A quick link before I go. In the Los Angeles Times (”Mystery writer John Shannon prowls L.A.’s dark streets“), Josh Getlin does a nice profile of mystery writer John Shannon. (Oh, wait, the headline explained that, didn’t it?)

In John Shannon’s literary world, the neo-noir thriller is more than a lazy weekend read. He charges into Los Angeles neighborhoods where few mystery writers venture, shining a light on the city’s sprawling, multicultural enclaves. And unlike many of his brethren, he has a political chip on his shoulder, telling taut, fast-paced stories about underdogs and big shots through the eyes of an aging, disillusioned ’60s lefty.

The result is a body of work that has earned Shannon rich critical praise. But he may be one of the best L.A. mystery writers you’ve never heard of. After 35 years in the literary trenches, he’s still struggling for a visibility that other writers take for granted.

Shannon’s Jack Liffey series has been reviewed quite warmly in Booklist — lately by yours truly — so if Shannon hasn’t gotten the visibility he deserves, you can’t blame us (as Getlin notes).

At a time when noir fiction is thriving, it’s tempting to believe Shannon’s moment has arrived. Yet in one review after another, critics lament that he has not found his true audience. Booklist, for example, said Shannon’s series, “despite earning more than its share of critical raves, has yet to achieve the popular acclaim it deserves.”

Every time I come to an ALA conference, I arrive planning to blog every day. After all, without the hassles of a daily commute, free from the myriad charming chores that attend a household with two small children, relieved of the need to even clean up after myself — well, surely I’ve added several hours to the day, think I.

I am, however, a poster child for middle-term memory loss. Here I am on Day Four, remembering yet again how conference has a way of being busier and more exhausting than regular life. It’s been a good one, well attended, full of opportunities to meet new people and catch up with old friends. I’ve had the pleasure of having conversations in my various roles as exhibitor, reviewer, author, tourist, and, yes, blogger. But once again I’ve failed to update the blog.

Things look even worse for the next few days, too. I’ll be staying over Wednesday to visit a friend, then traveling Thursday, then collapsing Friday. I promise to resume regular writing next Monday. And, if I can still remember what happened, I’ll try to fill in some of the blanks.

The New York Times has identified an unusual trend: books by farmers (”Old MacDonald Now Has a Book Contract,” by Dana Bowen). The lede features John Peterson, the organic farmer I used to buy vegetables and fruit from until parenthood eliminated cooking healthy meals from my schedule. (I’ll explain that one another day.)

Mr. Hoffman said he differentiated the recent crop of farmers who write from those like Joel Salatin, who writes what Mr. Hoffman called how-tos and polemics about sustainable farming, and Wendell Berry, whose novels, poems and essays celebrate traditional agrarian values and the merits of rural living. The focus of this new group, Mr. Hoffman said, is less ambitious, is often directed at consumers, and largely concerns "the daily life of producing food."

I’ll just say this: given the oft-reported financial woes of farmers, you’d think they’d want to get into a racket where they could actually earn some money.

Update:

Here are some books by FarmScribes ™ mentioned in the article.

The Omnivore’s Dilemma, by Michael Pollan (Penguin)

It’s a Long Road to a Tomato, by Keith Stewart (Marlowe)

Letters to the Valley: A Harvest of Memories, by David Mas Masumoto (Heyday/Great Valley)

This Common Ground, by Scott Chaskey (Viking)

BookPeople (TM) who follow book news have no doubt seen some headlines about the bankruptcy of Publishers Group West. And, like good BookPeople (TM), they probably didn’t read past the headlines, figuring that the business of books doesn’t concern them. True, many of the Publishers Weekly articles were a bit on the dry side. But Salon (”The Struggle for Independents,” by Priya Jain) has put together an overview that explains the thing in terms even we BookPeople (TM) can understand. Look especially for the colorful quote by Soft Skull’s irrepressible Richard Nash, which is too colorful to reprint in a family blog.

(OK, I know this isn’t a “family blog,” but I love the way newspaper columnists always refrain from quoting colorful language by noting that they write for a “family newspaper,” as if Little Billy really reads the political columns looking for “swears.”)

So, while I’m feeling proud of myself because of my decision not to write about any more O.J. Simpson-related developments, it occurs to me that Laura Albert/JT Leroy has become my O.J. Sigh.

OK, enough reflection. The Washington Post (”Nothing but the Truth,” by David Segal) offers an account of Albert’s testimony that includes a few choice quotes and some details I haven’t read before.

On the difference between memoir and fiction, Albert says:

“I don’t believe in fiction, and I don’t believe in autobiography,” she said. “It’s all coming through the filter of your being. I don’t believe in any of these labels.”

Tell that to Oprah. Meanwhile, Segal takes a snapshot:

In and out of court, she comes across as both shy and shamelessly exhibitionistic. Her face has that strangely spackled, smoothed-out look that Michael Jackson has, and when she walks outside she puts on buglike sunglasses that scream both “Look at me” and “Don’t look at me.” When the paparazzi approached Tuesday, they expected her to bolt, movie-star style. Instead, she chatted and posed, albeit demurely. (”Don’t shoot from down low,” she pleaded with a smile, “it looks horrible!”) She bonded with one photographer over their weight problems as kids, and when she left him she gave him a soulful hug.

And again:

During direct examination Wednesday, Albert often punctuated her narrative with a grippingly odd cackle-cry — a mix of laughter and agony — that froze everyone within earshot.

Has JT Leroy retired? Doesn’t sound like it:

That vow aside, we might not have seen the last of Laura Albert’s unforgettable imaginary friend. Asked on the stand if a work in progress titled “Labour” will be written by JT Leroy or Laura Albert, she whispered, “I don’t know.”

I hope Labour (I guess someone’s English, now, too) is written by JT. Because the reviews will be that much more entertaining.

Galleycat has been trendspotting this week. Yesterday they noted that Conn and Hal Iggulden’s Dangerous Book for Boys has girls saying, “Anything you can do, I can do better”….

And on both Monday and Tuesday they tracked a new book-cover trope: tats.

I hope nobody’s tried to put together a comprehensive list of book covers featuring women’s legs and high heels. That’s a job no one can finish.

In my roundup of Booklist and Booklist Online editors’ various appearances at the ALA Annual Conference in Washington, D.C., I forgot to mention an appearance in the two-dimensional realm: on the Booklist 2007-08 Calendar. Yes, I’m “Mr. February”; no, it’s not one of those fundraising things where we all pose in the buff with artfully positioned copies of the magazine hiding our, um, points of view. If you’re coming to conference, drop by the booth (#2517) and pick one up. I apologize in advance that we won’t be handing out little flashing lapel pins like Google does.

Ever since men first discovered fatherhood (when was that, the Sixties?), they keep on discovering it. Now “cool guys” have discovered it:

Alternadad, by Neal Pollack (Pantheon)

Punk Rock Dad: No Rules, Just Real Life, by Jim Lindberg (Collins)

“No Rules, Just Real Life”? Hey, this parenting manual has attitude — just like me! Awesome!

Of course, cool guys are a little bit behind the curve here. The last few years have seen an explosion of fathering books for ”regular Joes.” (Hey, if you can reduce parenting to tools and a checklist, even I can handle it! Awesome! ) Some of them feature retro covers and design, which keeps us from feeling like lamers who have to read how-to manuals. (Some of us prefer “no rules.”)

Or maybe the ironic, retro styling blends in well with the protective layer of irony some of us have grown prior to procreating. Ironically, these ironic books often feature men confessing weepy feelings of love for their offspring.

Anyway, consider this small selection of recent and somewhat recent titles:

Crouching Father, Hidden Toddler: A Zen Guide for New Dads, by C. W. Nevius (Chronicle)

Mack Daddy: Mastering Fatherhood without Losing Your Style, Your Cool, or Your Mind, by Larry Bleidner (Citadel)

Pop Culture: The Sane Man’s Guide to the Insane World of New Fatherhood, by Christopher Healy (Penguin)

The New Dad’s Survival Guide: Man-to-Man Advice for First-Time Fathers, by Scott MacTavish (Little, Brown)

Be Prepared: A Practical Handbook for New Dads, by Gary Greenberg and Jeannie Hayden (Simon & Schuster)

The Guy’s Guide to Surviving Pregnancy, Childbirth, and the First Year of Fatherhood, by Michael R. Crider (Da Capo)

Daddy Needs a Drink: An Irreverent Look at Parenting from a Dad Who Truly Loves His Kids–Even When They’re Driving Him Nuts, by Robert Wilder (Delta)

Keeping the Baby Alive till Your Wife Gets Home, by Walter Roark (Clearing Skies)

If I sound dismissive, it could be simple envy at work. No, I’m not envious that all these dads are in touch with their new role in life – I’m envious that they had the foresight to take notes. Still, it’s never too late to start, and I’m currently at work on my own cheekily irreverent take on the seriously funny business of dads keeping it real — even when all they really want to do is run away from home.

It turns out Judd Apatow has been accused of theft before. (Thanks, Ben Segedin!) I don’t know whether he’s an idea thief or not, but he does seem to come off better than his accusers. From a very old Harper’s (”Don’t have a cow, man“):

I am sorry you are upset. I am not a thief of ideas. I’m sorry you believe differently.

For those who dislike the use of strong language: the above link leads to strong language. For those who enjoy it: you’re in luck.

I can’t resist another article about Laura Albert, née JT Leroy. According to the New York Times (”Going to Court over Fiction by a Fictitious Writer,” by Alan Feuer), a film production company that had planned to make a movie out of Sarah is now suing Albert for fraud. Their rationale? The person who signed the contract — JT Leroy — doesn’t exist.

The trial, in Federal District Court in Manhattan, promises to be an Escher-like convergence of the movies, literature and journalism with references to sex in truck stops thrown in and a documentary filmmaker, considering a project on the case, sitting quietly in back.

The plaintiff is only out about $45,000 in option money, plus whatever they’ve paid the screenwriter(s). But here’s the kicker: because the book itself is now tainted by the revelation of Leroy’s true identify, the producers were hoping to salvage the project by incorporating the story of Albert herself.

It was at this point that the sort of lemonade-from-literary-lemons notion that can exist only in Hollywood was introduced. Mr. Weinstein said the director, Mr. Shainberg, decided he would now make a new film, something in the vein of "Adaptation" or "Being John Malkovich," a "meta-film" that mixed the novel with the lives of its real and purported authors in a project touted in-house as "Sarah Plus."

But that required obtaining the rights to Ms. Albert’s story - a story of such apparent darkness that she herself had required a literary dopplegänger to tell it.

She refused to grant the rights. "And that," Mr. Weinstein said, "is why we find ourselves here."

Personally, I keep getting hung up on one detail: why anyone would have believed the part of Leroy’s story about submitting manuscripts via fax from gas-station bathrooms. Believe me, I take my fax machine with me every time I need to make a pit stop, and I have yet to find a phone jack where I can get a dial tone.