"O" my . . . a Presidential who wrote it?

I've been reporting on books and publishing for over a decade now, first as sort of an emergency, back-up Lynn Neary (NPR's dedicated books and publishing reporter), and then, when NPR did away with a dedicated book editor, writing about books for npr.org. 

So anyway, I'm fully qualified to recognize and enjoy a publisher's promotional hijinks when I see them. Especially when they are a recycling of another publisher's promotional hijinks.

Remember Primary Colors, the Clinton Era "novel of politics" written by Anonymous, who -- after 6 months of speculation-fueled best-seller status (ka-ching, goes the cash register) -- turned out to be Joe Klein?

Well, Anonymous is back with a new novel. This one's called O: A Presidential Novel. It goes on sale* January 25th.

The "product description" on Amazon tells us that O: A Presidential Novel, set during the 2012 Presidential campaign, contains,

The truth only fiction can tell.

This is a novel about aspiration and delusion, set during the presidential election of 2012 and written by an anonymous author who has spent years observing politics and the fraught relationship between public image and self-regard.

The novel includes revealing and insightful portraits of many prominent figures in the political world—some invented and some real.

I  think the cover of O is spot-on, as apparently does Jill Lawrence, Senior Correspondent for Politics Daily. Ms. Lawrence notes that,  

You don't have to be a close observer to get the cover art: an O with a large ear attached to each side. "What's going on between those ears?" asks the first line of the Simon &  Schuster press release on the book, officially due out Jan. 25.

Obama campaigning in 2008 ( Darron Cummings/AP

Back to publicity hijinks . . . 

The Mail is a British tabloid similar to America's National Enquirer, its front page littered with reports of violence and  pot-smoking toddlers . Earlier this month this article appeared:

A Presidential whodunnit: Mystery of who wrote new Obama novel.

Washington is awash with rumours over the identity of the anonymous author of a new novel written by an Obama insider.. . . It is described as a 368-page roman a clef inspired by Barack Obama and his inner circle. The author is said to have ‘vast personal experience’ of the President. . . . But so far the writer is keeping his or her identity under wraps.

Indeed he/she is. And Jonathan Karp, executive vice president and publisher at Simon &  Schuster stands guard over those wraps, frantically fueling the flames of speculation with missives such as an e-mail sent January 18th to politicos, and any Big Media Cheeses who deal with politics and/or books. I didn't rate one (what an oversight!), but Steven Levingston, who writes The Washington Post blog, "Political Bookworm," kindly published his copy.

On January 25, we'll be publishing a secret novel simply titled O, about President Obama's campaign for re-election in 2012. The author of the novel wishes to remain anonymous. You may be asked to comment on whether or not you are the author. If so, it would be great if you refrained from commenting, in solidarity with the principle that a book should be judged on its content and not on the perceived ideology of its author. The author, an individual with integrity and talent, is someone who has been in the room with Barack Obama and knows the political world intimately. In fact, you may know this person, or know of this person -- if you are not in fact the author yourself. Thanks in advance for your consideration. I apologize for the impersonality of this blind group email, but this seems like the best way to protect the author's identity. I hope you enjoy the book. It's terrific.

Only maybe, it's not so terrific.
Susan Page begins her review ("'O: A Presidential Novel' is primarily an uncolorful tell-al.l,") in USA Today this way:

WASHINGTON — The mesmerizing power of Primary Colors: A Novel of Politics when it was published in 1996 was its roiling, pitch-perfect, three-dimensional portrait of President Bill Clinton, even if his name in the loosely fictionalized account of his first presidential campaign was Gov. Jack Stanton.

The disappointing thing about O: A Presidential Novel, which goes on sale Jan. 25, is the failure of this speculative account of his 2012 re-election campaign to offer any similar insights into President Barack Obama, known throughout only by his initial.

Ron Charles, writing in The Washington Post was equally unenthusiastic, pointing out that,

Dramatically, "O" suffers from its concentration on a pair of candidates determined to be civil and restrained. That would be nice for our country, but it's damning for a novel. 

As to who wrote it, who knows? Ed Pilkington writes in the Guardian:

Rampant speculation has name-checked Rahm Emanuel (though he's a little busy running for mayor of Chicago), David Plouffe (has enough on his plate as Obama's new senior adviser) and the TV comedian Stephen Colbert (the book is not funny enough to have been by him). Ben Smith, a blogger at the Politico website, has diligently obtained denials from many potential culprits, which is in itself suspicious. So is he the author? "No. I'd be happy to take credit for it though – it's a fun read," Smith told the Guardian. 

Says Ben, anyway.


You know, I thought some about claiming to have written O: A Presidential Novel myself, just for the fun of it. But then the reviews came out . . .

* I link to Amazon on this blog because if you buy this book (or anything) through this link, WMRA gets money!

Cooking with Sargent Shriver . . .

First things first. I was sitting at my computer preparing to start writing today's blog post, when my e-mail dinged announcing that a message from WMRA community member Stanley Abbot had arrived. 

Sorry, Stanley wrote, as I listened to the news [about Chinese President Hu's upcoming state dinner] this morning, it came to me . . .

Knock Knock

     Who's There?

Why yes ... President ...

     President who?

Yes ... Is dinner ready?

And I (with Stanley's permission) am passing it on to you, on the theory that anyone can always use another knock-knock joke.

Now onto what I was going to write about before I got dinged. . .

Maria Shriver produced a 2008 documentary about her father she called American Idealist. And for once, it seems to me, everything was in a name, for Sargent Shriver seems to have been just that --an American idealist; able to visualize the best this country could be. Plus, he had the will, the clout, the energy, and the connections to make at least some of that best happen.

I sort of cooked dinner with Sargent Shriver once.

For a year back in the late 70's, Sargent Shriver's eldest son, Bobby,  and his nephew, Bobby Kennedy, Jr., ate dinner regularly at a small, Elliewood Avenue, restaurant I co-owned in Charlottesville. When Bobby (Shriver) got ready to turn 25, he asked if I'd be willing to host a family birthday celebration. Nothing special, food-wise, he said.. Just what I always cooked. It was just that he liked my restaurant and thought his family would like it as well.

The Kennedy Clan blew in on the night of the birthday party like a power surge; a flock of handsome, energized people obviously looking to enjoy themselves. I was back in the kitchen cooking, when here comes Sargent Shriver, chatting away, sticking his nose into pots, asking if there was anything he could do to help. Right behind him came his son, anxious that his father not get in my way; saying, apologetically, that his dad could be a bit much sometimes.

It was a fine, festive evening, as I remember it. And I thought of it yesterday when the news came of his death.  Sargent Shriver had finally stopped being a bit much at the age of 95.

R. Sargent Shriver, left, and Eunice Kennedy Shriver greeted the crowd during a swearing-in ceremony for Arnold Schwarzenegger in 2003. (Justin Sullivan/Getty Images)

Maureen Orth posted an appreciation of Sargent Shriver today on Vanity Fair. In it, she writes,

There wasn’t a tough job that Sarge did not do well. When John F. Kennedy asked him to run the Peace Corps, he joked that J.F.K. had no choice but to give the job to a brother-in-law due to its enormous potential for failure. A few years later, Jacqueline Kennedy asked Sarge to arrange her husband’s funeral, and he did so flawlessly. After heading the Chicago school board and becoming a leading civil-rights advocate, he was frequently mentioned as both an Illinois gubernatorial and senate candidate. In 1964, Lyndon Johnson very much wanted Sarge to be his running mate, but the Kennedys said absolutely not—it was Bobby’s turn first. Then it was Teddy’s turn.

Sarge loved running the very popular Peace Corps, but he reluctantly quit when L.B.J. twisted his arm to head the War on Poverty. Democrat George McGovern turned to Sarge to run with him as vice president, in 1972, after Tom Eagleton dropped out when it was revealed that he had undergone psychiatric treatment, but they lost big-time. Sarge also served as ambassador to France, and in the last decades of his life he and Eunice founded the Special Olympics and made it a worldwide force for the intellectually disabled. He was the kind of husband who seriously thought his wife should be canonized by the Catholic Church; Sarge himself was so devout that even as he was ravaged by Alzheimer’s in his later years, the two things he never forgot were his prayers and his manners. “You’re a good looking kid,” he said to my son a few years ago as he stuck out his hand in greeting. “Are you my son?”

R. Sargent Shriver, with wife Eunice, campaigning for vice president in 1972. (United Press International/ File)

There's not much else for me to say, is there?

I just hope, as the noisy news of the day pelts us, we'll still remember to take a moment to honor and respect the late Sargent Shriver's contribution to our country.

The story of a 5-Star Harrisonburg food joint ... so what's a food joint? ... read on ...

The Substation and Mexican Grill: A 5-Star Harrisonburg joint (photo:Reed)

My husband, Charlie, and I like to eat out.

Our favorite kind of restaurant is what we call a good joint. These are small, unpretentious places, where the food is actually cooked from scratch in the kitchen and the decor doesn't look as though it's done by a professional decorator. Eating out, to Charlie and me, is about good chow eaten in non-cookie cutter places, where we can wear our jeans.

The first restaurant Charlie and I tried in Harrisonburg was a small, colorful taquería.  There it was, bright yellow and beckoning, drawing us in like a couple of ants to chocolate cake. Charlie ordered goat meat tacos, settled back in his mismatched chair and announced, "I think I'm going to like this town!"


We went back to that taqueria often enough to get to know some of the folks who worked there. Manuel we learned was José's brother; Lourdes was José's wife. We also learned that the place was owned by an absentee landlord who didn't pay very much, demanded astonishingly long hours, and kept tips that had not been placed directly in the hand of an employee. This meant that gratuity put on a credit card, left on the table, or put in the tip jar went directly to that never-seen owner!


Naturally this dimmed our enthusiasm for the place. We feel strongly that hard work deserves fair wages!

Lourdes Minero (photo by Judy Dilts)

Skip forward several years. . . Charlie and I bump into Manuel in the tool section of Big Lots and learn that José and Lourdes are about to open their own restaurant in the former Waffle House (exit 243 on I-81). It will also be a taquería, but will have dishes that are their own creations as well as sub sandwiches.


We went, we ate, we loved the food! 


José cooks it, Lourdes serves it to us. They are working, she says, 14-hour days, and, yes, she is tired. But they are working for themselves, and that makes all the difference. Their young daughter hangs out in the back. Manuel, who works construction in Northern Virginia, comes in on the weekends to help out. And other family members and friends pitch in as well. 


The old Waffle House has been transformed into a bright, cheerful, colorful, welcoming place.


As a former professional cook, I can only give the food at The Substation and Mexican Grill two enthusiastic thumbs up. Everything on the menu is made from scratch. If you order chips, that's when they go back and cook the chips. The  guacamole is fresh with what looks like a whiff of pico de gallo mixed in to lighten it a bit. My current favorite entrée is a Tilapia BLT -- two flour tortillas, filled with grilled chunks of fish, bacon, and grilled vegetables. Served with sour cream and salsa. 

Dalila (a friend of Lourdes), Andres (Manuel's son), Georgina (Lourdes and Jose's daughter) , Lourdes, and Jose (photo by Judy Dilts)

The family who owns the Substation and Mexican Grill came to America a little over a decade ago. I'm not sure I've ever known people who worked as hard, as cheerfully. Eating among them makes me feel good about life, about food, even about my country. If I ever allowed myself to get sappy, I'd get sappy about what this 5-Star food joint says about the American dream being alive and cooking in Harrisonburg, Virginia.

I makes me feel encouraged just to hang out at the Substation and  Mexican Grill, eat, and have a chat with whomever's working.

Anyone want to join me there for lunch one day?

There's something about Sarah . . .thoughts on you and I and Ms. Palin . . .

drawing by Dori Hartley

Sally Quinn's blog  in yesterday's Washington Post was called, "To Sarah Palin: It's not all about you."  Ms. Quinn's point is that Ms. Palin perhaps has a tendency . . .how shall I put this? . . .to see herself as a central character in whatever happens, including the Arizona shootings. To look at all national events as opportunities for self-promotion.

One commenter did challenge Ms.Quinn to stop writing about the erstwhile candidate for vice-president if she found her so reprehensible. Which might possibly be good for the national discourse, but is still, in my opinion, completely impractical. I mean, if I, as a blogger, stopped mentioning Sarah Palin, I'd be seriously blog-fodder challenged, right? So it makes perfect sense for me to keep writing about the former governor, right????

Oh dear. . .

Does this mean that maybe, in reality, I think it's all about me? Could I possibly be Sarah Palin's soul sister disguised as a public radio blogger?

This muddle brings me back to something Ms. Quinn wrote half-way through her post:

I believe that what brings out so many hostile feelings toward Sarah Palin is that many people look at her and see the dark side of themselves. The psychiatrist will tell you that often what you hate in others is the thing you are most afraid of in yourself.

For whatever reason, I've been thinking quite a bit about Sarah Palin over the last week -- all the while  wondering why I bother to think about her at all. Is there really some "there, there" behind those trademark glasses? Certainly, the former governor of Alaska appears to be a person of great sass, who breaks through the staid conventions of political rhetoric. She bodaciously disrespects anyone who attempts to call her  to task.  She disparages unapologetically, apparantly has a great time snapping out instructions on her Facebook page to “never retreat, instead RELOAD!” And she so unabashedly grabs for the spotlight, even after last  week's horrendous Arizona massacre. I find her chutzpah fascinating; and am also, I must admit, a bit in awe of it.

We Americans, whether we love her or hate her, do find her fascinating.. The CNN Political Ticker, for example, cannot leave her be. Ms. Palin doesn't have to utter a word to make the column; it's considered worth reporting when someone talks about her.

Today, however, we celebrate the life and legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr., the man with the great, enduring dream of what this country could become. Sometime this week, Congress will most likely begin re-debating health care reform. We've promised each other to be more civil and respectful of each other's views in this debate; pledged that both our personal and political rhetoric in discussing health care (and everything else) will be more like Martin Luther King's, less like Sarah Palin's.

Will we do it? Can we do it? Or is Sally Quinn right to suspect that we have met the enemy of civility and it is, at least partially, us. Has Sarah Palin helped loose a rhetorical beast in you, in me, in American society, that cannot be re-caged?

What do you think?

The Wonders of Bacteria and Viruses, a Civic Soapbox essay by Denise Zito

Martha note: It's Civic Soapbox Friday. 

Though I’ve spent much of my career in medical laboratories and related industry, I was knocked flat last month at a scientific meeting when reminded that the human body is composed of ten percent human cells and ninety percent bacterial cells. Ninety percent! Remember, we’re not talking weight or volume, but simply numbers.

I was listening to a lecture about how the intestinal bacteria, or as the medical community calls them -- gut flora -- may play a role in diabetes, a condition affecting more and more Americans and citizens world-wide. It seems that the particular mix of bacteria in the intestine may be linked somehow to developing diabetes.

That interesting idea lead me to reflect about the way our own human genetic makeup and our vast microbial partners are intimately related, just the way a sprig of mistletoe depends on the tree, and the way the mushroom depends on the stump.

Contemporary America has declared war on bacteria. Everywhere you look there are anti-bacterial soaps and wipes. I’m fairly certain that most people just aren’t aware of how dependent we are on this wonderful life-form. Yes, most realize that cheese and beer and wine and sauerkraut are all made by the actions of bacteria. But does everyone also know that our immune system, through protective skin bacteria and the digestion of our food, are intimately dependent upon useful bacteria?

We’re also part and parcel of viruses. In order to live, a virus must insert itself into a living cell (often this is us), and even if our immune system clears the bug and we recover, the virus leaves behind a snippet of itself in our cells.

Thinking about this made me ponder exactly what it means to be human. We are woven with viral particles and living permanently with a swarm of helpful bacterial neighbors. Talk about an ecological moment! It’s wondrous really.

When antibiotics were developed and came into widespread use, they were a real lifesaver and improved health by eliminating many diseases and preventing a lot of suffering. More recently we’ve become perhaps overly dependent on these drugs and have them prescribed for every sore throat and ear infection, though most don’t benefit because the drugs don’t work against viruses. There are a lot of people who become impatient with their doctors and demand these drugs even when they aren’t indicated.

We’ve been warned that the over use of antibiotics leads to resistant strains, meaning bacteria that aren’t killed by our current drugs and have morphed into super-bugs that require more expensive and stronger drugs to control them. And those drugs are also killing many of our useful bacteria.

So today, I invite you to turn your thoughts to the fact that we humans are complex organisms and live in an intimate neighborhood with important bacterial partners. It’s a delicate balance of mostly peaceful coexistence with billions of fellow beings. It’s an amazing reality.

 --Denise Zito lives in community with bacteria on her small farm in Free Union.

Jared Loughner and me . . .

I just read a long, front page piece in The Washington Post, about Jared Loughner, who'd evidently been quite desperately ill for some time. And please note that I say he was "ill," not "mentally ill," because to me part of the responsibility for the Arizona shootings comes from society's (meaning yours and mine) habit of differentiating between mental and physical illness. We've already established that separation did not lead to equality in schooling. Nor, I would submit does it lead to equality in our treatment of the sick.

Isn't it time we recognize that, to paraphrase Gertrude Stein, an illness is an illness? That behavior is as legitimate a symptom of a need for medical intervention as a temperature or a seizure? That those of us who would reach out to anyone who faints, should reach out anyone who acts as Jared Lougher has for years?

Photo of Loughner playing the saxophone as a teenager in a jazz program.
Photo courtesy of Robert Blanco Photography

The Washington Post article about Mr. Loughner paints a portrait of a musically gifted kid who had some kind of a break in high school, for which he was never treated, and from which he never recovered. Instead his illness got worse, as untreated illnesses do, and we all know what happened.

Two thirds of the way through The Washington Post article, researched and written by three Post staff writers, was this:

In the past year or so, the crumbling of what was once Loughner was clear to anyone who bothered to look. Teachers, fellow students, even the anonymous e-buddies who substituted for the real friends he had lost - many suspected mental illness and said so, to one another, to Loughner, even to people who might have taken action. But no one did.

Later on in the article comes ...

By last summer, evidence of Loughner's increasingly deteriorating mental state was littered across the electronic worlds he inhabited.

On one site, Above Top Secret, Loughner left dozens of posts with bizarre theories about U.S. currency, the Constitution and grammar. Finally, another regular on the site wrote back that "I think you're frankly schizophrenic, and no that's not an amateur opinion and not intended as an uninformed or insulting remark. I really do care. Seek help before you hurt yourself or others or start taking your medications again, please."

Loughner, known on the site as "erad3," responded, "Thank you for the concern." 

There's already been a lot written about how inadequately we, as a  society, deal with mental health. Here's an excerpt from George Kubin's OpEd in Wednesday's Chicago Tribune.

... As a nation, we fail over and over to address the problem of mental illness and then wonder where these people come from when there is a mass murder. These people do not see the world like most rational people. Applying a rational form of justice on an irrational individual does nothing to address the core problem. Rather than viewing these events as isolated incidents, we as a society need to do a better job of educating people about what options there are to get people with mental illness the help they need.

Sure. Sure. I agree with Mr. Kubin completely. But, to me, the language of this piece still somehow separates the mentally ill from the physically ill, as though "these people" were somehow something other than "people."

This issue is personal with me, as I am chronically ill with both the disease of addiction and the disease of depression. Both -- hallelujah -- are in deep remission through treatment, but I am still ill. If I hadn't gotten treatment, who knows what I'd be doing this fine bright morning instead of blogging away for WMRA!

Treating the mentally ill begins with accepting -- and I mean accepting -- that "mental" illness is no more of a stigma per se than any other illness; say, for example, diabetes. Both are conditions that threaten a person's ability to lead a healthy life as a fully functioning member of society. Both need medical intervention. We've got to stop separating how we, as individuals and as a society, view the two.

This post is a plea to examine your own attitude toward the "mentally" ill. If you think of  Jared Loughner as "an other," then think of me as "an other" as well. Conceivably, the difference in what we did with our lives could be attributed, at least partially, to the difference in the help we got.

Calling a whatever a whatever . . .

Yeah!!

There's a new literary uproar about Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer! As the New York Times reported on January 5th . . .

Alan Gribben, a professor of English at Auburn University at Montgomery, . . .said Tuesday that he had been teaching Mark Twain for decades and always hesitated before reading aloud the common racial epithet, which is used liberally in the book, a reflection of social attitudes in the mid-19th century.

So, as I'm sure you know, Mr. Gribben has talked an Alabama publisher, NewSouth books, into replacing the "n" word (used 219 times in Huck Finn, alone) with the word "slave."

The ensuing kerfuffle over this clean-up of an American classic has made me think about the late Elisabeth Scott Bocock (1901-1985).

I never met Mrs. Bocock (whom I would not deem it appropriate to call Ms. Bobcock), but I have read the fine and sprightly biography/memoir of this charming, imperious, and exasperating Richmonder written by her daughter, Mary Buford Hitz.

Mary Buford (who lives in Charlottesville) brought me a copy of Never Ask Permission when she recorded her last-month's Civic Soapbox at WMRA. I read the book with great, great pleasure; truthfully, with much more pleasure than I'd expected to.

First of all, Mary Buford is a fine writer -- reason enough, in my opinion, to read almost any book. But it's her mother who fascinated and, yes, repelled me a bit, and so kept me glued to the page. Elisabeth Scott Bocock sprawls, stomps, twirls and swirls through the book in a way vaguely reminiscent of Scarlett O'Hara.  Mrs. Bocock, however, is real Virginia history, a woman who was not only a beauty and a charmer, but also erratic and willful. And, at least within the confines of Richmond, quite powerful. According to her daughter, when Elisabeth Scott Bocock told people to do something, they generally did it.

A little background on her place in Virginia history . . .

Those of us who advocate historical preservation owe Mary Buford Hitz's mother a round of applause, for one of the main reasons significant parts of old Richmond have been rescued and restored is because Elisabeth Scott Bocock lived in, and loved, that city. For decades she was the face, the drive, and the funding of Historic Richmond Foundation, the Carriage Museum at Maymount, the Hand Workshop, and the Virginia chapter of the Nature Conservancy. And Mrs. Bocock didn't just command others, either. She hauled bricks and timbers, negotiated deals, led by example and effort, as well as position.

Two buildings are worth a thousand words, perhaps, when it comes to understanding Elisabeth Scott Bocock's view of how things worked in the world. She was born into established city wealth (Scott & Stringfellow), and lived most of her life in the house shown below (now leased by the Scott family to VCU).

 Large parts of her summers were spent at Royal Orchard, the Scott family estate on Afton Mountain, which is otherwise known as the Scott Castle.

I'm not sure it's possible for anyone raised in such architectural grandeur to come at historical preservation without an elitist viewpoint.

Mary Buford does not shy away from showing her mother's autocratic, difficult side. In Never Ask Permission, Elisabeth Scott Bocock appears frequently as a bossy, intrusive and pig-headed creature in her dealings, as well as a charming one.

And this is where the Huck Finn kerfuffle comes in.

As an old hippie, I was frequently put off by Elizabeth Scott Bocock's imperious attitude toward others. Yet this woman was what she was: a rich, entitled, brilliant, hard-working early-to-mid Twentieth Century southern woman. She lived in different times than I do; bred to employ different tactics to make things happen.

Mary Buford Hitz wisely chose not to soften her mother's high-handed edges in order to make her more appealing to modern readers. And this, for me, is what makes Never Ask Permission really, really interesting, because this is what makes it true social history. Elisabeth Scott Bocock lives on her daughter's pages as a fascinating creature of her racist, sexist times. This means that, as a reader, I get to know exactly what it  was like to be born a white, smart, moneyed, capable, and driven female in the heart of a racist, sexist century.

Isn't this what reading Huck Finn should be about, as well? Shouldn't this Mark Twain classic give us an opportunity to stomp around in the shoes of 19th Century Americans; live in those times the way its author experienced them, rather than in a way that makes us comfortable today? How can we learn from our past if we sanitize our retelling of it?

I, for one, want Elisabeth Scott Bocock and Huck Finn down on the page exactly the way they were!