The Lexicographer's Rules

"Act I traces Ventura's journey from the U.S. Navy SEALs program, through a career in pro wrestlingÑunder the nickname Jesse 'The Body' VenturaÑto his withdrawal from the sport owing to blood clots in his lungs. Dolginoff said Act II picks up with him finding a new careers as an action film actor, and then high school football coach, followed by his stint as a Howard Stern-style radio shock jock. The latter gig leads to Ventura being offered a chance to run for governor by the upstart Reform Party, and his eventual election to that office. Dolginoff said Act II songs include ÒColor Commentary,Ó about his radio days; 'Why Does He Work So Hard?,' sung by his football players; 'Without Your Permission,' described as a ballad for Ventura and his wife, as he decides to run for office; and a campaign sequence titled 'Retaliate in '98.'"

—Broadway Online. A musical about Minnesota Governor Jesse Ventura is being written. As yet unwritten Act III songs will include "I'm so Full of Myself" and "Watch Me Stumble As I Run For President."'

"At a show in 1992 by James Carr, for example, it was the soul singer's first Manhattan concert in 25 years and the club was packed with fans and music critics. But someone had given Mr. Carr alcohol, and after four songs, the singer suddenly went catatonic, panicked and told the audience the show was over. Backstage, Mr. Weitzman dropped to his knees and begged the singer to return to the stage to at least sing his biggest hit, 'Dark End of the Street.' When Mr. Carr refused to budge, Mr. Weitzman walked behind him, shoved him up the stairs, and pushed him onto the stage. The thunderous applause revived Mr. Carr long enough for him to sing the hit."

—New York Times. Steve Weitzman will begin operating a new club in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.'

"Ten years ago today, my friend JerryÑa true smartass and one of St. Louis' greatest fabulists, then or sinceÑdied after living with AIDS for nearly a decade. The day before, I sat at his bedside and held his frail hand and asked him what I should say at his memorial service. He had specifically asked me to give the eulogy and, knowing his temperament in this life, I thought it best to consult him, lest he be unsatisifed and haunt me in the next one. 'A bitchy kaftan-clad ghost is the last thing I need following me around,' I told him. He laughed at this and there followed a long period of hacking and wheezing. His lungs had been filling up with fluid faster than they could be drained. Jerry was a skinny-dipping hippie from way back, an expert and elegant swimmer. The irony that he would be drowning now, at the end, was a source of some amusement to him."

—Bradlands. Brad's friend Jerry died of AIDS June 27, 1991.'

"On the subway platform, Miss S. and I waited patiently for our ride home. Four American high school girls came and stood near us. They were impossibly homely, with tacky, ill-fitting outfits, misguided applications of blue eyeshadow, and an abuse of hair accessories the likes of which I haven't seen since the last time I went shopping with my mom at Woodfield Mall, in the suburbs of Chicago. They were loud and whiny. Had they had a wad of gum in their mouths, they would have been chewing it in an ungraceful, cowlike fashion... Immediately I knew the one on the far left was the best one, because she had the best smile and was the most likely to form complete sentences. (As soon as we got off the train, Miss S. said the exact same thing. She was the smartest, for sure.) She had round wire frame glasses, and long brown hair, bangs lightly teased, and she wore a tight purple turtleneck sweater that had strands of glitter woven into what I presumed to be acrylic material. When I told her I was from New York, she perked up at the sound of it. You will be the one to make it out alive, I thought to myself. The rest of you will be pregnant in the next five years."

—Whatever, Whenever. Jami Attenberg, a writer living in New York City, continues her dispatches from Europe. "We only rode two stops with them. Both Miss S. and I wished we had had more time. We would have warned them about boys, or something like that. We would have told them what to expect for the next five years of their life."'

"The Man Himself finally arrived, greeted one and all, tried to make sure that everyone had gotten a hot dog and was happy, spent what seemed like an eternity assembling his special podium, signed a few books, then led an assault on the garage door of a house across the alley from Pink's back patio. He thought they were playing their music too loud, and recruited four or five people from the crowd to pound on the door. 'HEY!' he shouted. 'THE COPS ARE OUT HERE!' Nobody came out, but the music did go down. I can imagine them cowering inside, trembling in fear as one of America's most celebrated writers, seemingly insane, was pounding on their garage door, screaming like a madman."

—Looka. Chuck Taggart attended a book-signing session by writer Harlan Ellison at Pink's, a hot dog stand in Los Angeles.'