Monday, January 17, 2005

A Nest of Cockroaches

There are many possible reasons for the failure of Moody and Co. to respond to charges against them. The least plausible is that given by "AddledWriter" on one of these threads that "maybe writers write."

Does AddledWriter really believe that? Does anyone? Do the hordes of wannabes attending writing conferences and seminars to suck-up to name editors believe that?

Jonathan Franzen just writes because he's been on Guggenheim/NEA life support and his books are backed by million-dollar publicity departments. All he has to do is show up for television shows to make an ass of himself.

Rick Moody doesn't just write. He plays games with grants committees. Anyone figure out how, with his track record, he was put in charge of the National Book Award fiction panel? A large contribution to the National Book Foundation perhaps? Who knows? There has to be an explanation. If there were any real journalists in this country they'd look into the matter. The TRUTH is that anything I write about on this blog is merely the quickest kind of examination of how the lit-world operates. I'm merely glancing inside the room. One could go further and start moving around furniture-- and watch the cockroaches go scattering.

What publisher is being sucked-off, literally, by what fledgling author this week? What's happening under that desk? Anyone care to say? The demi-puppets? Heavens no! They don't know anything haven't seen haven't heard a thing not them anyway it's been nice they have to leave-- at the merest innuendo of scandal the demi-puppets don their coats and go running. No! Don't tell us, they scream! We don't want to know anything!
I'll tell you, I laughed OUT LOUD reading Maud Newton's hapless praise of the NYC lit-journal Open City. Even Tom Beller must've been laughing. His journal was intended from the beginning as a showcase for his untalented trust-fund friends, with a few eccentric crackpots sprinkled-in for legitimacy.

Look at who Beller picked to publish as Open City's first book-- trendy trust fund fake poet David Berman (whose Dad is a multi-millionaire corrupt D.C. lobbyist). I can think of few poets who are worse. (The abysmal Liam Rector comes to mind.) There are many great underground poets who kick Berman's ass all over the place-- Cynthia Ruth Lewis, Joe Pachinko, Joe Verrilli, Frank Walsh, many others; poets who actually need some attention and help. But they're not part of the swanky set.

David Berman was supposed to read-off against an undergrounder, but wet his pants and backed out when I came up with the perpetually angry "Mad Dog" Grover as an opponent. Fortunate for Berman he didn't go through with it. We would've had to drag Berman toward the stage. The smell from the cowardly fake would've been emanating from his pants from both sides. There's your Open City, Demi-Puppet. Relish it. The status quo lit world today.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

[Tim Hall reporting]:

I am hereby reprinting, without permission, an excerpt from a story published by David Eggers, called "There Are Some Things He Should Keep To Himself", from his latest collection, "Why We Are Hungry":

[end of excerpt]

Fascinating, isn't it?

Tim Hall