Her nibs on the throne in London is getting ready to whack a crowd of people on their shoulders. Bono's knighthood has already been mentioned widely in the press, but that had more to do with the fact that the Irish government had to give their stamp of approval. It's only been ninety years, and the north is still an open wound, and there is to this day a lot of animosity towards the British and their so-called honors. The Ministers no doubt decided that there was no harm in giving Bono a medal of some sort, but he won't be called Sir Paul, no, don't even go there.
But Bono's not to be alone when the mighty sword of knighthood is rested at neck height. Rod Stewart will be there, next in line, being honored for producing seven children with nearly as many women. I suppose his musical career has something to do with the honors as well, but the man's a prodigious talent when it comes to preservation of the species.
Johnny Briggs, a star on the extremely popular soap opera Coronation Street is to be knighted. As far as I can tell, the queen is pleased that he has retired from the show after thirty years and wants to give him a lovely going-away gift. Sometimes you just can't tell why a person's been picked for the prize, can you?
There's a bunch of athletes due for an honorarium, but fans of the television program House will be delighted to learn that their own Hugh Laurie is about to become Sir Hugh. Although Her Majesty may be a fan, she is probably more familiar with Mr. Laurie's earlier work in the Blackadder series and the more recent Jeeves and Wooster. A brilliant comedic actor, his dramatic talents are all the more remarkable when you compare his British and American programs.
But the most worthy of all recipients has to be the man who brought the vacuum cleaner to new heights, the king of the Hoover. Is there one more worthy of knighthood than James Dyson, inventor of a machine that doesn't lose suction? He's made a fortune, surely, considering the $500 average price of a bit of metal and plastic that sucks up household dirt. Athletes and singers and actors are fine, they serve a function and entertain us, but James Dyson did something that benefits clean freaks all across the globe. He most definitely earned his award.
Arise, Sir Knight, and could you hoover the hall before you go?
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
Your Honor, I Object
How could I have missed this one? Submissions closed on the 27th of November, so it's too late to upload your crime fiction masterpiece. The slush has already been culled, and the five lucky finalists have been selected, courtesy of the legal minds at Court TV.
Can't enter the contest, but you can vote for your favorite. Yes, you, you can help a budding author get published. I'm taking a pass myself. I hate crime fiction, never read it, and I'd be a poor judge of the quality. I'll leave that to the experts.
Who picked the five finalists, anyway? I suppose if you're a fan of crime novels, you'd recognize the names of the judges. Jonathan Kellerman, Faye Kellerman and Lisa Scottoline are all involved in this contest, but I'm more familiar with James Joyce myself. As for the fourth judge, ah now, we all know Judith Regan, don't we?
The prize in this quest for the next great crime writer is a publishing contract with ReganBooks. Problem is, Judith Regan ain't there no more. I'd have to presume that HarperCollins is still involved in the whole thing, as it hasn't been pulled and is still being promoted. Rather awkward situation, it appears, with an ex-employee calling the shots on a publication when she's been kicked out of the house.
According to the rules, this is what the lucky winner will get:
Yes, that's right. An advance of $1,000.00. No royalties, just the one check. And ReganBooks gets to write up the contract. Naturally, they'll be more than generous with the author, and who needs a literary agent mucking things up and protecting the writer's interests?
With no guarantee that the novel will actually get published, even if it is a grand prize winner, I have to ask this. If the book doesn't get published, does the author get it back to shop to other houses?
Now that's a crime.
Technorati tag: Court TV
Can't enter the contest, but you can vote for your favorite. Yes, you, you can help a budding author get published. I'm taking a pass myself. I hate crime fiction, never read it, and I'd be a poor judge of the quality. I'll leave that to the experts.
Who picked the five finalists, anyway? I suppose if you're a fan of crime novels, you'd recognize the names of the judges. Jonathan Kellerman, Faye Kellerman and Lisa Scottoline are all involved in this contest, but I'm more familiar with James Joyce myself. As for the fourth judge, ah now, we all know Judith Regan, don't we?
The prize in this quest for the next great crime writer is a publishing contract with ReganBooks. Problem is, Judith Regan ain't there no more. I'd have to presume that HarperCollins is still involved in the whole thing, as it hasn't been pulled and is still being promoted. Rather awkward situation, it appears, with an ex-employee calling the shots on a publication when she's been kicked out of the house.
According to the rules, this is what the lucky winner will get:
"GRAND PRIZE: One (1) Grand Prize Winner will receive a check in the amount of One Thousand Dollars ($1,000) and an opportunity to sign an exclusive book publishing deal (“Publishing Deal”) with Regan Books, a division of HarperCollins Publishers (“Regan Books”), at an approximate market value (“AMV”) of One Thousand Dollars ($1,000). The details of the Publishing Deal are subject to the sole discretion of Regan Books. Regan Books will decide whether or not to publish the Grand Prize Winner’s book (the “Prize Book”) in its sole discretion. Winning the Contest does not in any way guarantee that the Prize Book will be published."
Yes, that's right. An advance of $1,000.00. No royalties, just the one check. And ReganBooks gets to write up the contract. Naturally, they'll be more than generous with the author, and who needs a literary agent mucking things up and protecting the writer's interests?
With no guarantee that the novel will actually get published, even if it is a grand prize winner, I have to ask this. If the book doesn't get published, does the author get it back to shop to other houses?
"...participants agree that the rights granted hereunder shall include, but not be limited to, the perpetual, worldwide right of Sponsor and its designees to use, edit, telecast, cablecast, rerun, record, publish, reproduce, license, print, distribute and/or otherwise exploit, in any language and in all media now known or hereafter devised, the Submissions in whole or in part, without any further compensation to participant or any third party."
Now that's a crime.
Technorati tag: Court TV
Thursday, December 28, 2006
The Cheapening of #10
After the airport scare, the whole world knows that Tony Blair has arrived in Miami, a brief sun holiday for the Prime Minister. It's so dreadfully gloomy at 10 Downing Street, so who could blame the man? And Cherie has earned some time away, after all, and no one seems to be quibbling over the need to relax.
Conservative politicians are up in arms about the venue, not the general notion of Miami. It has been discovered that the Blair family has been comfortably ensconced in a very luxurious mansion overlooking the water. But that's not the bit that has resulted in accusations of "cheapening the premier's office."
Robin Gibb has provided accommodations for the Blairs. Yes, that Robin Gibb, the BeeGees own Robin Gibb, the man with the vibrant falsetto. Cheesy disco, spandex, the lot of it, and doesn't that just scream "cheap" to a Conservative MP. A definite element of white trash has touched on the Prime Minister's position, and it's unbearable to the opposition.
The MPs are hiding behind a facade of words, acting upset that Mr. Blair might be getting a free room that others would have to pay up to 60,000 euro per week to occupy. The Daily Mail calls it a "glitzy family holiday", a definite swipe at the old glitz that was personified in the BeeGees and their ilk.
Politicians are trying to equate this stay as a guest of Robin Gibb to the whole pay-to-be-knighted scandal that is currently under investigation. But who would expect Robin to invite the Blairs and then charge them to stay at his house? Who would be that rude? The dust-up is nothing more than a ruse to mask some Conservative bias against disco and their general dislike of The BeeGees and Saturday Night Fever. Those of us who can read between the lines can interpret the nasty sentiments being expressed by Conservatives trying to drum up support in the next election.
Look at that New Labour hack, friends with the likes of that dreadful disco star. That's what the politicians are really saying. Blair probably has a white disco suit hidden in his closet, they suggest, with their catty remarks about free vacations. The Prime Minister of England, can you believe it, the man representing the nation that gave the world Shakespeare and Milton and Dickens...he likes disco music. But they can't just come right out and say it. They'd look so snotty and upper-class twit-ish. Instead, they speak in upper-class code, trying to hide their true sentiments from the lower classes who will be casting ballots soon.
In spite of all their blathering, they're green with envy, longing for the glitz and glamor of South Beach and the party scene that Tony Blair is enjoying free of charge. These sorts of sun holidays don't come cheap.
Conservative politicians are up in arms about the venue, not the general notion of Miami. It has been discovered that the Blair family has been comfortably ensconced in a very luxurious mansion overlooking the water. But that's not the bit that has resulted in accusations of "cheapening the premier's office."
Robin Gibb has provided accommodations for the Blairs. Yes, that Robin Gibb, the BeeGees own Robin Gibb, the man with the vibrant falsetto. Cheesy disco, spandex, the lot of it, and doesn't that just scream "cheap" to a Conservative MP. A definite element of white trash has touched on the Prime Minister's position, and it's unbearable to the opposition.
The MPs are hiding behind a facade of words, acting upset that Mr. Blair might be getting a free room that others would have to pay up to 60,000 euro per week to occupy. The Daily Mail calls it a "glitzy family holiday", a definite swipe at the old glitz that was personified in the BeeGees and their ilk.
Politicians are trying to equate this stay as a guest of Robin Gibb to the whole pay-to-be-knighted scandal that is currently under investigation. But who would expect Robin to invite the Blairs and then charge them to stay at his house? Who would be that rude? The dust-up is nothing more than a ruse to mask some Conservative bias against disco and their general dislike of The BeeGees and Saturday Night Fever. Those of us who can read between the lines can interpret the nasty sentiments being expressed by Conservatives trying to drum up support in the next election.
Look at that New Labour hack, friends with the likes of that dreadful disco star. That's what the politicians are really saying. Blair probably has a white disco suit hidden in his closet, they suggest, with their catty remarks about free vacations. The Prime Minister of England, can you believe it, the man representing the nation that gave the world Shakespeare and Milton and Dickens...he likes disco music. But they can't just come right out and say it. They'd look so snotty and upper-class twit-ish. Instead, they speak in upper-class code, trying to hide their true sentiments from the lower classes who will be casting ballots soon.
In spite of all their blathering, they're green with envy, longing for the glitz and glamor of South Beach and the party scene that Tony Blair is enjoying free of charge. These sorts of sun holidays don't come cheap.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Year End Housecleaning
Just before she went off on Christmas hols, Gail Hochman must have cleaned out her in box and dusted off her desk. My gift for St. Stephen's Day this year was a form rejection, three months in the making. Bill Contardi of the same agency rejected an e-mail query I sent last Saturday, so clearly he's the one holding down the fort this week.
Last October I fired off a batch of submissions to a few literary journals, but there wasn't much thought behind it. What was I thinking, to send a satire about the Center for Science in the Public Interest to Swink, when they're based in California? Of all the editors who would not find it amusing, that would be the place to find them. They were good enough to reply within their twelve week time-frame, which every author appreciates, and they accept simultaneous submissions so you don't have to tie up your short story for months at a time. If you've got something all selfishly introspective and LA-LA-land whingey, they might be the literary rag for you. Just don't make fun of their sacred cows.
Sorry, about the cows, I wasn't thinking. Sure and they must all be vegetarians out there. Make that last bit "sacred cow-parsnips" and we'll call it even.
Last October I fired off a batch of submissions to a few literary journals, but there wasn't much thought behind it. What was I thinking, to send a satire about the Center for Science in the Public Interest to Swink, when they're based in California? Of all the editors who would not find it amusing, that would be the place to find them. They were good enough to reply within their twelve week time-frame, which every author appreciates, and they accept simultaneous submissions so you don't have to tie up your short story for months at a time. If you've got something all selfishly introspective and LA-LA-land whingey, they might be the literary rag for you. Just don't make fun of their sacred cows.
Sorry, about the cows, I wasn't thinking. Sure and they must all be vegetarians out there. Make that last bit "sacred cow-parsnips" and we'll call it even.
There Is No Free Lunch
Why would London be so keen to solve the 'Irish question' after all these years? In Thatcher's day, the government fought to hang on to the six counties with a rabid intensity, and yet today, the powers that be are pushing the DUP to reach an accord with their despised Catholic enemies.
There are several old adages that might apply, but the fact that there is no free lunch is the most pertinent. No, nothing's free, as everything comes at a cost that someone has to meet. Thus far, it's the British taxpayer who's been meeting some high costs, and clearly they are not happy.
The north of Ireland is booming, relatively speaking. It's a growth region in the United Kingdom, the fifth largest, and the price of property is shooting through the roof. Residents hoping to buy in Belfast are getting more and more frustrated as the price of a house keeps escalating beyond their reach. For someone owning a home on the market, it's all good news, of course.
Economists are looking at a slightly different picture than that painted by headlines and sound bytes. What is at the basis of this boom, they ask, and they have discovered a house of rather flimsy cards.
For all intents and purposes, the north does not have a private sector. What is there is so small in size that it holds little hope of attracting foreign investment, being comprised largely of firms that employ no more than ten people. You won't find an American venture capitalist looking to sink millions into someone's chip shop or Chinese take-away. That's nothing to build a future on.
So where do most people work? They work for the government. The north is a land of civil servants, and civil servants are paid out of other people's taxes. London is moving to ease the tax burden on the voting public, and that means jobs in the north are going to be lost in the budget cutting process.
As the civil servants seek new employment, they won't find anything because there is no private sector out there, looking for new hires. With a slashed budget, the local government units will not have enough to spread around if they are going to take care of education and health, so analysts expect that economic development will have to take a back seat to more urgent needs.
Philip McDonagh of PricewaterhouseCoopers in Belfast does not offer a very rosy picture. He describes a community that plays it safe, avoids risk, and that is exactly the opposite sort of mentality that is needed to grow a private sector economy. As the public arena shrinks, the pool of unemployed will grow, but those same people are so averse to taking a flier that they won't think to start up their own business. The end result will be a smaller public sector, and a ballooning rate of unemployment.
Just as London cuts the budget for civil servants in the north of Ireland, the live register will begin to expand and the cost of public assistance will climb. No savings there for the average British citizen, with money going from one pocket to the other but never leaving the pants. The real solution is to get rid of the whole outfit, pockets and trousers and all. Cut out the excess civil servants, cut out the unemployed and their benefits, and Westminster can show some real progress on the bottom line.
Bit by bit, London is going to get rid of the Six Counties now that the colony has become a loss leader. There will be a united Ireland one day, because it's just too expensive to keep it separated.
There are several old adages that might apply, but the fact that there is no free lunch is the most pertinent. No, nothing's free, as everything comes at a cost that someone has to meet. Thus far, it's the British taxpayer who's been meeting some high costs, and clearly they are not happy.
The north of Ireland is booming, relatively speaking. It's a growth region in the United Kingdom, the fifth largest, and the price of property is shooting through the roof. Residents hoping to buy in Belfast are getting more and more frustrated as the price of a house keeps escalating beyond their reach. For someone owning a home on the market, it's all good news, of course.
Economists are looking at a slightly different picture than that painted by headlines and sound bytes. What is at the basis of this boom, they ask, and they have discovered a house of rather flimsy cards.
For all intents and purposes, the north does not have a private sector. What is there is so small in size that it holds little hope of attracting foreign investment, being comprised largely of firms that employ no more than ten people. You won't find an American venture capitalist looking to sink millions into someone's chip shop or Chinese take-away. That's nothing to build a future on.
So where do most people work? They work for the government. The north is a land of civil servants, and civil servants are paid out of other people's taxes. London is moving to ease the tax burden on the voting public, and that means jobs in the north are going to be lost in the budget cutting process.
As the civil servants seek new employment, they won't find anything because there is no private sector out there, looking for new hires. With a slashed budget, the local government units will not have enough to spread around if they are going to take care of education and health, so analysts expect that economic development will have to take a back seat to more urgent needs.
Philip McDonagh of PricewaterhouseCoopers in Belfast does not offer a very rosy picture. He describes a community that plays it safe, avoids risk, and that is exactly the opposite sort of mentality that is needed to grow a private sector economy. As the public arena shrinks, the pool of unemployed will grow, but those same people are so averse to taking a flier that they won't think to start up their own business. The end result will be a smaller public sector, and a ballooning rate of unemployment.
Just as London cuts the budget for civil servants in the north of Ireland, the live register will begin to expand and the cost of public assistance will climb. No savings there for the average British citizen, with money going from one pocket to the other but never leaving the pants. The real solution is to get rid of the whole outfit, pockets and trousers and all. Cut out the excess civil servants, cut out the unemployed and their benefits, and Westminster can show some real progress on the bottom line.
Bit by bit, London is going to get rid of the Six Counties now that the colony has become a loss leader. There will be a united Ireland one day, because it's just too expensive to keep it separated.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
St. Stephen's Day
While the Boys of Barr na Sraide go hunting for the wren, I'll go hunting for the aspirin. Another cup of tea, a bite of toast, and I'll be right as rain again.
Margaret's over to visit from Dublin, and brought a bottle of something special to share with us all. And share we did, until there was none left to share. Mary Harney's ears must surely have been burning, but I believe she's half asbestos, that one, and didn't even feel the heat. All in all, a lovely Christmas, with too much food and just enough drink.
There's a reason that Ireland is shut down on the day after Christmas. I wasn't wrong to take a week of vacation to see me through the New Year. The older I get, the longer it takes to recover, and I'm needing the full seven days to get over the party. After New Year's Day, of course, we're all in the same boat, back to work all bleary-eyed and hung over.
Now there's the perfect frame of mind to be in when I start sending out my query letters again.
Margaret's over to visit from Dublin, and brought a bottle of something special to share with us all. And share we did, until there was none left to share. Mary Harney's ears must surely have been burning, but I believe she's half asbestos, that one, and didn't even feel the heat. All in all, a lovely Christmas, with too much food and just enough drink.
There's a reason that Ireland is shut down on the day after Christmas. I wasn't wrong to take a week of vacation to see me through the New Year. The older I get, the longer it takes to recover, and I'm needing the full seven days to get over the party. After New Year's Day, of course, we're all in the same boat, back to work all bleary-eyed and hung over.
Now there's the perfect frame of mind to be in when I start sending out my query letters again.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Later
If you're thinking of sending a query to Susan Golomb, might as well wait until after the New Year. She's out of the office, you see, until the third of January. Go ahead and send the e-query if you must, but she won't answer until after she's back.
Funny, that. After my partial manuscript was sent and then ignored, she hasn't answered any of my e-queries. Why start now? It'll be the same as before, I suppose. The overflowing e-mail box, crammed with queries, will be glossed over on the third of next month. And I'll get my answer. The same answer I've gotten in the past.
It's the return of the 'no answer means no', and I'll have to wait until the New Year's been rung in to get that no response. Now, I could send a snail mail query, but some agents don't seem to be taking the time to send back the SASE. No response means no, and it won't matter how you send the query. Michelle Beno, Chris Parris-Lamb, and Gail Hochman are at three months and still nothing. Sally Van Haitsma at Castiglia Agency is winning, however, with no response to a snail-mail query after four months.
This weekend I took another look at the query, after reading up at the very usefulCrap-o-Meter for queries as presented by Miss Snark. Read enough of them and your eyes will bleed, but you'll get a sense of what it is one agent looks for. Scroll through and find the formula for composing the hook portion of your query...it should get your head wrapped around the general notion of how to. I'm preparing a new batch of snail mail queries to be posted while the agents are 'out of the office' and look forward to more waiting in the New Year.
Funny, that. After my partial manuscript was sent and then ignored, she hasn't answered any of my e-queries. Why start now? It'll be the same as before, I suppose. The overflowing e-mail box, crammed with queries, will be glossed over on the third of next month. And I'll get my answer. The same answer I've gotten in the past.
It's the return of the 'no answer means no', and I'll have to wait until the New Year's been rung in to get that no response. Now, I could send a snail mail query, but some agents don't seem to be taking the time to send back the SASE. No response means no, and it won't matter how you send the query. Michelle Beno, Chris Parris-Lamb, and Gail Hochman are at three months and still nothing. Sally Van Haitsma at Castiglia Agency is winning, however, with no response to a snail-mail query after four months.
This weekend I took another look at the query, after reading up at the very useful
Sunday, December 24, 2006
The Best Christmas Song Of All Time? Or Not...
You can have your Bing Crosby and your Nat King Cole and all those chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
Give me The Pogues and Fairy Tale of New York...
It was Christmas Eve, babe,
In the drunk tank.
An old man said to me, 'Won't see another one.'
And then he song a song,
The Rare Old Mountain Dew,
I turned my face away and dreamed about you.
Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one,
I got a feeling
This year's for me and you.
So Happy Christmas, I love you baby,
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true.
They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold,
But the wind goes right through you,
It's no place for the old.
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me Broadway was waiting for me.
You were handsome
You were pretty, Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more.
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on the corner
Then danced through the night.
The boys of the NYPD choir were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.
You're a bum, you're a punk.
You're an old slut on junk,
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed.
You scumbag, you maggot,
You cheap lousy faggot,
Happy Christmas your arse I pray God it's our last.
The boys of the NYPD Choir were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.
I could have been someone.
Well so could anyone.
You took my dreams from me when I first found you.
I kept them with me babe,
I put them with my own.
Can't make it all alone,
I've built my dreams around you.
The boys of the NYPD Choir were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.
Give me The Pogues and Fairy Tale of New York...
It was Christmas Eve, babe,
In the drunk tank.
An old man said to me, 'Won't see another one.'
And then he song a song,
The Rare Old Mountain Dew,
I turned my face away and dreamed about you.
Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one,
I got a feeling
This year's for me and you.
So Happy Christmas, I love you baby,
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true.
They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold,
But the wind goes right through you,
It's no place for the old.
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me Broadway was waiting for me.
You were handsome
You were pretty, Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more.
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on the corner
Then danced through the night.
The boys of the NYPD choir were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.
You're a bum, you're a punk.
You're an old slut on junk,
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed.
You scumbag, you maggot,
You cheap lousy faggot,
Happy Christmas your arse I pray God it's our last.
The boys of the NYPD Choir were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.
I could have been someone.
Well so could anyone.
You took my dreams from me when I first found you.
I kept them with me babe,
I put them with my own.
Can't make it all alone,
I've built my dreams around you.
The boys of the NYPD Choir were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
It's How You Say It
Michael Corbitt and Sam Giancana wrote a book about crime and corruption. HarperCollins published it, judging the non-fiction manuscript to be a potential money-maker. Everyone loves true stories about the Mob, about all the greed and dirty deals that make crime go around. Now the Illinois Supreme Court has declared that the authors are not quite so free as they might have thought when they sat down to compose their sordid tale.
The name of attorney Patrick Tuite came up in the book, in connection with a fix put in for Outfit members' trials. Corbitt and Giancana never said outright that Tuite got paid off, they only reported that the Outfit believed that Tuite had the deal arranged. They reported what their sources implied. How else to make the story complete than to relay what was said by those involved? An author is supposed to fill in the gaps, to set the stage, and the reader needs this sort of background information to understand what was going on and put other information in context.
Tuite turned around and sued the authors, claiming that his name was defamed by this implication that he had bribed a judge or something equally reprehensible. Why, Mr. Tuite only helped Joey Aiuppa's lawyers prepare for a sentencing hearing after the conviction, that's what he did for the one million dollar fee. That's a lot of billable hours, there, even for a high priced attorney, but we're all supposed to believe that a million dollars changed hands for this perfectly legitimate reason.
The authors relied on an old standard, the "innocent construction" rule that was used in the past to block libel suits where the statements in question could be interpreted as non-defamatory. The Illinois Supreme Court judges declared that the statements in question were not the least bit innocent and had no non-defamatory interpretation at all. Go on, there, Mr. Tuite, and press on with your libel case, the Justices said.
As for the "innocent construction" rule, that stays in place, and news organizations and HarperCollins breathed a sigh of relief. The Chicago Tribune, Sun-Times and television stations knew what was at stake if Tuite's lawyers had their way and got the rule lifted. A decision like that would have been devastating to the entire news industry, making it almost impossible to report the word on the street or to quote an unnamed source.
Expect Patrick Tuite to be back in court soon, pressing his libel case. And expect that publishing house lawyers will be more cautious when there's a contract in process for a true crime book. Once burned, twice shy, they say, and authors are going to be under pressure to properly parse their participles and turn a phrase. No hearsay allowed in a court of law, and soon it won't be allowed in print.
One million dollars to advise Aiuppa's lawyers. Sure, and I just fell off the turnip wagon.
The name of attorney Patrick Tuite came up in the book, in connection with a fix put in for Outfit members' trials. Corbitt and Giancana never said outright that Tuite got paid off, they only reported that the Outfit believed that Tuite had the deal arranged. They reported what their sources implied. How else to make the story complete than to relay what was said by those involved? An author is supposed to fill in the gaps, to set the stage, and the reader needs this sort of background information to understand what was going on and put other information in context.
Tuite turned around and sued the authors, claiming that his name was defamed by this implication that he had bribed a judge or something equally reprehensible. Why, Mr. Tuite only helped Joey Aiuppa's lawyers prepare for a sentencing hearing after the conviction, that's what he did for the one million dollar fee. That's a lot of billable hours, there, even for a high priced attorney, but we're all supposed to believe that a million dollars changed hands for this perfectly legitimate reason.
The authors relied on an old standard, the "innocent construction" rule that was used in the past to block libel suits where the statements in question could be interpreted as non-defamatory. The Illinois Supreme Court judges declared that the statements in question were not the least bit innocent and had no non-defamatory interpretation at all. Go on, there, Mr. Tuite, and press on with your libel case, the Justices said.
As for the "innocent construction" rule, that stays in place, and news organizations and HarperCollins breathed a sigh of relief. The Chicago Tribune, Sun-Times and television stations knew what was at stake if Tuite's lawyers had their way and got the rule lifted. A decision like that would have been devastating to the entire news industry, making it almost impossible to report the word on the street or to quote an unnamed source.
Expect Patrick Tuite to be back in court soon, pressing his libel case. And expect that publishing house lawyers will be more cautious when there's a contract in process for a true crime book. Once burned, twice shy, they say, and authors are going to be under pressure to properly parse their participles and turn a phrase. No hearsay allowed in a court of law, and soon it won't be allowed in print.
One million dollars to advise Aiuppa's lawyers. Sure, and I just fell off the turnip wagon.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Be Merry
The stock market is quiet as the traders take an extra day, getting ready for Christmas. Comes on a Monday this year, and the school holidays are scheduled for the two weeks after...plenty of time for family fun, trips to museums and pizza for lunch and dinner.
All the literary agents have gone to ground, many big agencies close their doors for a week or a few days. There's no point in sending out queries right now, not when you'll be waiting even longer for a reply. It's a good time to write, or re-write, or edit something.
In a couple of weeks, the publishing industry will kick up again, until summer of course when they slow up and spend a great deal of time at parties. While you wait, why not read a few novels, maybe someone's debut, and get a handle on the market. Or just read for the sake of reading.
There's a slice of whiskey cake with my name on it, and a lovely, hot Irish coffee to wash it down. Followed by a bit of Dundee cake, and perhaps a little whiskey punch before bed.
Merry Christmas to all, and may you experience the joy and wonder of this holiday season.
Nollaig shona duit.
All the literary agents have gone to ground, many big agencies close their doors for a week or a few days. There's no point in sending out queries right now, not when you'll be waiting even longer for a reply. It's a good time to write, or re-write, or edit something.
In a couple of weeks, the publishing industry will kick up again, until summer of course when they slow up and spend a great deal of time at parties. While you wait, why not read a few novels, maybe someone's debut, and get a handle on the market. Or just read for the sake of reading.
There's a slice of whiskey cake with my name on it, and a lovely, hot Irish coffee to wash it down. Followed by a bit of Dundee cake, and perhaps a little whiskey punch before bed.
Merry Christmas to all, and may you experience the joy and wonder of this holiday season.
Nollaig shona duit.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Bah Humbug
Christmas decorating requires lights, lots of lights, twinkling and sparkling and brilliant. However, certain people don't seem all that interested in making the effort. Not everyone, mind you, only a few along Grafton Street and Henry Street are being most Scrooge-like these days.
The Dublin Business Association is going to name them. Put their humbugging names in the newspaper for all the world to see who is too cheap to pay up for the cost of all the lights in the major shopping areas. A thankless task, it's up to some volunteers to organize the whole project, from putting the lights up to taking them down, and it costs money to do that sort of thing. The whole street gets done up for the holidays, one of the local merchants takes care of collecting the donations to cover costs, and the shoppers are treated to a festive scene. Except some people aren't paying their fair share.
And who is it that isn't helping out in Dublin this holiday season? It's the British corporations, the English chain stores who take advantage of the holiday shopping season and feast on Irish euro, but don't donate anything to the decorating. Isn't that just like them, after all they did in Ireland, and they're still at it, the leeches...the parasites. Won't help to promote Irish Christmas culture, will they?
A vendor with a shop on Wicklow Street has become concerned about the lack of financing. According to David Brennan, there were no lights on South Great George's Street or Exchequer Street this year, and we must assume it's because there wasn't enough money donated to pay for them. It's England's fault, clearly. They robbed the nation, stripped it of its resources for hundreds of years, and now they're trying to steal away Christmas.
Name them and shame them, organize a boycott in the Irish tradition. No lights, no custom, let that be the battle cry. And if all else fails, go straight to Dail Eireann and demand a law, a tax on foreign vendors, and maybe then they'll see the light.
The Dublin Business Association is going to name them. Put their humbugging names in the newspaper for all the world to see who is too cheap to pay up for the cost of all the lights in the major shopping areas. A thankless task, it's up to some volunteers to organize the whole project, from putting the lights up to taking them down, and it costs money to do that sort of thing. The whole street gets done up for the holidays, one of the local merchants takes care of collecting the donations to cover costs, and the shoppers are treated to a festive scene. Except some people aren't paying their fair share.
And who is it that isn't helping out in Dublin this holiday season? It's the British corporations, the English chain stores who take advantage of the holiday shopping season and feast on Irish euro, but don't donate anything to the decorating. Isn't that just like them, after all they did in Ireland, and they're still at it, the leeches...the parasites. Won't help to promote Irish Christmas culture, will they?
A vendor with a shop on Wicklow Street has become concerned about the lack of financing. According to David Brennan, there were no lights on South Great George's Street or Exchequer Street this year, and we must assume it's because there wasn't enough money donated to pay for them. It's England's fault, clearly. They robbed the nation, stripped it of its resources for hundreds of years, and now they're trying to steal away Christmas.
Name them and shame them, organize a boycott in the Irish tradition. No lights, no custom, let that be the battle cry. And if all else fails, go straight to Dail Eireann and demand a law, a tax on foreign vendors, and maybe then they'll see the light.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Hide In Plain Sight
Should the police be on the prowl for pedophiles, they need look no further than the nearest organization promoting child sex abuse. In Britain, taking the rather obvious tack resulted in a phenomenal find.
Far north, in the chill of County Durham, Thomas O'Carroll was busy running the International Pedophile Child Emancipation Group, and the equally vile Gentlemen With An Interesting Name. These organizations existed for the sole purpose of promoting a change of the laws, rather like a PAC for perverts. Make it legal for adults to have sex with children was their cause. Highly unpopular, but what's to lose? People once thought homosexuals were vile and look how accepted they are today, so why not pedophiles? Men just want to have fun, after all.
British police had infiltrated the group, and when they finally closed in on O'Carroll and his co-conspirator Michael Studdart, they discovered a cache of kiddie porn that had taken fifty years to amass. It is said to be one of the largest collections of filth, kept behind a bathroom wall in Surrey.
One can imagine the two arguing in court, complaining about being tried for their views of proper sexual conduct, playing the victims. Judge Roger Chapple had none of it, according to reports. He tried them both for possessing, manufacturing and distributing child pornography, and the defendants could whinge about discrimination all they wanted, but they had broken the law.
And so, the former teacher and the son of the Archdeacon of Surrey are now registered sex offenders, but their attempt to normalize their sick perversions will no doubt continue. They can turn to their fellow travellers and play the victim card in a search for sympathy, but Judge Chapple rightly recognized that the true victims in the case were the little boys in the photographs.
Far north, in the chill of County Durham, Thomas O'Carroll was busy running the International Pedophile Child Emancipation Group, and the equally vile Gentlemen With An Interesting Name. These organizations existed for the sole purpose of promoting a change of the laws, rather like a PAC for perverts. Make it legal for adults to have sex with children was their cause. Highly unpopular, but what's to lose? People once thought homosexuals were vile and look how accepted they are today, so why not pedophiles? Men just want to have fun, after all.
British police had infiltrated the group, and when they finally closed in on O'Carroll and his co-conspirator Michael Studdart, they discovered a cache of kiddie porn that had taken fifty years to amass. It is said to be one of the largest collections of filth, kept behind a bathroom wall in Surrey.
One can imagine the two arguing in court, complaining about being tried for their views of proper sexual conduct, playing the victims. Judge Roger Chapple had none of it, according to reports. He tried them both for possessing, manufacturing and distributing child pornography, and the defendants could whinge about discrimination all they wanted, but they had broken the law.
And so, the former teacher and the son of the Archdeacon of Surrey are now registered sex offenders, but their attempt to normalize their sick perversions will no doubt continue. They can turn to their fellow travellers and play the victim card in a search for sympathy, but Judge Chapple rightly recognized that the true victims in the case were the little boys in the photographs.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Top Gun Agent
You want someone with power, someone who can get your manuscript in the hands of elite publishing executives, someone who won't take no for an answer. Based on Judith Regan's recent diatribe, as "leaked" by HarperCollins legal eagles, you couldn't find a more powerful agent than Esther Newberg.
She must be tied at the hip to Jane Friedman, top level exec of HarperCollins, since they reportedly worked together to get poor Judith kicked out of her own imprint. Who wouldn't want that kind of agent? And don't forget HarperCollins executive editor David Hirshey. He's part of this publishing cabal that had the long knives out for Ms. Regan.
An agent with powerhouse ICM, Ms. Newberg reps the luminaries of thriller authordom, people like Carl Hiassen. With all the reading she's done over the years, it's no wonder that she's mastered the art of intrigue. Is there a plot device or devious technique she's not seen yet? Like a master student of the genre, she has surely incorporated much of the information provided by her stable of authors and put all that knowledge to good use. Hence, Judith Regan was tossed out on her arse, bested by a master. More exciting than any episode of 24, wouldn't you say?
It's starting to read like some spy novel, with Ms. Regan announcing the conspiracy against her, days in advance. Then there's the chick-lit catty element, with Jane Friedman playing the snotty role while Ms. Regan portrays the downtrodden Cinderella. And off in the sidelines, waiting for his cue, is agent Laurence J. Kirshbaum, ready to provide Ms. Regan's happy ending by repping the tell-all memoir that will blow the lid off the secret cabal in publishing. Kirshbaum...isn't that Jewish?
She must be tied at the hip to Jane Friedman, top level exec of HarperCollins, since they reportedly worked together to get poor Judith kicked out of her own imprint. Who wouldn't want that kind of agent? And don't forget HarperCollins executive editor David Hirshey. He's part of this publishing cabal that had the long knives out for Ms. Regan.
An agent with powerhouse ICM, Ms. Newberg reps the luminaries of thriller authordom, people like Carl Hiassen. With all the reading she's done over the years, it's no wonder that she's mastered the art of intrigue. Is there a plot device or devious technique she's not seen yet? Like a master student of the genre, she has surely incorporated much of the information provided by her stable of authors and put all that knowledge to good use. Hence, Judith Regan was tossed out on her arse, bested by a master. More exciting than any episode of 24, wouldn't you say?
It's starting to read like some spy novel, with Ms. Regan announcing the conspiracy against her, days in advance. Then there's the chick-lit catty element, with Jane Friedman playing the snotty role while Ms. Regan portrays the downtrodden Cinderella. And off in the sidelines, waiting for his cue, is agent Laurence J. Kirshbaum, ready to provide Ms. Regan's happy ending by repping the tell-all memoir that will blow the lid off the secret cabal in publishing. Kirshbaum...isn't that Jewish?
The Resale Shop Around The Corner
Ebay is big. It's getting bigger.
Back at the turn of the millennium, Alan Scroope started up a business in his mother-in-law's house. She had a spare bedroom, and Mr. Scroope was looking for office space on the cheap. I'll bet she brought him his tea as well, since he was there and it was no bother, really, the kettle was on and she was having a cup herself.
Like any budding entrepreneur, he had a an idea of a niche that needed filling, and he stepped in. He called it Freeflow, and started to buy up excess or unwanted inventories and sold them on to those who were looking for just the thing. Not just bits of odd junk, no. Freeflow bought up things from Apple, 3Com or Motorola, electronic gadgets that had some useful life if they could be had for a bargain price.
From the bedroom office, Mr. Scroope has expanded internationally, with offices in Tralee, Hong Kong and California. Did very well for himself in these past five years. He says his sales are in the 26 million euro range, but sales are going to go even higher. Freeflow and Ebay are going into business together, and with Ebay's marketing forces and dollars behind it, the merger looks to be profitable for all.
According to Mr. Scroope, the technology industry had no way to deal with excess product or returns, and were losing money. Between Freeflow and Ebay working together, the techies can sell off their inventories through listings on Ebay, and Freeflow will see to it that the customer gets the goods.
And so, the second-hand store goes electronic. It's not the same without the clutter and the shop owner keeping a wary eye on you while you browsed through the jumble. Clicking and scrolling just aren't the same thing.
Back at the turn of the millennium, Alan Scroope started up a business in his mother-in-law's house. She had a spare bedroom, and Mr. Scroope was looking for office space on the cheap. I'll bet she brought him his tea as well, since he was there and it was no bother, really, the kettle was on and she was having a cup herself.
Like any budding entrepreneur, he had a an idea of a niche that needed filling, and he stepped in. He called it Freeflow, and started to buy up excess or unwanted inventories and sold them on to those who were looking for just the thing. Not just bits of odd junk, no. Freeflow bought up things from Apple, 3Com or Motorola, electronic gadgets that had some useful life if they could be had for a bargain price.
From the bedroom office, Mr. Scroope has expanded internationally, with offices in Tralee, Hong Kong and California. Did very well for himself in these past five years. He says his sales are in the 26 million euro range, but sales are going to go even higher. Freeflow and Ebay are going into business together, and with Ebay's marketing forces and dollars behind it, the merger looks to be profitable for all.
According to Mr. Scroope, the technology industry had no way to deal with excess product or returns, and were losing money. Between Freeflow and Ebay working together, the techies can sell off their inventories through listings on Ebay, and Freeflow will see to it that the customer gets the goods.
And so, the second-hand store goes electronic. It's not the same without the clutter and the shop owner keeping a wary eye on you while you browsed through the jumble. Clicking and scrolling just aren't the same thing.
Monday, December 18, 2006
In The Red
What with all the talk about Judith Regan and O.J.'s so-called tell-all memoir, the reading public lost track of another Regan product that might be equally dismissed. Coming soon to a book shop near you, or perhaps not, is a fictional biography of Mickey Mantle.
The book pretends to be Mickey Mantle telling his life story to Leonard Shecter, a long deceased writer who worked on the wildly popular Ball Four. The latter was a real memoir, the story of Jim Bouton as told by himself, and he was blunt and honest about baseball life. Whatever was in the book, Bouton wanted in, no matter how unpleasant it might have been. The author of 7, the Mickey Mantle story, just plain makes stuff up, but it could have happened that way, dear reader.
Why not just pen a biography? It's been done, and by no less an authority than Mickey Mantle's wife, who put up with his wicked ways. Then too, the baseball legend is still a hero to many, and even if author Peter Golenbeck could track down some witnesses to confess, it would not be the same. In fiction, the author controls the characters, and he controls what they say and what they do and where they go.
Not to forget, but sex sells, and the sex life of a baseball legend should fly out of the book shop door. Isn't that what ReganBooks was all about, after all? Selling, and selling in big numbers? So what better book to promote than one with a huge baseball icon and lots of smut, with Marilyn Monroe tossed in the mix?
Robert Thiel of the Book Stall in Winnetka doesn't think the novel is going to make it. The problem is, the stories related in the book might have come from other ball players trading tales, hearsay that can't be proved or disproved. So it's not an authentic telling of Mantle's womanizing ways. And the dialogue, being in a novel, is all made up, so the average sports fan isn't likely to buy the book. A guy would know the difference between the fiction stacks and the sports section, apparently, and he won't bother with the novel because he wants the real thing. And there's the whole issue of a big hero being reduced to some weak, testosterone driven cad. Many would prefer that the hero remain on his pedestal and they don't care to hear about his clay feet.
First the expense of the O.J. pulping, and now the potential tanking of the next release. ReganBooks might be a going concern, but it's going into the red. Nothing a change of leadership can't fix.
The book pretends to be Mickey Mantle telling his life story to Leonard Shecter, a long deceased writer who worked on the wildly popular Ball Four. The latter was a real memoir, the story of Jim Bouton as told by himself, and he was blunt and honest about baseball life. Whatever was in the book, Bouton wanted in, no matter how unpleasant it might have been. The author of 7, the Mickey Mantle story, just plain makes stuff up, but it could have happened that way, dear reader.
Why not just pen a biography? It's been done, and by no less an authority than Mickey Mantle's wife, who put up with his wicked ways. Then too, the baseball legend is still a hero to many, and even if author Peter Golenbeck could track down some witnesses to confess, it would not be the same. In fiction, the author controls the characters, and he controls what they say and what they do and where they go.
Not to forget, but sex sells, and the sex life of a baseball legend should fly out of the book shop door. Isn't that what ReganBooks was all about, after all? Selling, and selling in big numbers? So what better book to promote than one with a huge baseball icon and lots of smut, with Marilyn Monroe tossed in the mix?
Robert Thiel of the Book Stall in Winnetka doesn't think the novel is going to make it. The problem is, the stories related in the book might have come from other ball players trading tales, hearsay that can't be proved or disproved. So it's not an authentic telling of Mantle's womanizing ways. And the dialogue, being in a novel, is all made up, so the average sports fan isn't likely to buy the book. A guy would know the difference between the fiction stacks and the sports section, apparently, and he won't bother with the novel because he wants the real thing. And there's the whole issue of a big hero being reduced to some weak, testosterone driven cad. Many would prefer that the hero remain on his pedestal and they don't care to hear about his clay feet.
First the expense of the O.J. pulping, and now the potential tanking of the next release. ReganBooks might be a going concern, but it's going into the red. Nothing a change of leadership can't fix.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Hey, Hey, Hey, Goodbye
It wasn't so bad as all that, after all. There's been worse trash foisted on the reading public, hasn't there been? But to dump Judith Regan for some tasteless garbage? Sure and there's a bit more to the story than anyone will confess, I'd say.
Just like that, HarperCollins' own Jane Friedman announced that Judith Regan was terminated, effective immediately. The publishing program that she headed will carry on, however, due no doubt to their innocence in the entire fiasco. If I Did It brought Ms. Regan a step too far down the road to the dumpster of publishing. Garbage is one thing, but when the garbage reeks, well, it's time to dispose of it properly.
Not that Judith was responsible for anything high end to begin with. She was the one who brought out the celebrity books, the ghost-written bits of nothing that sold well enough. As the head of her own imprint at HarperCollins, she kept doing what she did best, churning out nonsense with relatively infamous names plastered on the front cover. Who could forget that stellar piece of literary excellence, How To Make Love Like A Porn Star. Can't get enough of the do it yourself books, especially at holiday gift-giving time.
Okay, so there was some funny business with her and the New York City Police Commissioner around the time of the 9/11 tragedy, but then she moved to LA to concentrate on her main area of expertise. If she was not getting along with Jane Friedman, they had an entire country between them to act as a buffer. Besides, Ms. Regan was into the tabloid trash that was the stock in trade of owner Rupert Murdoch, so what's not to like?
The O.J. book was ready to ship, printed and boxed and labelled. O.J. or his selected underling had cash in hand, payment for his time and efforts. The ghostwriter had been paid. And then it all went off to the pulp factory.
You can get away with a lot of nonsense if you add handsomely to the corporate bottom line. Lose money, lose a great deal of money, and you cause pain to the CEO and the Board of Directors and the stockholders. When they are hurting, they go after heads, lopping off the one that created their headache.
In the end, the Regan dismissal is a clear indication that Rupert Murdoch lost a great, great deal of money on the whole O.J. mess, and Ms. Regan has paid the corporate price. She'll write a book about the entire ordeal, and she'll receive a huge advance. Not from HarperCollins, however. They've already paid.
Just like that, HarperCollins' own Jane Friedman announced that Judith Regan was terminated, effective immediately. The publishing program that she headed will carry on, however, due no doubt to their innocence in the entire fiasco. If I Did It brought Ms. Regan a step too far down the road to the dumpster of publishing. Garbage is one thing, but when the garbage reeks, well, it's time to dispose of it properly.
Not that Judith was responsible for anything high end to begin with. She was the one who brought out the celebrity books, the ghost-written bits of nothing that sold well enough. As the head of her own imprint at HarperCollins, she kept doing what she did best, churning out nonsense with relatively infamous names plastered on the front cover. Who could forget that stellar piece of literary excellence, How To Make Love Like A Porn Star. Can't get enough of the do it yourself books, especially at holiday gift-giving time.
Okay, so there was some funny business with her and the New York City Police Commissioner around the time of the 9/11 tragedy, but then she moved to LA to concentrate on her main area of expertise. If she was not getting along with Jane Friedman, they had an entire country between them to act as a buffer. Besides, Ms. Regan was into the tabloid trash that was the stock in trade of owner Rupert Murdoch, so what's not to like?
The O.J. book was ready to ship, printed and boxed and labelled. O.J. or his selected underling had cash in hand, payment for his time and efforts. The ghostwriter had been paid. And then it all went off to the pulp factory.
You can get away with a lot of nonsense if you add handsomely to the corporate bottom line. Lose money, lose a great deal of money, and you cause pain to the CEO and the Board of Directors and the stockholders. When they are hurting, they go after heads, lopping off the one that created their headache.
In the end, the Regan dismissal is a clear indication that Rupert Murdoch lost a great, great deal of money on the whole O.J. mess, and Ms. Regan has paid the corporate price. She'll write a book about the entire ordeal, and she'll receive a huge advance. Not from HarperCollins, however. They've already paid.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Looking For An Agent?
You've written so many variations on your query letter that you can't be sure anymore that English is your native tongue. The partial manuscript you sent has been ignored, they ask for a full and reject your novel in a couple of weeks with no comments offered.
It's time to bring in the big guns. Here is a link to a website that will be the answer to your prayers:
The St. Jude Novena Site
And I'll be keeping you in my prayers.
It's time to bring in the big guns. Here is a link to a website that will be the answer to your prayers:
And I'll be keeping you in my prayers.
Lesson In Economics
Health insurance is costly, no matter what country you're in. And it's the old people on the enrollment lists that are driving up costs for us young and healthy types. For an insurance company, the fewer sick oldsters, the better, since the last thing that an insurance company wants to do is pay out on a claim.
Ireland's national health insurer, VHI, has run up against this very problem. They have far too many geriatrics and not enough youngsters paying in to the system. What to do? Why, they're the government. They can do what they like, make the rules suit them. Now, if they had consulted an economist or two...surely there's a few at UCD or Trinity that were available for a sit-down.
The only competition for health insurance coverage was BUPA Ireland, a company based in England. They were writing policies, but most of their clients were healthy and there was not too much income going out. And there was VHI, with more than its fair share of expensive clients getting sick and going to doctors and filing claims. To even things out, VHI declared that BUPA would have to pay them to compensate for the imbalance. It's not unlike extortion, but when you're the one writing the laws, well...you call it risk equalization.
And so BUPA Ireland gladly handed over their excess profits and the insurance industry lived happily ever after. Or so the directors of VHI expected. In reality, two weeks before Christmas, BUPA is pulling out of Ireland and three hundred people are about to get the sack. Merry Christmas from your friends at VHI.
Rather then become more competitive, VHI tried to legislate its way to profitability, but that's not how the real world of capitalism works. Now VHI has a monopoly on Irish health insurance, and it is expected that prices will rise. It has been suggested that VHI will be broken up into smaller companies, or the behemoth with three-quarters of the market might scare off potential competitors. Competition is what's needed to drive down prices, but a company has to be efficient to reduce costs to get prices down. And no for-profit corporation is going to work hard to make money, just to hand it over to its competitor who's too bloated and inefficient to get up off the couch and make an effort.
What are the chances of VHI, a state-owned company, becoming more efficient? About the same as anyone figuring out that a risk equalization scheme doesn't work in a free-market economy.
Ireland's national health insurer, VHI, has run up against this very problem. They have far too many geriatrics and not enough youngsters paying in to the system. What to do? Why, they're the government. They can do what they like, make the rules suit them. Now, if they had consulted an economist or two...surely there's a few at UCD or Trinity that were available for a sit-down.
The only competition for health insurance coverage was BUPA Ireland, a company based in England. They were writing policies, but most of their clients were healthy and there was not too much income going out. And there was VHI, with more than its fair share of expensive clients getting sick and going to doctors and filing claims. To even things out, VHI declared that BUPA would have to pay them to compensate for the imbalance. It's not unlike extortion, but when you're the one writing the laws, well...you call it risk equalization.
And so BUPA Ireland gladly handed over their excess profits and the insurance industry lived happily ever after. Or so the directors of VHI expected. In reality, two weeks before Christmas, BUPA is pulling out of Ireland and three hundred people are about to get the sack. Merry Christmas from your friends at VHI.
Rather then become more competitive, VHI tried to legislate its way to profitability, but that's not how the real world of capitalism works. Now VHI has a monopoly on Irish health insurance, and it is expected that prices will rise. It has been suggested that VHI will be broken up into smaller companies, or the behemoth with three-quarters of the market might scare off potential competitors. Competition is what's needed to drive down prices, but a company has to be efficient to reduce costs to get prices down. And no for-profit corporation is going to work hard to make money, just to hand it over to its competitor who's too bloated and inefficient to get up off the couch and make an effort.
What are the chances of VHI, a state-owned company, becoming more efficient? About the same as anyone figuring out that a risk equalization scheme doesn't work in a free-market economy.
Firebrand Literary's New Site
Nadia Cornier has launched her new updated website at Firebrand Literary , and I guess she's accepting queries again. It's only her and Caren Johnson now, with the loss of a couple of agents over the past few months, but it's always worth a try.
Under her new system, you the author fill in the blanks for name, e-mail address and word count. Then you paste in your query letter. It's brilliant. No bizarro questions to answer like other on-line submission sites, just that query letter that you've spent hours polishing.
After that, you paste in the opening couple of pages in another box. They're busy, and they're obviously looking for the instant hook, the turn of a phrase in the first couple of sentences to judge writing skill. If your novel doesn't really get going until the second chapter, you're out of luck. That's why some agents ask for three chapters, to better gauge the manuscript, but then they probably have assistants to do most of the grunt work.
Best of all, once the query is received you'll get an automated response that lets you know the submission got to where it was supposed to go. If nothing else, there's a sense of relief that comes with an acknowledgement, that your query did not go wandering off into cyberspace. Finally, the agency will send a form rejection if they aren't interested, so there's an end point to the whole process.
For the very rare few who are asked to submit, they'll be able to download the manuscript and get updates on the process, how far along, being read, to be read, all that sort of thing. All in all, very friendly to the author. All in all, almost no one makes it that far anyway, so it's not a tremendous burden.
If you want a rough estimate about the odds, I pulled this from Kristin Nelson's blog. She received about 20,800 queries during the past year. Of those, she requested 54 full manuscripts. That's a quarter of one percent. From there, she took on 8 new clients. That puts the odds at one in 2600. And you still want to keep trying your luck, don't you?
Under her new system, you the author fill in the blanks for name, e-mail address and word count. Then you paste in your query letter. It's brilliant. No bizarro questions to answer like other on-line submission sites, just that query letter that you've spent hours polishing.
After that, you paste in the opening couple of pages in another box. They're busy, and they're obviously looking for the instant hook, the turn of a phrase in the first couple of sentences to judge writing skill. If your novel doesn't really get going until the second chapter, you're out of luck. That's why some agents ask for three chapters, to better gauge the manuscript, but then they probably have assistants to do most of the grunt work.
Best of all, once the query is received you'll get an automated response that lets you know the submission got to where it was supposed to go. If nothing else, there's a sense of relief that comes with an acknowledgement, that your query did not go wandering off into cyberspace. Finally, the agency will send a form rejection if they aren't interested, so there's an end point to the whole process.
For the very rare few who are asked to submit, they'll be able to download the manuscript and get updates on the process, how far along, being read, to be read, all that sort of thing. All in all, very friendly to the author. All in all, almost no one makes it that far anyway, so it's not a tremendous burden.
If you want a rough estimate about the odds, I pulled this from Kristin Nelson's blog. She received about 20,800 queries during the past year. Of those, she requested 54 full manuscripts. That's a quarter of one percent. From there, she took on 8 new clients. That puts the odds at one in 2600. And you still want to keep trying your luck, don't you?
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Belly Up
...to the bar. Although fans of the scene at Claddagh might think that their favorite watering hole is going belly up.
Kevin Blair, once an operations manager for Supermac's in Galway, had a dream of bringing the Irish pub to America. That's what the Irish do best, after all, travel to the four corners of the globe and build pubs there. Mr. Blair got the backing of his boss, Pat McDonagh, who no doubt thought it was grand to start up a new restaurant chain that was not fast food. He'd be a fool to bring Supermac's to America and try to outdo McDonald's. And so, Claddagh was born.
Like so many entrepreneurs who taste success, Mr. Blair expanded his restaurant into a seventeen unit chain, but he burned through Mr. McDonagh's initial $20 million seed capital in about four years. There was no American investor willing to buy into the expansion plan, and Mr. McDonagh was not going to drop another bundle of cash into the scheme either. By that point, Blair must have been feeling slighted, with his restaurants doing well but his urgent need of cash going unmet by the man he thought was his financial partner.
A judge in a Dayton, Ohio bankruptcy court appointed a trustee to oversee management of the Claddagh restaurant chain, and then he told Mr. Blair that he owed Mr. McDonagh two million dollars. Apparently the judge agreed with McDonagh, that the Supermac king was not an investor in Claddagh, but a lender, and Blair owed him interest on the loan. Oh, and Blair has to pay back the $20 million as well.
Chances are, the Claddagh restaurants are doing fine, bringing in customers and all that jazz. Expanding too quickly, where rational thought is suffocated by greed, has led many a businessman to bankruptcy court. Who can say if Kevin Blair was on the pig's back, as Mr. McDonagh claimed, or scraping by on a pittance, as Mr. Blair asserted. Anyone familiar with the elaborate stone cottage look of Claddagh could guess that the restaurant cost a fortune to build. Financing that sort of construction would take a lot of money, and it's hard to imagine that a new enterprise could have the kind of cash flow needed to pay for that many new buildings in such a short period of time.
Sure there's economies of scale that lower operating costs, but in this case, the financial strain of achieving the critical mass of restaurants caused the company to implode. Too much too soon, but isn't that the way with the hard-driving entrepreneur? Many are called, but few make it to the ranks of Pat McDonagh and Ray Kroc.
Kevin Blair, once an operations manager for Supermac's in Galway, had a dream of bringing the Irish pub to America. That's what the Irish do best, after all, travel to the four corners of the globe and build pubs there. Mr. Blair got the backing of his boss, Pat McDonagh, who no doubt thought it was grand to start up a new restaurant chain that was not fast food. He'd be a fool to bring Supermac's to America and try to outdo McDonald's. And so, Claddagh was born.
Like so many entrepreneurs who taste success, Mr. Blair expanded his restaurant into a seventeen unit chain, but he burned through Mr. McDonagh's initial $20 million seed capital in about four years. There was no American investor willing to buy into the expansion plan, and Mr. McDonagh was not going to drop another bundle of cash into the scheme either. By that point, Blair must have been feeling slighted, with his restaurants doing well but his urgent need of cash going unmet by the man he thought was his financial partner.
A judge in a Dayton, Ohio bankruptcy court appointed a trustee to oversee management of the Claddagh restaurant chain, and then he told Mr. Blair that he owed Mr. McDonagh two million dollars. Apparently the judge agreed with McDonagh, that the Supermac king was not an investor in Claddagh, but a lender, and Blair owed him interest on the loan. Oh, and Blair has to pay back the $20 million as well.
Chances are, the Claddagh restaurants are doing fine, bringing in customers and all that jazz. Expanding too quickly, where rational thought is suffocated by greed, has led many a businessman to bankruptcy court. Who can say if Kevin Blair was on the pig's back, as Mr. McDonagh claimed, or scraping by on a pittance, as Mr. Blair asserted. Anyone familiar with the elaborate stone cottage look of Claddagh could guess that the restaurant cost a fortune to build. Financing that sort of construction would take a lot of money, and it's hard to imagine that a new enterprise could have the kind of cash flow needed to pay for that many new buildings in such a short period of time.
Sure there's economies of scale that lower operating costs, but in this case, the financial strain of achieving the critical mass of restaurants caused the company to implode. Too much too soon, but isn't that the way with the hard-driving entrepreneur? Many are called, but few make it to the ranks of Pat McDonagh and Ray Kroc.
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