BREAKING JBB NEWS

Freak accident sends The Hoff to surgery
LONDON, England (AP)-- Former Baywatch star David Hasselhoff had surgery after severing a tendon in his right arm after hitting his head on a chandelier in a London gym bathroom, his spokeswoman said Friday. The full report is HERE.

To The Hoff, my trusty editors and I send our sympathies and prayers.

Read more!

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

A Final Missive from
The Germanatrix At the World Cup

hoo·li·gan: (h l -g n) n. A tough and aggressive or violent youth.; A thug who regularly goes to football matches and starts fights with opposing supporters; Hooligans can be distinguished from hooligans by the fact that true Hooligans have nothing to do with soccer/football, and rarely get into fights because they're too busy drinking.

Due to rather extreme security measures, the World Cup’s soccer hooligan front was pretty calm this time around—at least in Germany.

Germany’s unexpected tranquility is due to the fact that officials wisely recognized and regulated the true source of hooliganism: British fans. Germany minimized this threat to World Cup peace by banning the travel of known (read: folks with police records) hooligans, and the importing of British policemen to interact with British fans (since apparently Brits don’t respond well to the law enforcement of other countries). The few (read: 50,000 to 100,000+) British fans that made it into Germany were quiet and completely ruly (that’s the opposite of unruly, right?).

In the UK it’s an entirely different story. Due to riots and drunken violence, the BBC recently pulled the plug on its plan to broadcast all of England’s World Cup matches on big-screen televisions in Manchester, London, and Liverpool. “Frustrated fans among the 3,000-strong crowd hurled beer bottles, cans and other missiles as the game drew to a close.” Write Steven Morris and Owen Gibson of The Guardian Unlimited, “Onlookers said glass rained down on to the heads of children and elderly people.”

This happened during the first game. And I can see why, since England, despite having won all of its matches (ok, won two and drawn one, but who’s counting?), isn’t actually playing very well. And let’s not even discuss Sven-Goran Eriksson.

To many fans, soccer is a life-or-death business—a fact confirmed by the range of allusions to World War II that pervade British hooligan rituals. Apparently, at England’s games versus Germany, British fans will often sing “Ten German Bombers,” which details the shooting down of German bombers by the RAF. Tony Parsons, writing in The Daily Mirror, has stated that:

" Less than a lifetime ago the Germans inflicted untold misery on the world. If English football fans choose to deal with that a mere 60 years later by holding their arms out and pretending to be Lancaster bombers, I would suggest that the Germans are getting off quite lightly. "

I must point out that Mr. Parsons was not even alive when the Germans were going around inflicting their “untold misery.” "> I hate to break it to you, Mr. Parsons, but subsequent generations just don’t get to hold anything over the heads of folks who weren’t even sperm during the aforementioned events. As for “a mere” 60 years later—you know what happened “a mere 60 years” ago? Well, for one, the empire upon which the sun supposedly never set was only starting to crumble. So speaking of “untold misery,” how would the English like it if every black person in the stadium were to dress up like Shaka Zulu and act like they were chopping off British heads every time an African nation played a match against Beckham and his cronies? Sound tacky?

If the Germans wreaked such untold misery on the British during WWII (obligatory disclaimer: of course, they totally did), then it’s pretty bad form to make light of that during a soccer game. As if one had anything to do with the other. Are the English really getting back at the Germans for razing London to the ground (a mere 60 years ago, of course) and killing countless women and children by…singing a song and waving their arms about in the air? I think not.

I should probably admit here that I don't know much about soccer-related hooliganism. I haven't had any personal experiences involving hooligans, or acting like one myself (at least, not that I can remember, and certainly not in relation to soccer). I was as excited as the next person when the Red Sox won the Series, but I doubt I would have reacted violently if it hadn’t happened. That, you may say, is because Red Sox fans are used to losing, but those are semantics, say I. The average person wouldn’t have the energy to devote a significantly violent reaction to anything related to sports. There would be depression, and a copious amount of drinking where, certainly, anything could happen, but on the whole, people don’t kill other people when their team doesn’t make it out of the semi-finals.

It should be entirely unnecessary at this point to declare that hooligans are totally lame. Hooliganism bespeaks not just an attachment to a game or a team, but an unhealthy level of attachment that, in other cases, might be manifested as stalking. It’s just a game, folks. And that’s the key, isn’t it? Hooliganism, like it says in the definition, has absolutely nothing to do with soccer. It’s associated with soccer because some people need an excuse to be violent and soccer is as good a reason as any to bash someone’s head in.

As we smart people know, hooliganism is simply stupid people acting in a stupid manner and if you took away the soccer ball, hooligans would just find some other outlet for their aggressive tendencies. They’ll act stupid with or without the excuse of professional sports. So, hooligans, carry on if you must, but don’t expect any sympathy from us when you’re arrested for skirmishing or your eye gets poked out during a rousing rendition of “Ten German Bombers.” We smart people will be shaking our big-brained hipster heads from the sidelines.

Read more!

Meet Joosy!

Joosy!('jü-sE!) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something photographer, ceramicist, gallery manager, wild man living in Jackson, Mississippi. A graduate of Mississippi State University, Joosy! is JBB’s resident artistic genius. He enjoys the ladies and the ladies enjoy him.

Read more!

The Coast Is Not Clear

Because JBB isn't just about rocking, it's also about art and culture and the whole mess of twenty-something life, we must from time to time take a look at things that decidedly do not rock. Thus, Joosy! and the Josh Hailey Studio bring you postcards from the coast.

Mary of the Bay


Bay Angel


Swimming Pool


Fallen. Not Broken.


Small Chapel

Read more!

Behind the Body

My trusty editors are English dorks, God bless them, so they delight in exploring and debating the processes of my wondrous Body. And I'm guessing at least 1 out of 5 of our post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something readers are interested as well. So for your sake, dear readers, we offer an all-access glimpse into what goes on Behind the Body.

Today's episode features top-secret (and occasionally censored for your protection) dispatches regarding Wednesday's upcoming "The Coast Is Not Clear" feature. The debate flared between the editors' desks for days. They pondered such issues as the legitimacy of Art for Art's sake, the exploitation of Tragedy, and the complexities of presenting a controversial subject without implying a controversial statement.

So here, for your amusement and enlightenment, is my body laid bare.

Simply click on the photographs to enlarge.

Read more!

JB vs. Coastal Men

In pondering the wonders of my Body last week, my trusty editors grew curious about what distinguishes me from others of the male species. They dispatched JBB's sexy new writers, Queen Ann and The Fashionista, to the country's opposite coasts, to bring you a special report on the men of Los Angeles and New York City.

Read more!

Meet The Fashionista

The Fashionista (Fauh-shun-E-stuh) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something writer, Saks jewelry-buyer, bright young thing living in New York City. A graduate of Harvard University, Fashionista is JBB's resident expert on everything Greek, diamond tiaras, James Merrill, elegant entertaining, and East Coast men. She likes karaoke.

Read more!

An East Coast Lady on East Coast Men

The Fashionista Takes On
The Coopersexual

As a sexy single girl living and working in the big city, I have a confession to make: I’ve only seen about five episodes of Sex and the City. And one of them, “Evolution,” I’ve seen repeatedly. Whenever people are talking about the show, I always bring up “Evolution” as my avowed favorite episode, mainly because it’s the only one I can really remember. (It’s season two, 1999, if you’re wondering). Charlotte is interested in a man who seems to have evolved into a “gay straight man”—a man who, due to prolonged exposure to the lifestyle of Manhattanites ($15 lychee cocktails! Art galleries! Oh my!), embodies the best of both worlds.

The slightly confusing term “gay straight” later evolved into the ubiquitous “metrosexual,” which describes men who get manicures, read magazines, use hair products, and still sleep with women. It’s been applied to Bono, Brad Pitt, and George Clooney. But over the past several months, I’ve begun to notice another trend, or possibly an evolutionary offshoot of the metrosexual. The orangutan of metrosexuality, as it were.

He dresses well, uses hair products, watches sports on television, but never makes any effort towards sexual definition. He is vehemently ambiguous. He could be a “gay straight man” or a “straight gay man.” Unlike the traditional metrosexual, who carries a Jack Spade bag on one arm and a beautiful girlfriend on the other, the “Coopersexual,” named in honor of everyone’s favorite Prada-wearing CNN anchor, remains patently unattached. He has nothing to prove.

The benefits of Coopersexuality:
1. Women love you.
2. Men love you.
3. You never have to commit.

But allow me to backtrack: we’re not talking “bi” here. Bisexuality is the boy with the fauxhawk. It’s hip but mostly among the high school crowd; it’s prevalent enough that it has hit the radar of New York magazine, which devoted a cover article to the sexual activities of high schoolers at Brooklyn’s selective public Stuyvesant High School. But men of Coopersexuality are generally beyond the realm of mere “experimentation.” This is a lifestyle choice.

We used to play a game in college: Gay Or Foreign? We actually invented it while waiting in line at the Met to see an exhibit of DaVinci’s sketches. Obviously, it was the only thing to do while waiting in an interminably long line stretched around the grand staircase. Yes, Gay or Foreign was entertaining, but it was also instructive because, let’s face it, sometimes it’s hard for a girl to tell.

As a point of reference, it was not uncommon, nor has it been for many years (possibly a Platonic tradition?) for young southern European men to have an older male lover. Eventually, the young man (the eromenos, or “beloved” as Plato calls him) would grow up and marry, leaving his lover (the erastes), and his homosexual dalliance would be a thing of the past. Beyond the obvious benefits, this relationship was also a form of patronage and education. Growing up in the shadow of that tradition has, with the help of tight jeans and man-jewelry, created the Gay Or Foreign conundrum.

Furthermore, Coopersexuals often have careers for which they aren’t willing to commit to any defined sexual identity. It indicates a reluctance to alienate any particular demographic. I have several examples, just from my own self-interested curiousity.

1. Anderson Cooper
I have loved Anderson Cooper since his days on Channel One, when he was dodging shrapnel in Bosnia. I have imagined the intelligent, sensitive, prematurely grey children we would have together. We could even name one of them after his dead brother, I conceded in my dreams, although it was a bit morbid. Anderson is now legitimately a rising star in television news: When there’s a Story to be reported, Anderson is there, just as he was twelve or thirteen years ago, risking life and limb to show the rest of America the face of disaster.

Discussion on blogs and bulletin boards can go on for days about Anderson’s sexuality. He maintains that his refusal to comment on his personal life is a matter of policy, not an indication of gayness or straightness. Bloggers on both sides continue to wait for an on-air slip-up, scour his magazine columns and lately, his memoirs, for some red flag. The latest theory, espoused on Gawker.com, has involved a mysterious man named Julio. But unlike America’s obsession with Matt Lauer as television’s most eligible bachelor, married man, separated-and-looking man, and finally divorcé, Anderson has managed to remain under the radar. So is he or isn’t he? Yes, I understand that it really isn’t our business.

2. Dave Lieberman
TV chefs are the next big thing. All of a sudden, cooking is glamorous and seductive and its practitioners are celebrities and household names. Bobby Flay is married to a beautiful actress, Jamie Oliver parties with JK from Jamiroquai, and Giada de Laurentiis is Hollywood royalty. My aunt in Chicago goes to bed every night praying that the next day, Tyler Florence will show up on her doorstep to make dinner for her. Dave Lieberman was scouted and recruited after appearing on his own local-access television show while an undergrad at Yale. He fits the formula for television chef perfectly: young, telegenic, smart, sensitive, and incapable of demonstrating scores of semi-original and simple meal preparations. For these reasons, I adore him.

On Lieberman’s website, he has a bulletin board that was meant to be used as a forum for fans to discuss food, recipes, and general information. The #2 topic of conversation is Lieberman’s sexuality. It’s a question that begs to be asked: On television, Lieberman only mentions his “friends”—Flay features his wife, Oliver his entire family (wife + two daughters), and Florence his son, flouting their heterosexuality for the camera. But Lieberman is new to television, and in the potential goldmine that is TV-chefdom, he cannot afford to alienate a demographic. Without any definitive accomplishments or culinary renown, he has to sell himself to establish a dedicated viewership. If statistics dictate that his viewers are primarily gay men or young women, he must cater to both simultaneously. Consequently, mum’s the word.

3. The Italian
This example is purely personal. Most of the men I meet through work are gay, absolutely, out and proud. It’s a function of the fashion industry. I get it, I expect it, and I accept it. But the Italian was different, somehow. He was, and still is, the most attractive man I’ve ever seen. Yes, even more so than Billy Nicholas. That accent, that style, that perfect and inimitable three-day-stubble. I was hooked. But the jury, according to everyone I’d queried, was still out, and wasn’t likely to return with a verdict any time soon. The Italian had a “business partner,” another Italian, but that evidence was far from conclusive (see above paragraph, Gay Or Foreign?). He was also photographed at swanky parties dancing with supermodels. In discussing the Peter Braunstein affair , he made off-hand comments like “my gay friends in Chelsea said…,” differentiating the gays as if they were a distinct and separate breed.

The Italian’s business is built primarily on an amazing PR machine that gets his product on stars, in films, and in front of magazine editors and merchandise buyers. In this industry, those people are overwhelmingly either women or gay men. It is highly advantageous not to alienate either demographic. And so here I am, a silly girl reduced to parsing conversations as if they were lines of Homer.

So be warned, kids. There’s a new strain of man out there, and you’re not likely to figure him out soon. Or maybe you shouldn’t even try. We’re evolving beyond metrosexuality to Coopersexuality, and all the cool kids are doing it. After all, it’s better to keep them guessing.

Read more!

Meet Queen Ann

Queen Ann ('kwEn &n) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something student, writer, partier, bright young thing living in Los Angeles. A graduate of the University of Chicago and the University of California at Berkeley, Queen Ann is JBB's resident expert on rumpus, Robert Goulet, and the swinging singles scene. She enjoys public intellectualism and lapdances.

Read more!

A West Coast Lady On West Coast Men

Queen Ann on the Sex Panther Within

My butt cheek is numb and I blame L.A, I thought to myself as I reached the top of the stairs at The Viper Room.* No eye contact, body turned abruptly away from an oncoming predator, and still my right cheek was assaulted. Pinched. Just another night out since I moved to Los Angeles. For the past year, I’ve made a noble effort to glean some insight about the men that roam these parts, but honestly, I’m baffled.

Admittedly, my experience has limited scope. The academic realm of Pepperdine University and weekly visits to Hollywood’s The Viper Room have been the extent of my research. The more I consider my experiences/ traumas, I believe that the men in L.A. are not all that different from those of other regions of California. A numb cheek is comparatively little trouble when I recall the ex-con at a dive in Vacaville, Northern California, who wanted to celebrate because he just got out. The nearest prison was for the criminally insane. What joy.

In the same area, there are droves of Air Force guys, bivouacked in different dive bars where they play pool and watch old ladies with mullets wrestle. They devoted ample attention and never let me pay, but they didn’t do the things that I do, like read. Even up in Chico, California, (a testosterone-drenched cesspool when school is in session) an innocent-faced blonde stood quietly while I explained that I was a grad student down in Los Angeles. He blinked, shook his head, and blurted, “Sorry! I didn’t hear anything you just said. I was staring at your tits.” The flattery springs eternal.

It’s the same story that’s been trailing me for years like that cloud of dirt that surrounded Pig-Pen from Peanuts. Except here in L.A., it’s pervy. The Viper Room welcomes a variety of male characters. Everyone from the talented to the random shuffles around in the shadows every night, leering at the waitresses and making very small talk. “Got any crystal meth?” said Nate, a researcher for Court TV. “I wanna go out like River Phoenix did.” That was almost like humor, and there’s actually no telling if he was serious. In the same night, one of the performers asked if I would please check his nose for coke before he passed the cops parked around the corner.

Nevertheless, you let the good in with the bad. There are many struggling band members that come through the Viper Room, hoping to get signed someday. I’ve recently developed a new appreciation for live music thanks to the men of Buckfast, a band that frequently performs there. Rock usually isn’t my thing, but standing in the audience, enveloped by midnight energy (e.g., vodka tonics) and studying the seductively brooding expression of the Irish drummer, the draw suddenly intensifies. The guys onstage and all the sensations of the evening collide.

It occurred to me that I was being cleverly touched and yet not-touched. I had visions of mounting the stage and the drummer’s lap, which brings me to a revelation: Certain interludes with men remind me of Wild Kingdom. There’s a certain smell that men get when they’re active and excited and damp, but not sweaty enough to stink. I don’t know what those pheromones do, but damn! It’s libido catnip for the soul.

At times like these I have to redouble my already feeble grip on ladylike conduct and tell myself that it’s not okay to climb onto him like a panther. Or lick his arm. But inside, there’s a cunning ninja sex-panther lunging at his jugular. I think we all have an inner sex-panther, really. If anyone needs me later, I’ll be where my mind is usually—at home, frolicking shamelessly through the fields of impropriety.

But I digress. Back at the Viper Room, it was as if this band started as a happy meal and was run through a giant transmorgifier that magically laid them out like a sumptuous feast of masculinity. Multiply that sex appeal by duration of exposure and level of availability and what do you get all over the stage? That’s right: panties á la mesh.

But L.A. isn’t all about sumptuous feasts of masculinity. In fact, it’s very rarely about that. Wherever you go, there will be frat boys with their tans and sadly misplaced egos. They will do little more than shift their gazes to follow the rears of any females passing by. And feel entirely comfortable doing so. At the Viper Room, one such punk oiled his way across the room after an incident of unintentional eye contact. Damn my eyes!

“Why aren’t choo guyz drinkin?” he yelled.

When it was clear to him that my friend and I weren’t having his sickly version of charm, he rolled his eyes and turned his teenie Hollister t-shirt back toward his compatriots.

Later that evening, my friend and I had the pleasure of watching the drunkest girl we’ve ever seen upright plunge into the frat boy group and proceed to bite three different frat-boy nipples with enthusiasm. Teenie Hollister shirt boy clutched his peck for the rest of the evening. Glorious, yes, but I think this is a good warning to many men who think its cool to heckle a drunk chick: Beware the sex-panther of malicious intent. Seriously, gentlemen, it would behoove you to be more vigilant. That cloud of pheromones can produce something incredibly erotic (e.g., my sex-panther) or incredibly scary (e.g. nipple biting chick). If there are any sore-nippled college boy types out there reading this, well boys, like, honey is the sleep of the just.

I pondered the men of Los Angeles while visiting a hookah bar in Santa Monica. “Use me as your good example,” volunteered Dave, absently chewing and half-sucking on the mouthpiece of his hookah pipe. Why thank you, Dave. I’ll assume that it isn’t wrong to take advantage of a man at 3 a.m., brimming with relaxing tendrils of hookah smoke and still mesmerized by the last belly dancing show.

Though he was barely able to contain his urge to ravage the hookah bar belly dancers (he squirmed like a four-year-old and had to gnaw on his hand) while already in the company of two lovely women (myself included), Dave is rare kind of guy around L.A. Gainfully employed and able to demonstrate his ability to initiate and follow through on plans, he is also capable of entertaining with intriguing stories, such as why Darryl Hannah was recently found in a tree.**

When we first met, I looked at Dave like a unicorn. Follow-through? Plans? Where the hell did you come from? Then it dawned on me. Dave’s from New York and he doesn’t seem to be under Californication yet. He even complains about a tendency that I once assumed applied to all men: In L.A. you are exempt from calling people back. And if you do feel so inclined, there is a three- to four-day waiting period that I believe has been instituted by law. Now compare with N.Y., where the etiquette is to return a call as soon as you get the message or else it’s a slight insult. How are you supposed to plan something if no one calls you back?

I hate the "calling" issue with both men and women along this coast. It’s downright rude. And it’s all too tempting to turn this negligence back on oneself, which many of us do. Remember, there's no FREAK MAGNET sign on your head. We, good girls and boys, kick ass.

Therefore, if Prince Charming or Princess Demure turns out to be allergic to plans and promises, is still trying to find himself/herself, and complains that things are just too crazy busy to contact you for months on end, then let's focus on buying our own castles and hiring a plethora of pool boys/arm candy girls looking to advance their careers. It’s the L.A. way. Solid.


* The bar owned by Johnny Depp, which is most famous for being fronted by the sidewalk on which River Pheonix died.

** She was trying to save a farm. And by save, I mean be an ineffectual political eyesore and, moreover, an egregious waste of L.A. civil servants’ time.

Read more!

Nacho: The Morning After

The JBB film rating system:
= Kicks ass


= Decidedly does not kick ass

---

"Ninety-one minutes later, I found myself still sitting in the movie and hoping for another "extra-scene" tacked on the end like we saw in Napoleon Dynamite. Unfortunately, I had no such luck. Nacho Libre will be compared to Napoleon (same directors) and School of Rock (same writers), but it hopes to surpass such greats for one simple reason... Jack Black is shirtless for atleast 83 minutes in Nacho Libre, and he remains Jack Black for the entire ninety-one minutes. That being said, after leaving the movie I felt either shell-shocked or disappointed. Is a partially nude Jack Black enough to carry a movie? Maybe. I was looking for an extra-scene because I expected just a little more. Disappointed? Yes. Will I still quote the hell out of it? You betcha."
--Jordan (Memphis, TN)

---

"Jack Black's body is on exuberant display thoughout Nacho Libre. Unfortunately it is the film's lone joyous excess as nearly everything else, jokes included, lay in fetters. Surprisingly, all of this artistic restraint yields some real moving moments which might otherwise be obscured. The comedic elements of the story evolve slowly out of awkward pauses, ridiculous deliveries, and implausible juxtapositions, situations which are not easy to craft let alone pull off. All the while Black revels in his anti-movie star body, his belly large and taught, his buttocks perpetually clenched, his curly hair riotous, his moustache the perfect compliment to his manic frowns and smiles. As a result one cares very little for the surrounding characters, the preposterously attractive nun, the skinny sidekick, the Nacho-in-training young orphan who never stops believing. Perhaps over-conceived, Nacho Libre wrings every last drop out of Jack Black's body but only partially satisfies, all told it leaves you wanting more."
--Toe-sock (Chicago, IL)

---

"Oh Nacho, oh Nacho how you amaze me. Ever since Trampa Infernal I have loved a hero with the name Nacho, but you Jack Black have surpassed even the famed Nacho Castillo. I don't know whether it is your sometimes inverted man nipples, or your indefatigable optimism. Either or, you made me love you. Whether it was with braying laughter that I watched a corpulent lovestruck woman scamper through walls in search of her emaciated prey, or with your typical flair in which you sing a song of unrequited love for the woman of your dreams. Deep down I think it was the common semi-unique ethnicity that we share and your Inigo Montoya style accent. Either way I loved Nacho Libre."
--Clark Binga Binga (Starkville, MS)

---

"Nacho Libre is the shit. You the best."
--Austin (Marion, IL)

---

"A simple story set to simple music and about a simple desire- to wrestle- and the not so simple conflicted feelings of guilt and pride and excitement that such a desire produces. It's a simplicity that worked well in Napoleon Dynamite and works equally well, if not better, in Nacho Libre. The Jack Blackisms that are so often threaded throughout the entirety of the movies in which he appears are here, but they're held back until the most appropriate moment and then only slightly, briefly let loose. In lieu of Black's standard non-stop physical and verbal mania, the eyebrows speak volumes."
--Oline (Chicago, IL)

---

"The best thing I could say about this movie is that I once hated Anchorman and Napoleon Dynamite with equal passion, before both kinda grew on me as catch-phrase kings. But as of now, I have to say that Nacho Libre sucked."
--Paul (New York, NY)

---

"if there were oscars were given out for facial contortions that aren't annoying (ala jim carrey), jack black would surely be the favorite. while nacho libre isn't quite as quote worthy as napolean dynamite, it does have more energy simply because black is a better (but not more iconic) protagonist. both nacho and dynamite suffer from stretching out a few quirky ideas but at the end of the day, both will become pop culture references for years."
--Ripe Tomatos

---

"funny, but not necessarily "brilliant" and a little too long. the funny parts were truly funny and in the right context, maybe brilliant."
--Traci

---

"Nacho is Tasty Good. Much like the charming, but over-rated Napoleon Dynamite, Nacho Libre shoots for a different nerve in your funny bone. I caught myself laughing pretty consistently, but never to notable gags. Unlike Anchorman or even Napoleon Dynamite, Nacho is not truly quotable. The lines are funny, more because Jack Black is the delivery man. He was classic, proving once again that his comic range is as broad as his devilish smile. The story is entertaining enough and the characters unique and engaging. It's worth every bit of a few hours and 7 bucks. Don't expect to fall out of your chair, but it's broad humor appeal means you won't leave confused or annoyed. RATING: 7.9 out of 10."
--Joe Mamma

---

"Nacho Libre is a fun and flatulent epic of athletic glory and personal growth. Jack Black prances through the film with the effortless merriment we have come to find irresistable. The plot is ridiculous and the characters are even more bizarre, but that's what makes Nacho Libre worth watching. It's a summer fluff film that revels in its silliness-from Nacho's improbable day job as a friar, to the mysterious, masked warriors he fights in the ring by night, to his climactic eagle leap of faith over a stunned Mexican audience. Nacho Libre is a stupid, boisterous film with a huge heart- which beats under an even huger spandex-swathed, strangely attractive body."
-Croftie (Chicago, IL)

---

"Jack Black soars in this weird, willy-nilly flick about a friar who just wants to wrestle"
-Margot Billingsworth (Boston, MA)

---

"I was distracted time and time again by the scary mustache that wriggled above his lip. Even so, the mustache was far less threatening than those eyebrows, which looked like they were about to take flight, using his nose as a launching pad. "
-Chippy Smith (Mystic, CT)

---

If you have seen Nacho Libre and would like to contribute your own review, please email 150 rocking, literate, publishable words or less to JackBlacksBody@gmail.com.

Read more!

Nacho Libre

TONIGHT.
Go.
Write a review
(of no more than 150 rocking, literate, publishable words).
Send it to jackblacksbody@gmail.com.
Stay tuned to JackBlacksBody.com.
The Revolution has begun.

Read more!

REVIEW: Gypsy Punks

Prof. J Joins the Underdog World Strike

*Chance It'll Melt Your Face Off= 88%*

I like surprises. That sudden, unexpected shock followed, in most cases, by pure joy can not be topped. I like when you don’t see it coming, when you fall for that friend that you never thought was your type, when you try some new recipe and everything turns out fresh and sharp. I like musical surprises too, the unexpected change in tempo, the random choir in the background, a piano where no piano should be. It keeps me honest, I think, and it keeps me engaged. And sometimes, well, sometimes it knocks me down.

Gogol Bordello is not just a band full of surprises; they are a surprise in and of themselves. Describing their sound is next to impossible and that is perhaps the greatest joy of their music. Still, I’ll give it a shot. Try this: mix equal parts funk, punk, reggae, soul, cabaret, and eastern European gypsy music, shake until well blended, throw in a dash of political fire, top with uncontained, manic energy and you’re getting somewhere close. Gogol Bordello makes music that drives you to your feet, forces you off of them, and then picks you back up again. This is summer music. This is music for now.

Their most recent album is Gypsy Punks:Underdog World Strike and the title tells you everything you need to know. This is an album that calls for revolution, a new way of looking at the world both on the political and emotional level. Gogol Bordello are not lazy enough to confine their message to one realm. Rather, the music and lyrics (a mix of English, Ukrainian and who knows what else) touch all elements of life, urging you forward, desiring you to look at things in a new way.

The songs are all over the place. “Think Locally, Fuck Globally” feels like a flamenco song on speed. “Immigrant Punk” is Clash reggae at its best, while “Not a Crime” is the revolutionary theme song Rage Against the Machine was trying to write for ten years. Want underground hip-hop? I give you “Underdog World Strike.” Need a big number to make you feel good about life and all its struggles? Try “Undestructable.” While the songs may run the gamut, what ties the album together is a fiery-breathing guitar. Think Pixies, think Plant, think Marc Ribot. There is heat in these guitar lines, and they light a fire under all the songs here.

It’s rare nowadays that music catches me off guard, hits me with a right hook when I was expecting a left. Sometimes I don’t like it and I promise never to drop my guard again. Sometimes, though, the punch feels so good and rather than knock the wind out of you, it gives you new breath, and the want, the need, to dance the afternoon away.

For a listen, go HERE.

Read more!

In Defence of Football*

JB’s Germanatrix
Brings Us a Taste of the World Cup
I didn’t realize that soccer need a defender until my pal JB brought to my attention a certain essay (tirade, more like) written by Chuck Klosterman:

(Soccer) is nothing more than an ironical death sentence; somehow, outcasts find themselves in a situation where the people normally penalized for teasing them are suddenly urged to annihilate them. That is why soccer seems like such a respite from all that mortification; it's the one aerobic activity where nothingness is expected... A normal eleven-year-old can play an entire season without placing toe to sphere and nobody would even notice, assuming he or she does a proper job of running about and avoiding major collisions.

How, may I ask, is there anything wrong with that? What would become of our great nation if we didn’t have our characteristic competitive streak? Or our fundamental idea that, in a battle between brawn and brains, brawn will always win? We wouldn’t be the top super-power of the world, that’s for sure. We’d probably be more like Sweden, which has a respectable education system, a creative definition of music and food no one else would take money to eat. America would probably be great at a few sports, but we wouldn’t necessarily bring the pain the way we do at the Olympics, the X-Games, the World Series, and pretty much every major sporting competition outside of the World Cup because soccer’s for sissies so we don’t care if we win.

That’s what I’m guessing is behind soccer’s lack of popularity with the viewing public of America. (And I suppose that it’s at this juncture that I should clarify that when I say “viewing public,” I obviously do not mean the ten trillion Latinos who are so totally into the World Cup. And God bless my people for it.) Maybe it’s that Americans can only give their hearts to one sport—by which I mean football. Could it be that loving more than one sport is un-American?

Obviously, in Mr. Klosterman’s case, soccer was a bad scene and, not to hate, but looking at his picture, one can see why. In a word: dork. And dorks have no place on a soccer field. Actually, there is no room for brains on any field of sport, anywhere. You can liken soccer to chess, or a game of cat-and-mouse, or something else cerebral. In actuality, it is a game where a bunch of men with huge thighs run up and down a field. They occasionally kick a ball they call “a pill” into a net, but this happens only rarely—unless, again, you’re from America, and then everyone’s kicking their balls into your net. So to speak.

There is artistry and grace in soccer (in spades if you’re from Brazil) but it involves very little thought. This is not a thinking person’s sport, which might be why the Chuck Klostermans of the world are so against it. The problem that thinking people have with sports in general, and soccer specifically, is precisely that there isn’t thinking: moves can be devised on the bench, but if they go haywire mid-play, you can’t stop, sit down on the field, chew a blade of grass and think it through. The ball will be stolen, the other team will score and you will look stupid. Soccer is all about instincts, about things moving so quickly you’re not allowed to think because you simply have to do. Some might throw their hands up at this “ironical death sentence.” I, who cannot multi-task to save her life much less act on pure instinct, admire that.

I really didn’t want this to be a treatise on instinct vs. whatever the opposite of instinct is. I just like soccer, and feel like everyone should give it a chance because it is, as opposed to baseball, fun to watch. If you’re used to basketball and enjoy points being scored every three seconds, it is, perhaps, insanely maddening. But if you’re at all into watching (hopefully) good defence, fun headers, and hat tricks (and if you’re watching a game where Cristiano Ronaldo is playing, a lot of freaking diving) then soccer’s your game.

The World Cup is the perfect time to get into soccer, since it’s one of the few sporting events involving the entire world. It’s exciting stuff, and who doesn’t appreciate the chance to insult entire nations with impunity?

*Which will, from this point forward, be called "soccer."

Read more!

Technical Notes from the Overlord

My technological incompetence has finally been revealed. Turns out I had no idea how to use JBB! So my trusty editors staged an intervention. "Jack, you need to see the wonders of JBB," they said, and steered me to the office computer.

And wondrous it is! Did you know you can leave comments? Or that there are links to various oddities? Our little training session has left me amazed by the wonders of my own body. Just to keep all my most beloved rocking readers in the know, I figured I'd pass along the word...

* I CAN COMMENT! Just click on the COMMENTS link at the bottom of each post and create a Blogger account to join in the JBB chatter. Come one, come all. Though I would request that you create an account and not post as Annoynmous. It's so annoying when my editors sit around the office all day wondering, "Who the hell is that?!"

* I CAN EMAIL POSTS! One quick click on the little envelope icon at the bottom of each post allows you to pass on the JBB love throughout your office or throughout the world. Don't be stingy with your Friday Hoff.

* THERE ARE LINKS! My trusty editors are crafty minx and often intersperse links to MySpace profiles, photographs, and other websites, so be sure to click on the text shaded in blue or you'll miss out on all kinds of fabulousness.

* I CAN READ MORE! The Read More! link takes me straight to the full post, so I can quickly scan through JBB's main body and select the articles I want to read in full. However, because my trusty editors have yet to become html masters, sometimes there isn't more to read. So it's like a guessing game, which is really pretty rocking.

* I CAN JOIN JBB ON MYSPACE! I have put my Body on MySpace ((www.myspace.com/jackblacksbody) so I can have close personal contact with my many, many lovely post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something fans (and all you other people). So please add me, message me, comment on me and tell me how much you love my Body. It's all yours.

Read more!

Jack Black's Wife's Body Gives Birth to Baby Boy

Read more!

Guerilla Lovin'

JBB is hitting the streets... unfunded post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something style. So if you're digging my body, please spread the love by clicking on the above picture, printing a bazillion copies, and plastering it to any surface you see. Just try not to get arrested. And if you do: mention Jack Black's Body!

Read more!

House Keeping

In Which Bernanation Presents a Piece of Original Fiction

Louise had married Thomas Klein partly out of spite. Mother had raised her a good Catholic girl, had taught her all the things good Catholic girls know. Louise had gone to confession each week and whispered through the screen as the faceless priest nodded and nodded over his steepled fingers. She hadn’t had to go every week when Father was alive; Father had planned trips and outings on Sundays and Mother had silently complied, her eyes flashing and her mouth tightening as she nodded and packed.

But after the foggy Sunday in September when Louise had seen Father’s coffin, lacquered with red and orange leaves, lowered into the earth, she’d been forced to empty her mind in that little cage each week. Mother always said that Louise’s mind was full of cobwebs, and that nasty thoughts were libel to be caught in these webs. Louise didn’t exactly know what thoughts Mother meant, but she supposed that they had something to do with her male classmates, since they were never allowed over after school and if Mother caught her talking to them she was shuttled straight off to confession. Mother had tried to sweep away the cobwebs, but Louise didn’t quite want to give them up; she thought that without them her head would be empty and that the wind would blow through her ears and she’d be as cold as she was when Father died.
Needless to say, Louise was expected to marry a good Catholic boy. Mother had one all lined up: he had bright blond hair and bright blue eyes and wore crisp white polo shirts and kissed one on the cheek with cold lips. But Louise had someone else tangled in the cobwebs of her mind. Thomas was dark-haired and olive-skinned and went to Temple on Fridays. He kissed one clumsily in dorm rooms, but he kissed on the mouth. Mother hated him. Marrying him was the bravest thing that Louise ever did.

Now she was older, ensconced in her living room at number 56 Orchard Street, waiting. Thomas had been in the kitchen a long time, and he must have been whispering into the phone because Louise couldn’t make out a word he was saying. She could hear the person on the other line, though. The little Jezebel’s voice was a dull low whine rising and falling in volume, most likely interrupting Thomas’ nervous stutter. Louise shifted on her straight-backed Windsor chair, the one she’d had Thomas buy to go with the country theme of the sitting room. Out the window she could see the sun flooding the street and illuminating the tops of the red and orange trees. Louise heard a cough from the kitchen, and looked up to see Thomas shuffling into the sitting room, rubbing the top of his head and holding the phone limply at his side. He just stood there, rubbing his head and staring at the carpet.

Louise cleared her throat. Still, Thomas merely rubbed and rubbed his balding pate and sighed. She wanted to grab the cordless from his bony hand and fling it right into that God-awful painting of the bass he had just had to have. Instead, she adjusted the rose pin on her starched lapel, waiting for him to speak. Since no explanation seemed forthcoming, unless you count his uneven wheezing, the resultt of a deviated septum, she cleared her throat.

“Well, that’s all over and done with now.”

Thomas lurched down into the leather armchair, not even seeming to notice the embarrassing rubbing noise of his chinos against the seat.

“Thomas, I know you needed to let off steam. I understand that. Some men buy cars, some men quit their jobs and take up painting or some other form of bohemian pastime. Why, Kathleen Leonard’s husband, Charles, you know, from the historical society? He went off to Australia, or was it Africa... No, he went off to Asia to build houses. Anyway, I know, from the bottom of my heart, that mousy little Gina Feldman was merely... how shall I say it... a diversion.”

He was staring at his shoes. He was just staring at those hideous penny loafers, the pair with only one penny. Louise felt her lungs constrict and her lips tighten. When Thomas was in one of his unresponsive moods it took literally hours to extract any information from his flaccid lips. Louise did not care to wait minutes, let alone hours. Her voice rose to a pitch that, unfortunately, the neighbors could hear.

“For God’s sake Thomas! What? What, did she cry? Is that it? Did little Miss ‘I don’t wear a bra to distract people from my horsey face’ cry? Because, damn it all Thomas, what else were you expecting?”

“No,” he said, fixing his dishwater eyes on that ridiculous fish, twisted mid-leap and grinning grotesquely at the hook protruding from its lip, “...because I didn’t break it off.” Louise could only stare at him unblinkingly.

“What in the name of Pete do you mean Thomas? You didn’t break it off? What are you waiting for? I said to end it. I can understand the need to... the urge to...” She gave a little cough, “But Thomas I told you to end it, and I’d rather you do it sooner rather than later.”

“No,” Thomas said, sitting up in his chair and bringing his milky blue eyes up to meet hers in a brief show of bravery, “No Louise. No Louise, I didn’t break it off. In fact Louise, I would like a divorce.” Thomas gave a proud little smile, apparently pleased with his aplomb. He looked like a garden gnome: glasses slightly askew, ears red with constant embarrassment.

“No Thomas,” Louise said slowly, “You do not want a divorce. ” She placed her hand on his knee, knowing full well that now he’d want to be indelicate. He always got so excited by the slightest touch. She looked at his lips, sagging and pink, and her stomach turned.

“No,” Thomas said, lifting her hand from his knee. She looked at him aghast. The man was refusing indelicacy? Was he sick?

“No Louise. I... I love Gina. I’m not breaking things off with her. I want a divorce.” Thomas pounded his knee weakly after each word in this last sentence like some sad parody of a 1950’s sitcom father. Louise felt the saliva in her throat turn sour, burning her esophagus, and her lips began to tremble. She adjusted her pin even though it was straight.

“You can’t do this Thomas. After fifteen years. Fifteen years I have wasted leading you around by the hand. Fifteen years I have spent washing your dishes and cooking your ridiculous food! And now, now you have the nerve to tell me that you want to leave me, me who has sacrificed so much, for that little saggy Jezebel! Now Thomas, you cannot do this.”

“But Louise,” Thomas stammered and rose to his feet, “I love her.”

“Love her! You love her! Well isn’t that just grand! You love her, so that makes it alright to ruin my reputation, to take away everything. Oh God...” Louise put her hand to her heart and grabbed the arm of her little Windsor chair. “Oh God... I’ll have nothing... You little money-grubbing… with your ‘just in case, but we’ll never use it’ pre-nup! This is my home! I spent fifteen years decorating. I picked out that pineapple wallpaper!” Her knuckles were white on the arms of the chair and her hands were stiff as a corpse’s. Thomas was inching towards the door.

“Louise, I’m sorry, really I am. I’ll help you out. You won’t be homeless. You can stay here a while, until...” He paused and cleared his throat. He was half inside, half outside now. “I’m going to stay at Gina’s for a while, until, well, until it’s been made official. If you need anything you can call me.” He stood blinking on the stoop, his hand resting on the doorknob, the sun catching the shine on his balding head.

“Frankly Louise, I thought you would have seen this coming... I mean, you never loved me Louise. You know you didn’t.” Thomas sighed weakly, his thin chest deflating under his flannel shirt, and pulled the door closed behind him.

Louise felt as if Mother had finally rid her mind of those pesky cobwebs, or rather as if Mother had done so long ago and she had merely not noticed. She had never loved him, Louise realized. She’d said she loved him, she’d lain beside him each night and watched his sunken, hairy chest rise and fall until the Valium put her under, but she didn’t love him. In fact, Louise found that she couldn’t exactly say she had ever loved anyone.

She had loved the look on Mother’s face when she’d told the old witch that she was marrying a man named Klein. Mother’s mouth had collapsed into her chin and her pupils had dilated so much that they had looked black. She had looked like a melted doll. Remembered now in the chill of the October afternoon, that moment still caused a fire of triumph to pulse in Louise’s chest. Still, what was that moment worth? It was merely a memory of something that had been snuffed out. Louise found herself standing in the middle of a room built on years of make-believe. She’d always loved those model rooms at the hardware store, and had always harbored a desire to live in one. Now, she looked around her home expecting to see the living room end abruptly next to the paint aisle.

Still, the den looked the way it always did. There were the books that lined the walls, their spines still unbroken, their pages barely looked at. There were the ashes of Thomas’ father on the mantle, the remains of a man who always smelled like leather and old newspapers, but had been nothing to Louise. The picture frames on the mantle housed strangers. Her own face studied her from above the fireplace, smiling and posing in bathing suits and gardening hats. Her eyes in the photographs looked black and cunning.

The phone shrieked suddenly, and Louise found herself standing next to it, hand poised on the receiver, ready to wait three rings and answer with a bright, “Klein residence?” Cautiously, she took her hand away from the blue plastic. The ringer shrieked and shrieked until the answering machine interrupted with a curt “click,” and the voice of Mrs. Covington from the Garden Club boomed from the speaker. She crooned and cooed sympathy and lamentations, relishing each reiteration of “philanderer” and “little so-and-so.” She spoke as if she were reading off of a script. When the machine clicked off, Louise sighed and headed toward the couch.

Before she had reached the coffee table though, the phone cried out again. They all knew. Louise could hear the blood thudding in her ears, and she looked down at her hands twisting before her like foreign snakes. They were alien hands, useless hands, idle hands. Shaking her head slightly and untangling her fingers, Louise got out the vacuum. It started with a sharp growl, and set about devouring stray hairs, cigarette ash, and cracker crumbs from the thick shag. The cord tugged taunt at the wall socket as Louise vacuumed towards the hall to the bedroom. She played this game of tug-of-war until the plug ripped from the wall and the mastication of the vacuum sputtered into silence.

Just hours before, she had hospital-cornered the sheets, and pulled the flowered duvet halfway up the bed. Now she stared into the mirror above the dresser, which showed a slightly disheveled woman in a starched blue shirt with deep marionette lines cut into the sides of her mouth. Louise gazed at the hard mouth, curved upwards at the edges in wry mockery. Studying this apparition, she felt very cold, and very on edge. Louise did not enjoy feeling on edge. She did not relish agitation. Her therapist had told her to count to ten when she felt panicked, to take a walk. Louise decided that she would take a walk: a short one, to the medicine cabinet.

Turning so sharply that her heel tore up a chunk of shag carpet, Louise marched towards the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet she ripped out the bottle of Valium and popped off the lid as the phone shrieked again from the living room. The bottom of bottle was lined with only a few wisps of cotton. The drugstore stood at the end of Orchard and the beginning of Maple, the first of a short procession of shops that comprised the business district.

Louise peered down the deserted road at the line of pastel houses, all painted a dusty blue by the twilight. The row of long-slung townhouses resembled the model city in town hall: plastic and somewhat off-scale. The blue glow of television sets bled into the half-night that hovered outside. Louise breathed in the thin fall air laced with flame. She could smell wood smoke; someone had a fire going a couple of streets down. The last time she’d had a fire was Christmas over fifteen years ago. It was at Mother’s house and Louise was home from college. Thomas had called and her mother had answered. There’d been a fight after that. Louise had thrown the wooden Gabriel ornament that Mother had given her into the fire, and Mother had kneeled before the hearth crying as the flames licked around Gabriel’s head and blackened his praying hands.

Louise found herself standing in front of the drugstore and looked back at her neighborhood. It occurred to her that this was the first time that she had looked at Orchard Street since Thomas had said what he said. Somehow that seemed very important. She’d walked this street every day, seen these pastel houses every day, and each day melted together into only a vague watercolor of a life. But today was different; she would remember everything about today as it related to what Thomas had said. Everything would forever bear a taint, like a scar that, try as you might to cover with make-up, always resurfaces.

She pushed open the glass door and the bell rang. The man at the counter didn’t look up; he just sat on his high stool licking his lips over a dirty magazine. His feet were resting on a stack of newspapers, all folded incorrectly, and his hands were black with newsprint. Louise wandered towards the pharmacy in the back. The aisles were empty. She thought dimly that this was the first time she had entered the store since Thomas had said what he’d said. She didn’t recall the first time she’d been in this particular store; nothing memorable had happened that day, she supposed. But now, from now on, every time she would enter the drugstore she would remember what Thomas had said. She’d remember that man with the curly black hair behind the counter, trailing his thin fingers over his magazine, and he would become part of this day. She would remember what she bought. When she went home and entered her front door it would be the first time that she’d done so after Thomas had said what he’d said. It wouldn’t be the same. There’d be no way to tell exactly what had altered— the Windsor chair would still be there, the pictures in their frames, the shag carpet—but something would have changed.

Louise stopped halfway to the pharmacy counter and glanced back at the man, his black hands clasped in reverence over whichever pinup was currently spread-eagled on the page. His features were fine, like an icon’s, and Louise thought briefly of Gabriel and his crown of flames. Without giving the man another glance, she picked up a gallon of gasoline and a box of kitchen matches. The man rang her up without looking up from the ink-smeared woman he was tracing with his bony fingers.

Outside, the neighborhood was submerged in darkness, the Easter colors of the houses drained of their daytime glory. The streetlights cast writhing shadows onto the pavement, and Louise could see more and more rooms fill with golden light as she strode towards home. The houses were beasts, thriving and subsisting off of electricity and blue television static. Louise didn’t see a single human shadow in any of the homes; the beasts were silent, crouching in the slick nighttime landscape, hunched and glowing.

She stopped in front of number 56. It was the only dark spot on the whole block; if she hadn’t known it was there she would have thought that it had disappeared. But when she took a few tentative steps into the gloom she found, with a disappointed sigh, that it still stood. If she went through that door she knew that it would all be over. The house would swallow her whole. The pictures in the frames would mutter at night, keeping her awake, and every smell, every sound, every change in wind and season would remind her that she had only lived a watercolor life.

She put the drugstore bag down on her stoop and took out the gallon of gasoline. Twisting off the cap, she coughed at the acrid fumes, which replaced the autumn smell of woodsmoke and dried leaves. Slowly, she walked around the perimeter of her house, drizzling gasoline onto the pastel pink siding. She walked with an air of ceremony, with slow, measured steps, head bowed and face somber, until she came once again to the front stoop.

She thought of similar walks: placing one foot in front of the other in a straight line behind her father’s coffin, taking slow, halting steps dressed in cream white down an half-empty aisle. She took one last look at her front door before striking the match. Fire fizzled at the head of the match, and black spread down the pale wood towards her fingers. She stepped back onto the black sea of asphalt and tossed the match towards the front door.

56 Orchard Street exploded.

Glass shattered and showered the streets, roof tiles fell flaming into the autumn trees, setting the lawn and manicured bushes on fire. Smoke billowed into the sky and hovered there like a mass of phantoms. The windows were ablaze with golden light, all the other houses glowing tentatively next to its fire-licked jaws. The photos on the mantle warped and wrinkled, and the smiling faces in garden hats and bathing suits turned into black masks. The bass writhed in agony in a lake of fire. The floor erupted and carpeted the living room in red. The little Windsor chair crumbled into ash. The house shuddered and roared, collapsing onto its haunches.

All over the neighborhood men in half-tied bathrobes and women in faded nightgowns emerged from their pastel homes and stood on their stoops, the heat from what had once been number 56 Orchard Street rippling over their half-naked chests. Louise stood in the middle of the asphalt sea, gazing up at the blaze, her hands clasped limply before her as sirens sputtered and shrieked in the distance. Her face glowed red and her eyes stung, but still she stared into the inferno, transfixed and smiling. The cobwebs shuddered in the backdraft and burst into flame.

Read more!

I ♥ the 80s!

Remember Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure? The Labyrinth? The Wizard? I'm not a child of the 80s, but most of my post-collegiate, pre-professional 20-something readers are, so here's a special treat for you guys. Your favorite 80s movies. Bring on the memories!

Read more!

Meet the Dananator

Dananator (Day-nah-nay-tohr) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something editor, writer, public intellectual living in Chicago's Lincoln Park district. A graduate of the Univ. of Chicago, Dana is JBB's resident expert on bad books, great Literature, Life plans, teaching philosophies, sheep and coffee. She enjoys reading, writing, but not arithmatic.

Read more!

In Defense of Bad Books

The Dananator's
Read Everything Approach

It didn’t take me long to discover that, as a writer, Dan Brown lacks a certain grace. After all, this gem was located on page two of The Da Vinci Code: “‘You are lying.’ The man stared at him, perfectly immobile except for the glint in his ghostly eyes. ‘You and your brethren possess something that is not yours.’” Yet despite that last sentence and hundreds of others like it, Dan Brown possesses worldwide literary fame and a lot of money from selling 40 million copies of his novel. Unlike so many of his brethren, Brown has achieved what many an amateur novelist longs to do: publish a bestseller.

It’s common knowledge that bestsellers are not always the best books, and with greater fame and bigger book sales comes more intense scrutiny and criticism. The Da Vinci Code is certainly no exception. Although the book claims the somewhat dubious accolades of People, The Denver Post, Clive Cussler, and Nelson DeMille on its jacket, it has been widely panned by the critics for its sloppy writing, predictable plotline, dubious history, and academic affectations.

So why am I reading it? When I walked into Barnes and Noble last week and became Dan Brown’s forty-million-and-first customer, I set into motion a bold new plan for my personal reading habits. This new plan is entitled Read Everything. I used to try to have standards, choosing what I planned to read with great care, electing to read only things that would further my knowledge of literature and my facility with language. I would look askance at the woman standing next to me on the CTA, clinging to a pole with one hand and a copy of the latest Nicholas Sparks novel in the other. I, in contrast, was prepared to dive into the copy of Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure that rested snugly in my backpack. Where it had been stowed away for the last three weeks.

Truthfully, I just wasn’t into it. I should have been, because Thomas Hardy— a canonical English novelist—wrote it, and after all, I did just get my Masters in Humanities with a concentration in literature, and after all, I was teaching literature to college students, so certainly it would behoove me to bury myself in Hardy’s literary stylings for personal and professional gain. However, with copies of the Red Eye being free these days, how could Jude the Obscure possibly compete?

It couldn’t. I found that the weighty, intellectually stimulating books I had elected to read were not, in fact, read but instead hauled around like dead weight. Something had to be done, and with all the discussion of The Da Vinci Code, I saw a chance to break free from my own restrictions and read a book that had “Coming Soon to the Big Screen!” printed in gold over a sunburst on its cover.

The seed of the Read Everything plan was planted when I began my new job in the publishing industry. Seeing books in various stages of readiness is like seeing relatives in various stages of undress—unsettling at best, traumatizing at worst.

When I was younger I used to have the utmost respect for books as physical objects. I used to put off the moment when I had to crease the binding of a new volume, sometimes reading at an awkward angle for chapters and chapters. I would never dog-ear the pages to remember where I had stopped reading. Of course, these prohibitions relaxed slightly as I got further in school and needed to underline and highlight texts, but I think my primordial respect for books was closely tied to their physical format at some deep subconscious level. These pages, I would think, hold Ideas and Concepts and Great Narratives worthy of being put into Print, a feat which only Real Writers achieved.

Now that many of my waking hours revolve around proofreading, page passes, InDesign snafus, and margin tweaking, I feel a bit like a medical student in anatomy lab. It must be tempting for future doctors, having grown used to the sight of cadavers opened up on tables, to see everyone as so much tissue and gristle. There they are, my beloved books, lying on sterile tables slit from belly to chin—all their typos and flaws exposed, the arbitrary nature of their composition evident to all.

Seeing books that way, on a devastatingly leveled playing field, did not so much topple my admiration for the great as it elevated my opinion of the mundane. It cannot be denied that there are both good and bad books. What I am no longer certain of is whether it is incumbent upon us to give a damn about which is which as we select what to read. I have decided to do away with my own vetting process in favor of a glorious free for all.

We need bad books. While the great books, the golden tomes that manage to articulate the human experience with shimming cascades of beautiful language, should be lauded, bad books should be equally revered because good readers, and good writers, would be lost without them. And so no longer will I sort my books according to their perceived “worth” or judged by their author’s skill. Rather, the crap books I own will stand proudly alongside the ones of far greater literary merit. They have earned their place there by being both entertaining and didactic.

Bad books are fun to read. Although the The Da Vinci Code has elicited a flinch or an eye-roll from me once every three or four pages, those pages keep turning—and they’re not turning themselves. A massive conspiracy handed down throughout the ages by a secret society, the inherent corruption of one of the world’s largest and most influential religions, a high-octane anxiety-filled international chase, an undercurrent of sexual tension—sure, I’ll read it. Beats looking out the window at the Dan Ryan on my commuter train at 7:30 every morning.

Popular books are popular because they entertain. The Da Vinci Code may not be airtight in its scholarship or flawless in its turn of phrase, but the story is cool. Raise your hand if you saw the first or third film in the Indiana Jones series (we’ll put the second aside for a moment for the purity of the argument). Keep them up if you thought your viewing of them was a waste of three hours of your life. That’s what I thought. The Da Vinci Code is Indiana Jones in modern-day Europe, except the female gets a more substantial role. I have my complaints, but generally, I dig it. Of course, I’m not going to send an application into the Priory of Scion, but it was a fun read and an interesting take on the Catholic Church.

Truly bad writing can even be raised to an art form. We honor it through our mockery. The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest has been giving awards to the worst opening sentence in an imaginary novel every year since 1982. The winning sentences, while they almost always elicit groans, additionally elicit a pause from me in which I consider how truly entertaining bad writing can be. To wit, consider this entry from 2004 Grand Prize winner, Dave Zobel:

“She resolved to end the love affair with Ramon tonight . . . summarily, like Martha Stewart ripping the sand vein out of a shrimp’s tail . . . though the term “love affair” now struck her as a ridiculous euphemism . . . not unlike “sand vein,” which is after all an intestine, not a vein . . . and that tarry substance inside certainly isn’t sand . . . and that brought her back to Ramon.”

Bad books are also edifying. Every once in a while when I’m plowing my way through a paragraph that is awkward, ugly, or totally unjustifiable, I ask myself how I would fix it. I admit that I occasionally answer myself by saying “I wouldn’t include this godawful subplot in the first place” or even “By never being born,” but more often I identify with the author’s plight. Good writing is hard to do, and so I like to think that by providing fellow writers with a sympathetic reading even in the lowest, slimiest trenches of the written word, I will myself someday be the recipient of such generosity. Or at least, I’ll improve my own technique by trying to pull something redeeming out of the wreckage.

But beyond the personal skill level, bad writing can teaches us about ourselves and our world in a way that is just as valuable as those cracked open by greater scribes. When I was in school for my Masters degree I wrote a paper on fanfic. Those who have stumbled upon this phenomenon know the horror that awaits you at websites such as lotr.net or harrypotterfanfiction.com. They consist of colonies of amateur writers who are very passionate about a particular television show, movie, or series of books. Their passion moves them to write stories using the characters and context of their original inspiration. And some of it is bad. Very, very bad. Here’s a typical summary:

“My story takes place when Arwen is 15. It begins in Rivendell, but somehow Arwen’s path will lead her to a typical American high school where she has fallen in love with the mortal boy who sits next to her in trigonometry.”

When I was researching this paper my reading experience was often similar to depilation, but just as often I was left with a small kernel of empathy and goodwill for these intrepid writers. After all, if only unwittingly, they have allowed us to see into some of the most intimate situations and challenging problems of their lives to date. The author above is clearly using writing to lessen the sting of an unrequited math class crush. It may not sound like Shakespeare, but she’s using writing to reach out and connect with others through her own pain—an instinct I think the bard would approve of.

The Da Vinci Code is doing the same thing, but for our entire society. To capture the imagination of so many, Dan Brown evidently has plucked a few resounding chords on the heartstrings of his massive readership. It’s easy to extrapolate how years of pent-up resentment at the Catholic church, and a growing willingness to reconsider women’s inferior place in most spiritual disciplines are attractive emotional veins to tap.

Finally, because of their popularity, bad books reflect our period in history in the way that no timeless classic can. The stalwarts of the Canon are not as useful as reality television, entertainment tabloids and, yes, popular novels in defining and characterizing our particular cultural moment. Perhaps having your finger on the pulse of the culture, especially pop culture, isn’t important to some, but it is to me. When I’m old I want to be a relic of my epoch. I want to make my grandchildren roll their eyes when I begin making book and movie recommendations five decades or so out of date. I want to know what’s going on now, so that when now is over, I’ll know what happened.

This all reminds me of Emile, a book by Rousseau proposing a method of education to bring about an ideal citizen. The crucial part of his plan was the first couple of decades of the child’s life, when he was to live a relatively isolated existence in the countryside, reading only carefully chosen books to promote the utmost mental and moral development.

Game over. I spent my first decade reading, ravenously, avidly, anything I could get my hands on, from a copy of my dad’s Esquire magazine to The Babysitters’ Club #173. My second decade was less productive because I spent it trying to read books I didn’t and couldn’t possibly understand. I knew that by selecting texts off the shelf labeled Literature in Waldenbooks I could impress teachers and relatives, but although my 13-year-old eyes traveled carefully over every word of Madame Bovary, they did so in vain. I had no way to truly connect with what I was reading. And so now I would gladly leave Emile to his empty countryside and pile of Signet Classics in favor of an utterly unfettered smorgasbord of reading.

The biggest flaw in my Read Everything plan is my eventual death. I’m hoping I have a few good years left, but after those I will have to move on, and I don’t know how many books I’ll be able to take with me (or how much time I’ll have to read them). So should I really be investing this precious remaining time reading any old supermarket claptrap? Shouldn’t I be desperately cramming my brain with only the choicest nuggets that literature has to offer?

I don’t intend to abolish “good” books from my life, or from my commute. Rather, I plan to choose what to read by…(drumroll)…reading what interests me, whether that book is generally considered good, bad, or indifferent. I plan to continue reading said book only as long as it continues to interest me, after which I will toss it aside lightly, or should the situation arise, I will do as Dorothy Parkers suggests and throw it aside with great force.

For a while, anyway. If I turn into a drooling moron, maybe I’ll blow the dust off the cover of my copy of Anna Karenina and get cracking. But otherwise, you’ll find me forging deeper into my brave new world in the Fiction section of Waldenbooks, hunting down a copy of The Devil Wears Prada.

Read more!