photo by Yui Mok/epa, from the NYT
On a day when Congress is debating whether or not Samuel Alito should replace Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, a shift in the Supreme Court which could mean frightening new challenges to Roe v. Wade, the San Francisco Chronicle’s lead story, appearing on the top half of the page above the Alito story, is about the unveiling of JT LeRoy (or is it J.T. LeRoy?). It’s no surprise that LeRoy, as a singular entity, never existed (at the most recent Litquake, a number of authors wore shirts proclaiming “I am J.T. LeRoy!”), somewhat amusing that there’s such a brouhaha over the “revelation.” After all, most writers, editors, and publishers who championed Leroy (Dave Eggers, SF Chron editor David Wiegand, Michael Chabon) admired “him” for the writing. Now that we know who’s really behind the books–a woman named Laura Albert (the writer) and her husband’s sister Savannah Knoop (the person who portrayed the supposedly shy LeRoy in public)–the face of the celebrity may have changed, but the words in the books, the actual sentences and stories, haven’t been altered one bit.

Sure, there’s that part about the books having been based on the unthinkable abuse LeRoy suffered at the hands of his mother, from whom the novel Sarah gets its name; anyone who admired the books simply for the strength of character or raw emotion it supposedly required to write about oneself in such an “honest” way has every right to feel duped. But to say that the books themselves suffer from the truth about Leroy’s identity is to concede that identity matters more than art, and to admit that Leroy became a celebrity not because he was a great writer, but because there was a great story and an even greater publicity machine behind him (can you say Madonna, Gus van Zandt?). Furthermore, to admit that the publicity machine often matters far more than the work is to admit that some (not all) of today’s celebrity writers may have less going on in their heads than in their rolodexes. (Not that anyone actually has a rolodex anymore, but you get my drift.)

There may, however, be a few restauranteurs who are sadly taking stock of their comped meals since Monday’s New York Times story that broke the news about Leroy: Leah Garchik mentions in her always amusing column for the Chronicle that Leroy and his pals have been enjoying lavish dinners on the house at many swank Bay Area eateries for years. Wow, I wish I’d thought of that!

Well, now at least we know why Leroy always looked kinda hot…because Savannah Knoop is kinda hot!

But here’s the burning question: considering how well the books have sold, and considering that LeRoy–ahem, Albert–has had plenty of chances to write plenty of articles for high-paying magazines–why the heck is the hoaxsome threesome (including Albert’s hubby Geoffrey Knoop) living together in a crummy apartment on Larkin? Burning question two: now that she’s been exposed as the fabulously talented writer that J.T. LeRoy once was, when is Albert going to write her best-selling memoir so she can own a little piece of West Coast heaven? (San Fran real estate alert: you’d have to sell 100,000 copies of a hardcover with a 10% royalty agreement to make the generally required 20% downpayment on a modest two-bedroom, one-bath home in a less than stylish neighborhood of San Francisco…but after taxes and agent’s commission, you’d actually have to sell more like 150,000 copies. This memoir better be good.) Finally, burning question three: Why is the R capitalized? And will Laura Albert now become LauRa AlbeRt?