Sunday, April 24, 2005

Opponents of the ULA: #2

The Overdog.

The Overdog has been nurtured in the plushy pet-shop of privilege his entire life. Everything he does is wonderful, because, after all, it's him doing it! Center of the universe, it's fitting that he believes he should be the central focal point of the lit-world. His life has been a series of trying to find a place of reality in a world which birthed him as a success, no further struggle necessary. What does he want to do with his life? Maybe be an Episcopal priest-- that would only further emphasize his sense of unreality. A drug addict? He tries it, but finds endless slobbering detox self-examinations to be boring. Become, like his father or uncle or granddad, a banker? In his stunted babied mentality (he's not much different from our other opponent, you see) he doesn't qualify. "Dad" can only glance at the fop-haired bundle of entitlement with disappointment and consternation, and shake his head, and blame the mother and butlers and maids and nannies, as he turns the investment pages of his newspaper.

"I know! I know!" the fop at last decides. He wants to be a writer. He practices putting strings of goo-goo baby words together about the important things in his life, like Dad's shaving kit and toothbrush, or the chilling presence of winter storms outside their cozy Connecticut mansion. Dad continues turning the pages of his newspaper while our young goo-goo baby writer tentatively approaches this god of sternness. He knows that Dad, like a god, will grant him everything. Ask and you shall receive! Always has it been this way. Ever thus will it always be. (Now we see why the goo-goo baby young Overdog couldn't be an Episcopal priest. How to worship another when his true god is every evening before him reading the newspaper?)

The wheels are greased. Lit people of privilege are enlisted to enable the young man to rise; upper-class WASPy old dudes running fake-gritty publications provide mentoring, access, and hype. Early ridiculous stories appear in renowned glossy Manhattan magazines. Splashes of publicity everyplace. Grants of philanthropic money aid the illusion the rich kid is "struggling" his way to the place in society he's occupied from the beginning-- the game designed to fool not the public, but him. He sits on awards panels (this eternal child who knows NOTHING of the realities of being a writer) determining which writers receive aid-- invariably his Ivy League buddies. Black-tie receptions every week. The project is going along smoothly. Our Overdog has ARRIVED. Even Dad turning pages in his armchair is momentarily happy.

Then, in the world, an irritating buzz. The blowing of whistles. A series of exposes' and complaints-- aimed at him. Him! Strange raggedy people holding signs which say, "ULA." This is not supposed to be part of his comfy picture of privileged reality! He's supposed to receive everything, as he always has. No one is supposed to say anything.

His attempts at self-justification are disastrous-- there is no justification for someone who knows nothing about his own world and time to be considered a leading writer. So he pouts in his armchair, on his exclusive island, wearing Dad's expression of disappointment and consternation.


Wred Fright said...

It's been going on for years. Reading an Ambrose Bierce collection recently I came across an essay of his called "The Eastern Literary Conspiracy" in which he notes the literary shell game/confidence scheme of the 19th Century: "In the Atlantic, for example, the editor, T. B. Aldrich (a nerveless, colorless jelly-fish of literature) will have a long laudatory review of W. D. Howells. A few months later W. D. Howells will have a long laudatory review of Henry James, Jr. Later, Henry James, Jr. will come to the fore with a long, laudatory review of T. B. Aldrich, and the circle is complete. Three dwarfs have towered above the heads of their fellow men by standing on one another's shoulders in turn."

Marissa Ranello said...


These four elements are the trademark of any ULA'ers written work.

Our prose and poetics provide rewarding insight into REAL people with REAL lives.

Things have been hectic for me on this blog. I feel like Antaeus, the giant in greek mythology. And no, I'm not sorry...I will not be defeated by a coward. (Hercules, perhaps...but not a coward).

Yep, I refuse to be silenced by mediocre people who have no sole purpose, but to exist. FIN.

For those who come to Wenclas' blog with a closed mind, and poor opinion of us, I offer this:

Remember, a good writer's purpose is to challenge values and opinions. The literary "cliques" that are so commonly brought up on this blog serve a purpose. They serve as models for catastrophy.

It's amazing...I've read seven "best-selling" novels this month, and their titles aren't even worth mentioning. They were neither vivid nor enriching, as their jackets promised them to be.

People are frightened. The ULA is onto something big. Something unfathomable to the small-minded droids.

Our ideas are interwoven through our collective experiences. We work as a team. With an "E" for Excellence; we win. The demi-puppets can not comprehend the idea of "team-work," unless that team-work involves bitching, backstabbing, stealing, and the famiglia. Didn't you know? The famiglia involves teamwork too. It takes a family (live or dead!) to set up a trust fund for their incompetent whining lazy bow-legged fuck face child.

Bah, Pat Simonelli said it best: "Fongoo."

Noah Cicero said...

my dad is a butcher
Moody's dad a banker

what do we have in common,
both of our dad's occupations start with the letter B.

look at this site

In America the bottom forty percent own .2 percent of America. And are worth a half penny.

20% of America owns 85% of America.

Bernice said to me today, "It is like they put on the side of the road naked and shivering in five degree weather, someone came over to us and handed a penny cut in half and said, "Now go buy some boots and straps and then pick yourself up with that half a penny.""

The ULA, The Half Penny People, something similiar to of the San Culotte.

I wouldn't even say I'm giving voice to the Half Penny People, hell, I'm just talking to another Half Penny Person while typing.

I wish I could write down all the stories people tell me at the Half Penny Bars and diners. Someday when I get the time, I think I'll go around with a tape recorder. I know a shit load of ex-marines, bikers, strippers, ex-gang members that have way better stories than I can write.

What makes their stories so great compared to a writers is that. Is that a writer always starts writing in their head when something weird happens. But a non writer, just throws him/her into the situation. A writer is like, "is this a new paragraph." A real person is like, "Now I punch him."

Sebastian Morningwood said...

Your daddies didn't teach you to write anything half as good as "The Heat of My Pockets" by Orlando Hotpockets, who was raised by lice-infested timber wolves in upstate Michigan.

Just because you guys went to some fancy community college, you think you are so smart. But you read Orlando Hotpockets and the jig was up. You tried to crush him, calling him "Licey" and so forth.

People are starting to hear about this. Your credibility is zilch.

Orlando Hotpockets said...

Thanks so much, Mr. Morningwood. I am glad that the ULA thugs did not scare you off.