Hunger Games trilogy reached its sleeping point well before the movie was released (and were arguably never sleeper books to begin with), but the movie(s) have turned it from publishing phenomenon into cultural phenomenon. The marketing campaign was given a second act by the movies, and what an act. Now folks consider class differences using the the Districts as their critical template. Now we see the host of imitations as creators and publishers rush to mine the same uranium vein and producing…mixed results. Trace this back to previous phenomena; Twilight, The Giver books, hell a Wrinkle In Time; books that people read and wouldn’t quit talking about, which got pimped and/or adapted and/or included in curricula and by one way or another got bolted to the popular consciousness as a result.

Take another Jennifer Lawrence project, Silver Linings Playbook. This was a movie that the studio correctly pronounced a sleeper well before release; and having marketed it with this in mind, it became the runaway success they hoped for and was quickly followed by two more re-teamings of the leads (American Hustle and the ominously-delayed Serena), the success of which is always compared to that of the original pairing. Matthew Quick’s source novel was snapped up by the fans of the movie, though his follow-up wasn’t able to ride the wave to similar success (though the adaptation is in the works, so we’ll see). Again, this relied on chance; for every sleeper film there are dozens of equally fascinating or entertaining movies that never see the light of a listicle or Netflix queue.

The actual mechanics of that process have likely been explored by people who aren’t writing this in the hour before the workday begins, and who have university library cards and nice couches. I’m not one of those people (though my couch is pretty great) - my thoughts on this come because the sixth season of The Good Wife, a show I’ve actively participated in pushing to the sleeping point, is currently airing.

TV shows hit their sleeping point at a similar pace as books (or series) that get adapted to screen. With a few exceptions (Hemlock Grove basically), books or series adapted to TV or film (Dexter, Game of Thrones, True Blood, Gossip Girl, The Leftovers) find their new fans a few years after publication and/or into their series run, which means that the word-of-mouth for each new season consequently impacts the marketing plans for new books; tie-in covers, bigger budgets, different placement and quantity in retail locations. TV shows are similar; for fans who come in two or three seasons into the show’s run, they encounter an established fanbase and storyline and characters, which is quite a pleasing experience as a consumer but also as a critic, armchair or otherwise. You’ve suddenly got a new common point with strangers and acquaintances and even your parents.

The Good Wife is such a common point, but it’s taken so long to reach its sleeping point exactly because of its initial marketing. Many of you may be thinking “The Good Wife? That show my parents watch?” And that’s true; the demographics for this show as well as other CBS offerings skew towards the demographic that has cable, a landline, and stays in on weeknights. And The Good Wife is consistently highly rated by critics, but so was The Closer, and if you can show me someone in the 18-30 demographic who’s seen every episode, I would be amazed. Critical acclaim does not equal popular acclaim does not equal popular coverage does not equal cultural importance. 

Critics and I agree that the show’s fifth season was a risky move and the show’s writers and cast pulled it off impeccably; not to spoil anything, but it makes a few hard turns in plot and cast and underlays a few subplots which are just cracklingly fucking good. I came to the show halfway through the airing of this season and watched upwards of 100 episodes in three weeks to catch up. It was intense. I watched it while I walked. I watched it while I ate. I watched it whenever I was alone and I texted who’d listen as I did, every time I recognized an actor (seriously it’s like American Doctor Who, EVERYONE is on it) or saw something I’d never seen on TV. Which was often.

This year, CBS sent out a For Your Consideration mailing that basically said what I had come to understand, which is that the reason why The Good Wife is a sleeper is that, basically, viewers don’t know what’s good for them. They’re used to a particular format, when what they really should be looking for is good TV in any form (a sentiment that anyone who knows good web series can agree with). 

The Good Wife is the heir apparent to the format that The West Wing built and then abandoned. 20 or more episodes a season, hour-long primetime slot, ensemble cast, serialized plot, engagement with current events, distinctive writing, luminous production design, and an impressive (and, at times, precarious) balance of entertainment with sheer intelligence and craft. The Good Wife is a skyscraper of a show that for years was just blindly passed over by all the people I knew who considered The West Wing the measure for bingeworthy ideal heavyweight non-premium drama. 

Now we see the blogger outreach and conversation about this show change. Now it’s not “this show you’ve heard of but have no interest in is amazing, you should check it out and be surprised”. It’s “you do yourself a disservice by not watching the show”. I don’t know why it’s not on Netflix; complicated reasons involving licensing and fees and who knows, I’m a consumer not a publisher (of TV). But it’s not an overstatement that this show could save your life.

It is big, it is deep, and it is smart. If you need a palliative break from trauma, you just broke up with someone or lost someone or fucked up your chance at a new life or snapped a femur, watch the entire show. If you want to understand why law students are so insufferable, watch this show. If you want to see the only dramatic TV show that takes on modern tech trends with glee, watch this show. If you’re not easily impressed, watch this show. If you’re a feminist, watch this show. If you’re not a feminist, watch this show. If you want to see why TV awards shows exist, watch this show. This show will renew your faith in mass culture’s ability to foster beautiful, smart, awe-inspiring storytelling. It is not a “legal drama”. It is not about “a disgraced politician’s wife”. This show is about disappointment and regret and professionalism and loss and the way that life constantly, brutally goes on and we do what we can with the people we have to make the best of it. This show employs original  music in a way that I have never heard any other show employ original music - I listened to one track from the soundtrack every time I headed to a job interview simply because it filled me with a neon geyser of mad energy.

I only watched Burn Notice because someone on the internet I trust wrote about it. Another show smarter than its marketing. Word of mouth; it changes your fate in ways so small and manifold it may well define your cultural experience in all ways, agency be damned. 

It doesn’t matter when you start. It doesn’t matter who you are. The people whose livelihood depends on their talent to foster and promote and bring into being new culture are only one part of the process. No tastemaker or thought leader or marketing genius is worth shit without the consent of the consumer; this is why so many resources are devoted to removing the agency of the consumer, whether it’s preying on their laziness or stress, suppressing alternate options, or encouraging the popular conception that equating quality to money as a one-to-one. 

The Good Wife is not the best show that has ever been made nor the best that ever will. But it is an experience like none other that you can participate in for various levels of free, and if you are reading this on the internet, you can start now. Fight your way to me. I’ll be waiting.

SOME GAWKER HEADLINES FROM THE NEXT FEW MONTHS

Lena Dunham Still Hasn't Specified How She Will Be "Compensating" Her Book Tour Openers

Lena Dunham Promises "Openers Will Be Paid In Money, Obviously" So We Know She's Gouging Them

We're Offering Fifty Dollars To Anyone Who Can Produce A Pay Statement For One Of Lena Dunham Tour Openers 

We Break Down The Costs Of Lena Dunham's Book Tour To Indicate How Little The Openers Were Actually Paid So You Won't Have To

A Stream Of Trashpile Rats Reviews Lena Dunham's Book

Real Slick Nick Denton Non-Reference In The Season Premiere Of GIRLS, Lena Dunham

Did Lena Dunham Harass One Of Her Tour Openers? Yes.

Did Lena Dunham Neglect Lamby The Dog During Her Book Tour?

Did Lena Dunham Smother Lamby The Dog During Her Book Tour?

We're Offering One Hundred Dollars For Pictures Of Lamby The Dog Next To Today's Newspaper

A Death Row Inmate Reviews This Season Of Girls

We Slept With Lena Dunham's Assistant So You Wouldn't Have To

We're Offering A Job To Any Accountant Who Can Provide Us With Lena Dunham's W2

It's Lost All Meaning Now, Seriously, No Matter How Many Times We Say It, Lena Dunham Lena Dunham Lena Dunham

September 30th

Today is the birthday of both Truman Capote and the Sufi poet Rumi, so I can't help wondering how bacchanalian a party they could have co-hosted if they'd lived in the same century. 

Look I'm not trying to freak anyone out here

But Woody Harrelson/Colin Farrell

Matthew McConaughey/Vince Vaughn

I'd say it's pretty clear who they're going to reveal as the bad guy in #TrueDetectiveSeason2