No One Is Safe

Frankly, I'm becoming of the mind that it makes no sense trying to get along with the elitist snobs of today's literary scene. They'll never accept undergrounders as equals.

The irony is that most of them are terrible writers. I've barely scratched the surface of going after the new (#4) n+1 publication-- haven't mentioned the fiction, which is beyond horrendous. Purely awful. n+1 publishes creative writing gutted of characters, life, the world; hamster-brained solipsism or hyper-intellectualized crap (yes, it really is that bad); and they have the closed-minded gall to be offended at my letter depicting them in a plexiglass box in a museum! (Have they read the dense story they published by Ilya Kliger, about museums or something, with possible appeal nationwide to a grand total of 43 people?)

Their real complaint against me is one of manners. The prime force within the literary world today isn't ethics talent intelligence excitement entertainment or quality-- but manners. Lit folk worry that ULAers might disturb their carefully modulated gentility. (I might make a fool of myself. Heavens!) These people are completely uptight and take what they do all too seriously, which is why their ideas and art are dry and decayed.

n+1's pretentiousness is evident on every page. For all the posturing, it's little more than a snobbier version of Open City. (Even uses the same kind of artsy photos between pages to assert its profundity.) The "best" lit journal? The ULA's Slush Pile blows it away with simple honesty and reality. (Copies may still be found in the zeen section at Tower Records.)

It's time for the ULA to put on its war paint and begin crashing more readings and parties. That person next to you with the fake moustache stuffing hors d'oeuvres in his pockets might be Frank Walsh, or Patrick King, or Jelly Boy, or me.