The most recent 20 comments posted to Making Light by T.L. Hines:

The whole Atlanta Nights project--and indeed, the Publish America scenario in general--reminds me of the "Song Poem" industry so popular from the 50s to the 70s.

If you read comic books during that era, you probably recall seeing ads proclaiming "Song Writers Needed!" and "Your Poem Set to Music!" scattered throughout. The ads were designed to capture the interest of wretched souls who wrote wretched poetry that could be set to wretched music; in turn, the companies who produced the Song Poems (they called them "Song Poems" because they felt their audience was too dumb to understand the word "lyrics") wrote a letter, telling the authors they were sure it was going to be a hit song. For the low, low price of $400 (or whatever), they could get dozens of copies of the songs pressed, and the Song Poem company would promote the song to the music industry.

Of course, this always meant that the Song Poem company simply took the poet's $400 and shipped said poet a box of records that could only be given to friends and family.

Did any of this ever result in a hit record? Of course not. But the Song Poem industry did produce musical gems such as I Like Yellow Things, Do You Know the Difference Between Big Wood and Brush?, and a host of other songs so awful, they're kind of catchy.

In 1975, in an attempt to prove the Song Poem companies would take anything, John Trubee sent in a poem entitled Blind Man's Penis, with the immortal lyrics (excuse me, song poem words) of:

"The zebra spilled its plastinia on bemis
And the gelatin fingers oozed electric marbles
Ramona's titties died in hell
And the Nazis want to kill everyone.

Stevie Wonder's penis is erect because he's blind."

Guess what? The Song Poem company produced the song, which became the best-known of all Song Poems. (If you're interested, Bar None Records has released The American Song Poem Anthology, filled with more than a dozen horrid selections that will--I swear--make you laugh while sticking in your mind.)

Atlanta Nights, to my mind, is the Blind Man's Penis of the 21st century.

More great advice from TNH. I suggest one other way to meet agents (well, one other way that beats blind query letters): go to conferences/cons. Actually getting to meet someone goes a long way.

It's even a great way to meet living, breathing editors. I went to the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers Conference in Denver last year, and met with an editor named Teresa Nielsen Hayden.

She seemed nice.

I remember reading my first Stephen King book, "The Shining," when I was 10 years old. It was the first novel that made me think, "Wow, I'd love to be a writer."

I rather think Stephen King has had that kind of impact on many people over the years, launching them into the world of writing. He should get an award for that alone.

Above, Dave says most of the ads "preach to the choir," and I have to agree: the people most likely to respond to these ads are folks who are already aligned against Bush.

It's far more difficult to reach the fence sitters, and an overly-strident approach runs the risk of ruffling a lot of Middle American sensibilities.

Does that make them "bad" ads? I don't think so; there's nothing wrong with energizing your own base. Still, I doubt getting ads on the Super Bowl, or any other venue where they'll be exposed to a large audience, will do much to bring new people into the tent.

More good-natured fun from the folks at PETA: send vegetarian recipes to a convicted cannibal.

All I can say is: it takes big cajones to pull off a commercial like this one.

Speaking of all things odd and Japanese, is anyone else a fan of "Most Extreme Elimination Challenge" on Spike TV? I think it's the funniest thing on television today, even without the crude English voiceovers (and I'm certainly a fan of crude English voiceovers).

When my wife was a youngster, her dentist was Dr. Fehr (yes, it's pronounced "fear"). Her family physician was Dr. Tiddy. Dr. Tiddy, it would seem, narrowly missed his true calling as a gynecologist.

When I lived in Utah, we non-LDS folk referred to garments as "Joseph Jammies."

Hmmm. This reminded me of a recent news item from my neck of the woods. Check out this story about a doctor who faked his death in Florida, fled to Yellowstone National Park, then committed suicide. My question is: why fake your own death, then commit suicide?

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