Evans : RRHOFF :: Castro : Cuba

I know this is old news, but I feel compelled to mention it regardless.

In the six-plus years that I worked at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, I always compared the enormous control that Suzan Evans wielded over the NY-based Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Foundation's relations with the Museum in Cleveland to that of Fidel Castro over Cuba. When Suzan steps down, I imagined, Cleveland might enjoy a better relationship with New York -- maybe even host the annual Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony. It would be like Cuba after Castro; I was certain of it.

Evans resigned from the Foundation in June, replaced by Joel Peresman. Meanwhile, as Castro went into intestinal surgery in August, he relinquished presidential powers to his brother, Raul. The reigns of Suzan and Fidel had ended within months of each other.

Yet we seem at status quo both at 1290 Avenue of the Americas and on a certain Communist island 90 miles from Key West. Perhaps this is because Jann Wenner is the real driving force at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Foundation, while Raul could be considered to be even worse than Fidel.

So let me revise my metaphor. I predict that Cleveland will host the Induction Ceremony after Raul Castro dies.

Unless....Are there any other Castro siblings? Poor Cleveland.

I still like the title's vertical cursive font

I've been anticipating Issue No. 2 of Martha Stewart's new magazine, Blueprint, since I tore through Issue No. 1 many moons ago. Today was my lucky day, I learned, as husband called me this afternoon to deliver the good news that, yes, indeed, Martha's new gospel was here.

Then I arrived home and got a good look at the cover.

Standing next to a wall that's been painted a saturated, marine shade of blue is a thirtysomething woman, looking over her shoulder and smiling. Her hair is pulled back in a neat pony tail, not unlike Charlotte York-Goldenblatt. She is wearing an impossibly stylish outfit on her impossibly skinny frame: some sort of yellow puffy-sleeved blouse and a scallop-hem skirt that looks like it's made from gray suede. Her earrings could be pearl; they could be silver. They are understated and perfect. Her teeth, gleaming. Her eyebrows, attractively arched.

To her right is an obedient Jack Russell Terrier, standing happily on a wooden bench. Hung on the wall just to the right of the model's head is a round mirror with a thick, dark wood frame.

Reflected distantly in the small mirror is the woman's perfect life. A handsome man is seated on a tailored sofa. He is more presentable than most husbands and, as such, appears a little gay-looking. On his lap, a cute little smiling child. Another Jack Russell reclines calmly under the sofa. The table behind the sofa holds several books displayed horizontally and topped with some sort of anvil-shaped bowl. I'm certain the books' topics are worldy and sophisticated. Next to this intellectual still-life is a small vase from which protrudes a few artfully placed branches in an austere arrangement. I'm sure the rug underneath it all is sisal. And I'm sure the apartment is meant to be in Manhattan.

Notice I said that this vignette of a perfect life is reflected "distantly." It is not the focus. The focus is on her, and how happy all those things over there make her. How they inspire her to train her dog and sew her suede skirt and lose all her baby weight and whiten her teeth and singlehandedly revive the puffy shirt and choose perfect paint colors.

Then you reach page 6. Where Blueprint's new editor-in-chief, Sarah Humphreys, tells you all about her new apartment. It is less than 300 square feet, and she has not yet unpacked her belongings. She's photographed sitting in a slouchy white chair with some books, boxes and newspapers strewn about. No (gay) husband and cooing tot for her; no Jack Russell, let alone two. You can't possibly actually have all that, even if you are the EIC of a Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia publication.

This cover, with its round mirror and its flawless imagery, is a porthole to a better life, one you can't have even if you're the freaking editor-in-chief of Blueprint. What chance do the rest of us have?

Genres are so limiting

We recently vacationed on the beach in South Carolina. Generally, it takes me several millennia to read a book -- not for lack of interest but for lack of time. When one's at the beach, however, one's got nothing but time. I got through two books and started a third: Theatre of Fish: Travels Through Newfoundland and Labrador, by John Gimlette; Star Wars on Trial: Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Debate the Most Popular Science Fiction Films of All Time, by David Brin and Matthew Woodring Stover, editors; and Everything Is Illuminated, by Jonathan Safran Foer.

On the 13-hour drive home, as I began reading Everything Is Illuminated, I made some sort of snide comment to my husband about how great I am because I read fiction from time to time. (Husband only reads nonfiction and Snoopy comics.) He made a very obvious yet thought-provoking point: Everything Is Illuminated -- which is a novel about, among other things, the Holocaust -- is categorized as fiction, while Star Wars on Trial -- which is an essay collection by real science fiction authors debating Jedi, parsecs and whether after-market parts installed on your R2 unit are just excuses for chronological errors in the films -- is classified as non-fiction.

Now, obviously horrifying Holocaust denial implications aside, that's a world I'd like to live in. Murderous extermination of a people? Fake. Moisture farming? Real!