By Alex Distefano
By Scott Snowden
By Anna Merlan
By Steve Almond
By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
Re Scott Foundas's 'Dave Eggers' Away We Go a Work of Staggering Something' [Film, June 3–9]: Thank you for your dead-on comments regarding Dave Eggers. I read his book about three months ago and am still enraged. You have made me feel better.
I got over Sam Mendes ages ago. Where do we find these horrible people?
Gosh, if you'd mentioned at the outset that the film was directed by the nebulously pretentious Sam Mendes, I could have saved myself some admittedly tepid interest in the film.
If anyone deserves a textual pimp-slap, it's Dave Fuckwad Eggers. Great businessman, yes. But he owes his whole "writing" career to his wholesale nutballing of the late David Foster Wallace. Without DFW, he would still be editing Tom Junod's pud-pulling pieces of celeb portraiture.
We're not that bad. Are we?
I can see the use of this service in some situations. For instance: You need a date for a company function, and all your female friends are busy that night. I did sort of wince when I read how Professor Bernstein said, "$60 an hour is cheap for a college-educated, young, attractive white woman."
And all this time I was thinking I couldn't afford one. Sheesh.
A clinical appraisal
Re Roy Edroso's 'Rightbloggers on Abortion Doctor's Murder: He Had It Coming' [villagevoice.com, May 31]: Doctor Tiller's killer, Scott Roeder, warns of more killing as long as abortions are being performed. That's more than likely the awful truth.
However, allow me to rephrase this: The violence will continue unabated as long as America forces women and doctors into abortion "clinics," thereby setting them up as targets. Abortions, like any other medical procedure, belong to health care and to the health care "system." Let's move into at least the 20th century.
Re Aaron Hillis's 'A Conversation With Francis Ford Coppola' [June 3–9]: Unfortunately, "muddled mess" is the only accurate description for a Sofia Coppola production. Daddy needs to stop bankrolling her empty dreck.
But all is not lost: Son Roman showed potential with the French New Wave pastiche CQ, and maybe Francis will have a Rumble Fish–like resurgence with Tetro (though the casting of squeaky-voiced putz Vincent Gallo is ominous).
Joan's lost it
Slagging off celebs—same jokes, different year. Enough already. If she's going to insist on hanging around to top off the pension fund, she could at least make an effort to expand her bland Christmas cracker joke routine. Call this shocking? Please.