This piece about what death row inmates can really choose for their last meal makes me think that author Christopher Beam has read a galley copy of Sam Lipsyte’s killer new novel, The Ask, which won’t be out until March but pretty much covers all of these quesitons and takes them to their strangest possible conclusions. In it, the protagonist pitches a reality show that is Top Chef meets Death Row (as a drunken lark) to a soulless reality TV producer, and she of course loves it but also hates herself for loving it, speculating over champagne about the big finish: “The prisoner takes a bite, begins to cry. He had a mommy once. The chef bregins to cry. He still has a mommy, but he’s so busy chasing those Michelin stars he doesn’t get to visit her enough.” She then adds, “If my name were attached to something like that, I would commit suicide.”
In any case, the new novel is devilish and brilliant and amoral in the best way and completely worth getting psyched about even though there are months to go. And in the meantime, there’s this Slate thing.
