In the 1980’s our extended group of college friends would go visit “The Cabin” for long weekends at a time. The Cabin, always discussed in hushed reverence or high ebullience or a strange combination of both, was a hunting lodge partially owned by my father and deep in the wilds of the Pine Barrens, far from a paved road or the strictures of civilization. It was a place removed from telephones, television, and all routine responsibility that wasn’t somehow connected with convening in the woods for three days (i.e., digging a new trash pit, cooking gritty chicken over an improvised grill perched too low over the sand, and drinking about one case of beer each). Even writing this post about it gives me a frisson of excitement.

Currently I’m reading “Drop City” by T.C. Boyle about a group of hippies in 1970 who drop out in California and form a commune, and then drop further out, into Alaska.

A moment while I reflect on how much I’ve always despised the hippie mystique. Granted, it wasn’t my generation, but the veneration of drug-addled layabouts is decidedly contra to my own convictions. The world has things that need to be done. Sure, we would go have a Cabin Weekend for three days as a release mechanism, but we returned. Already some of us were business owners; on the final Cabin Weekend, some of us were parents with babies in tow.

What has been truly eye-opening about “>Drop City — in addition to Boyle’s mellifluous prose and riveting storyline and characters — is how little thought any of us ever gave to disaster. Looking back 20 years later, I now think that we were courting potential disaster every weekend. My friends and I were upright citizens of the woods, so we never had anything to fear from each other except mishap. But we had an open-door policy: Anyone who showed up was invited in. Deep in the woods, that sort of thinking doesn’t always serve you well.

Down the path and past the runoff across the cranberry bog was a large open flat space deep with white sand. Occasionally groups would show up there while we happened to be on the other side of the water at the Cabin. One time the group that arrived were the Hell’s Angels. Were they the true California Hell’s Angels? If not, they were certainly close kin. We could hear them and they could hear us. At the Cabin, everyone grew worried. We were outnumbered, and it would be nothing for this group to overtake us if they wanted. I’ll never forget the look in my the eyes of my then-girlfriend (now wife) when I picked up a sixpack of Old Milwaukee and headed for the door with my best friend Ski in tow. “Where are you going?” she said. “To say hello and welcome them to the neighborhood,” I said and walked out. Because really, what choice did we have?

At the Cabin, it transpired that one could greet a motorcycle gang with a six-pack, sit by the fire briefly and chat, make nice, and leave untroubled. Things don’t work out this way in “Drop City.” The power of fiction is in making you reflect on your life in a new way. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing while reading this book: looking back on Cabin Weekends as a time when we were consistently very very lucky.

A tip of the hat to Timothy Noah at Slate for catching this very bad writing at the New York Times. I don’t think the Times is the be-all and end-all; I also don’t think any writer is immune from this sort of glib error. But it’s important to put people on notice; we all write to be read (or seen), and if we don’t expect criticism we don’t deserve accolades, and we shouldn’t be writing. Assumptions need to be grounded, and as Noah points out, the comparison here in no way holds up.

This priceless exchange reprinted with permission from business consultant Alan Weiss’ newsletter. And what does it say about the Wall Street Journal — a BUSINESS publication — that they can’t handle this simple situation? (And, since he didn’t get his Wall Street Journal, I guess Alan didn’t see Mark Chaet inside.)

Me and the Wall Street Journal

Me: Listen, I didn’t get my paper this morning, that’s twice this week, and I’m getting annoyed.
WSJ: I’m terribly sorry. Would you give me the account number on the paper address label?
Me: How can I?! I don’t have the paper!
WSJ: Did you dispose of it?
Me: No, it was never delivered!
WSJ: Have you looked outside?
Me: Yes, that’s how I know it’s not there!
WSJ: Did you notice the color or license plate of the delivery person’s vehicle?
Me: No! They weren’t here! I wasn’t out there early in the morning looking for them!
WSJ: So they may have been there earlier?
Me: How could they?! There is no paper! Would they have come and not left a paper?
WSJ: I don’t understand that question. Of course they’d leave a paper.
Me: Never mind.
WSJ: Would you like a replacement paper?
Me: Yes, please!
WSJ: If you call prior to 9 am we can have one there by 2:30.
Me: But it’s 10:30 now!
WSJ: Then I’m sorry, we cannot replace your paper. You must call before 9.
Me: What time do you open?
WSJ: Nine.
Me: Then how could I call you?!
WSJ: Do you need our number?
Me: NO!! What can you do for me now?!
WSJ: Sir, please don’t shout. We will deliver tomorrow’s paper and give you credit for today’s.
Me: What if tomorrow’s doesn’t come?
WSJ: Then call us back, but to get a replacement copy you must call before 9 am.
Me: What if I tell you now, well before 9 am tomorrow, that I need a replacement paper tomorrow?
WSJ: Is tomorrow’s paper missing?
Me: Forget about it.

copyright 2006 Alan Weiss

Great interview with David Simon, co-creator of The Wire, the best show on television.

“Squadron Supreme” began in 1969 as a thinly veiled crossover of DC heroes into the Marvel Universe so that Roy Thomas could have the Avengers battle the Justice League. Hyperion is a Marvelized Superman, Nighthawk is Batman, the Whizzer (now called Blur) is the Flash, and so forth.

Several years ago, J. Michael Straczynski, creator of Babylon 5 (which I’ve never seen), relaunched the Squadron Supreme into an alternative Marvel timeline, one more immediately relevant, where the government seeks to control these superhumans and use them to their own ends — like having them invade the equivalent of Iraq on our behalf. This sounded like an interesting premise, and so a couple or years ago I picked up the trade paperbacks for half price at the San Diego Comic Con. After getting hooked, and seeing that Marvel was starting the storyline in a new title, I subscribed.

In the most recent issue, #7, a superhuman serial killer (now there’s an idea!) named Redstone has been released by the government because Hyperion and company aren’t listening to them any more, and as we all know, the government is about control. This battle takes on epic proportions. Here you see Redstone frying Hyperion’s eyeballs out. Soon, the blinded Hyperion is accidentally killing civilians that Redstone keeps throwing in his way. Meanwhile, Hyperion’s lover Zarda (the Wonder Woman stand-in) has taken a multi-megaton nuclear warhead into space and has seemingly died in the explosion. Then, in a classic cliffhanger, the Blur and Nighthawk show up vowing to take down Redstone — next issue.

After reading my subscription copy, though, I noticed an odd blue sheet in the polybag. It said (I’m paraphasing), “Attention Squadron Supreme fans, this is the last issue! In exchange for your remaining issues, we’re replacing this title with Moon Knight. If you don’t want that, call us.”

So I called them. It seemed incredible to me that this would be the last issue. When I told Number One Son that apparently this was the last issue, he said, “Damn! This keeps happening to me!” He recounted his past travails with a TV show called “Reunion” that got canceled before the big secret was revealed (he has his own theories about who the murderer was, or something like that) as well as other shows. I couldn’t remember this having ever happened to me with a comic book. They get canceled, yes — but not in the middle of this sort of cliffhanger.

The guys at my favorite comics shop in the world, House of Secrets, don’t think it’s true, no matter what subscription girl at Marvel says. I checked Marvel online and I see a solicitation for #9 (with a cover), but can’t find #8. Hm. And Marvel has already launched a new miniseries in which Hyperion and Nighthawk battle it out over the genocide in Darfur.

So here’s what I’ve decided: I think the remaining five issues will come to be. I think Marvel subscriptions just wasn’t going to offer them (even though saps like me were paid up). Reason? This series is coming to an end, and “Moon Knight” is ongoing — so switch us over and get us hooked.

Well, it’s not going to work. Not with me. I’m not going to read “Moon Knight.”

Although apparently, I will spend 30 minutes reading this issue, 15 minutes on the phone to New York, 10 minutes discussing this in the comics shop, 30 minutes research on the web, 10 minutes making these scans, and 40 minutes formatting and writing this blog entry.

And they say comics are “escapism.”

This is the back cover of this week’s New Yorker — and that’s my friend of 14 years, actor (and now model!) Mark Chaet.

On Friday I was at the car dealership and before getting out of my car looked around to see if there was anything I needed to take in with me: my wallet, my keys, etc. On the passenger seat was the new New Yorker, which had arrived that day, turned face down. Otherwise I probably never would have seen this back cover. I looked over, and here was my reaction: “That looks like Mark Chaet. That is Mark Chaet. No, I’m seeing things. Looks like him, though.” Then I picked it up and held it closer. “That is Mark Chaet! It’s Mark Chaet!” (Around our house, everything “Mark” is either “Mark Chaet” or “Mark Stephenson” because we have two actor friends of long standing named Mark.)

I called him on my cellphone and said, “Mark Chaet, you’re famous! Even moreso! I’m here at the dealership buying a new car and I just saw you on the back of The New Yorker!”

Here’s the kind of guy Mark is. His reply was, “You’re buying a new car? Cool! What kind?”

This ad campaign (including its accompanying television spot) is cleared to run for up to a year in places like The New Yorker, Wall Street Journal, and other major print media, so we’ll be seeing a lot more of Mark. Our family has grown used to seeing Mark Chaet on TV, in movies, on stage, in real life — but I never expected to be holding his picture in my hands while I’m in bed. And now he’s on my blog. Congratulations for him — but if I roll over in the middle of the night and find him next to me I’ll know it’s gone too far.

The Independent also had this story on a Chinese actress who finally got fed up with the casting couch — and what she did about it.

Chinese actress uses Web to expose the ‘rule’ of sex-for-roles
By Clifford Coonan in Beijing

When the aspiring actress Zhang Yu decided she wanted to blow the whistle on some of China’s top TV and film-makers – those who have demanded sex in return for roles in their soap operas and movies – she chose the internet to make her case.

Zhang says she won all her roles through sleeping with the directors, assistant directors or men in charge of casting. She also made films herself – of the casting couch sessions. Then she rocked the film and TV world by releasing 20 graphic sex videos of her and a host of big names.

Forthwith follows further evidence of the decline in testosterone among my gender.

Almost 100 years ago, Ernest Shackleton and his crew braved the Antarctic for two years almost completely without supplies once the pack ice closed in crushed their ship.

Today over on msnbc.com, reporter Miguel Llanos writes about his own voyage to the antarctic. He begins by complaining about his lost luggage, and about having to try on different cold-weather clothes. Men, read it here and weep.

In August 2005, no doubt dazed by my latest literary allusion, Doug asked me for a list of what he should read. So by God, I gave him one. What writer wouldn’t?

In honor of Doug’s 50th, I’ve decided to share it with you, too. It’s still called “Doug’s Reading List,” even though Doug didn’t draw it up and has proved immune to its wisdom. Don’t let that stop you, though. Sadly lacking in a college degree in literature, but determined to hold your own at fancy-schmanzy wine-and-cheese events? Then this is the list for you!

Click here for the page hosting the list.

Wanna pick a fight on the contents of the list? Please do. Post a comment. I eagerly await it.

Today’s LA Times has a nice obit for Dave Cockrum — and they even spelled his name right.