The proof of the truth of what we say is in the silence of our opponents.
We've engaged in many debates (starting with the one with the Paris Review staff, in person, at CBGB's) and have won every one, big-time. I sometimes think I should let the other side score a few points now and then to keep them in the game.
In truth, those who represent the Voice of the Machine have nothing to say, can only stand frozen in place in the face of unstoppable change.
(To nonaligned observers: It's easy to see who's won the argument. The status quo continues on with the same stale ways of thoughts and modes of operation while history passes them by. The Underground Literary Alliance carries the power of ideas. History will judge our shows and books THIS year as the most noteworthy literary happenings of the day, because they mark literature's new beginning.The ULA is creating a record, presenting our case. Our opposition is presenting theirs-- the weakness of theirs-- now through their silence.)
It's comical, really. All these well-trained well-credentialed MediaBistro staffers, the System's best and brightest, and not one can summon the mental energy and intellectual courage to offer a reply. Believers in free speech! In reality open debate, full and honest expression, is the furthest thing from their minds. Their chief objective is to keep the Machine which controls and feeds them operating.
But I'll admit that even I'm surprised at the feebleness of these people. No doubt this is the first challenge they've seen-- EVER-- to their way of thinking. "What do we do? What do we say?" the jellyfish murmur fearfully among themselves as they huddle behind desks in their Manhattan office building.
All the greatness propounded on their site! Every detail of their wonderfulness! Mighty foes, one would think. It's a cardboard facade with nothing behind it-- stage scenery. The remaining actors prance ineptly about the stage. "Someone is watching!" a voice whispers from the wings. The stage immediately empties.
Blaring trumpets had announced the presentation! "MediaBistro!" the marquee proclaimed. "Tonight! A House of Players!" The cast listed in order, beginning with main star Laurel Touby. The program which circulated through the streets of the city stated Touby's many accomplishments and years of training. To this fulsome hype, an unwary spectator (me) purchases a ticket and steps inside. The theater is dark and empty. "Hello?" I call out, my voice echoing among shadowy seats. "Anyone here?"
A janitor steps out from a back corner of the vacant stage, visible in the pale red light of an "Exit" sign.
"They're gone!" he says with a puzzled shake of his head. "Someone said the word, 'ULA,' and they fled out the back door!"
The man steps closer from the back, holding a sheet of paper in his hand.
"But, the great actress Laurel Touby? What of her?" I demand as I make it onto the stage and face the man directly. "I read the program. They were supposed to be here. Tonight!"
It's all a mystery. The man hands me the sheet of paper. On it are twelve hastily scribbled words: "Ms. Touby is out of town and won't be appearing this evening."
The cleaning man has to smile himself at the actors' cowardly behavior. Maybe he's already seen enough of the self-important darlings. Maybe he's witnessed the play, and found it empty, as shallow as its players. He nods his head, with a hand on his broom, before turning away with a final commentary: "You'll find the rest of them at the nearest bistro!"