damn bad, Svet

I confess that I still delight in piling the incoming submissions high on my office table and regarding the stack — and then each envelope — as holding the possibility of the new. Is this the voice, the sound, the unexpected spark-making combination that will start something going? Reading and sifting allows me to see myself as an agent in the literary culture — which I have to believe impinges at least somewhat on our common lives. It helps me sustain some bit of that just-around-the-corner feeling that makes the historical moment feel like a work in progress.

Why does Sven come off as some billionaire on an island counting his stacks of money? Delude yourself all you like, Sven. If being the editor of some magazine was the req, then just imagine Keith Blanchard roaring his damn Porsche around the publishers. I haven’t heard such horrible logic since my macho li’l bro told me he was going to culinary school because he liked being next to the honeys.

Instapundit Ballad

I snapped it with my camera, but didn’t cite the source
And so my facts are proven. I’m right, you’re wrong. Of course!
I’m the king of all the bloggers. I’m the lord of your remorse
You didn’t dig the dirt, my bitch. Matt Drudge will be my horse.

That Kerry liar’s a Commie, he fudged a minor fact
Politicians should be truthful, or show a little tact
I can post more column-inches. I can have some more impact
Then the Post, the Times, the WSJ, even if I don’t retract

You can call it speculation. You can call me Ego One.
But I’ve got a Canon camera. ‘Cause the terrorists have won.
It’s a time for being fearful. Let the rage flow over the sun.
I’m a humorless libertarian. When the government’s gone, I’m done.

Eggers Remixed

So Uncle Tony’s seen that pipsqueak’s latest column. Tony figures he can cut the column in half. So here’s the column without the bullshit:

Life. Shit happens. Something we’ve known for a while. Been meaning to write about Big Country. Today is Thursday.

Caught the band back in the ’80s, don’t know when. Loved the clip of ’em chasing chicks in Scotland. So I got me their first album. Distinctive sound. Guitars as bagpipes. Serious shit.

The lead singer Stuart Adamson wrote about Old Scotland, paying attention to old values. All the songs were panoramic, even the love song “1000 Stars.”

The inner sleeve kicked ass. Black and white. Cool compass. What was this? Songs about the land. I felt transported. Even the videos submerged you in another place. Big Country had balls. They were unapologetically corny, unlike U2.

Big Country came when synths put guitar gods on the dole. Spaceship rock. Corny music. Of course! Neat, polished, spoonfed, little, yellow, Nuprin. Order. Easy listening. Like fasces. But we like.

Fortunately, Big Country. Difference. Good times. The Epic Album. The Crossing. Nough said.

Became a fan. Black man with Scottish accent. Goofy! Forget the music. Consider their plaid-shirt image.

So I wore flannel, bitch. Was I Scottish? Years later, was I black?

Live shows good. “I just want to say…” over and over. Then music. Cute.

No more U.S. hits. Change of fashion. And nobody remembers Big Country, despite Adamson’s suicide. Former manager blew me off.

No moral here. Join us. And if you don’t, you’ll commit suicide like Adamson because you disagree with me.

Hemon’s Dope

Hey, Hemon, you think you’re hot shit, sweetheart? First off, there’s one thing you should know about Tony Clifton. Dale Peck kisses my ring. Not only does he kiss it, but he polishes it with his tongue. And that’s AFTER he’s said a few catechisms. So if you think you’re doing the world a special favor by tearing some Swiss snowboarder a new one, if you think you’re being…ORIGINAL or something, then you got another thing coming.

Hemon, you’re nothing. You’re pond scum. You’re the kind of guy who slams a shot at a dive and then hides as the bourbon stings. You ain’t got streetcred, sweetcheeks. You’re a tired rag doll I’d pick up for some blow in the skids.

If you had moxie, you’d tell Daniel Wagner what orifice of his you were most interested in. Or you’d go after the big boys. The bloated novelists who had it coming. Uncle Tony ain’t impressed, kiddo. See this copy of NOWHERE MAN? I’m using that for something after I download some porn.