Can’t tell you how much I hate them. Gutter life, disgusting, and what kind of male moron would think a tiny splinter of wood would make him seem more masculine? Wasn’t the term pencil dick coined for a reason? But here they all are. Lame, lost, and low class.
Then there’s the girl. Herself.
So there was a long dialogue between Eloise and Philip the Tutor. I couldn’t find it word for word, but here’s what I rememember. Which accords exactly with what I recall with our own Eloise.
Philip: “That’ll be enough Eloise.”
Eloise: “That’ll be enough Eloise.”
Philip: “Stop it Eloise.”
Eloise: “Stop it, Eloise.”
Philip: “I mean it, Eloise.”
Eloise: “I mean it Eloise.”
Philip: “I’m not kidding Eloise.”
Eloise: “I’m not kidding Eloise.”
And he only went to Andover.
That will absolutely be enough Eloise.
We’re not talking about good looking here. James Stewart and Henry Fonda and Glenn Ford were good looking. But they weren’t beautiful. Beauty is the Rara Avis. Only a handful of men and women started out beautiful and also had the talent to have amazing acting careers. The elect of the elect. This is their post. Agreed on by my wife and me. Both with veto power. One basket for men, one for women. Brutal, absolute, and unarguable.
And then the other basket. The women. You knew who the men were. But do you know who these women are?
Beauty is not the answer. It’s the question. How did all of these people become fine actors in spite of gifts that should have made them immune from discipline, accomplishment, and dignity?
What does it take to get some attention around here? In most households (and advertisements) pugs are always the cynosure of all eyes. Not here. When you have a hundred pound Deerhound, an aged beguiling Scottie, and the Bruce Lee of cats, pugs are not getting the respect they’re owed. (Not even from Autocorrect, which has twice insisted I meant to write pigs.)
My China Girl. Eloise.
Now I’ve got thirteen books out there, and most of you think it’s vanity. Time for me to tell you and everyone: it’s all one work. There is the trunk, and then there are the limbs, including the sawed off ones.
It’s the most ambitious unified writing project of the last hundred years. And I have mostly completed it before my death.
What is the trunk? Surprise. Not The Boomer Bible but Punk City. There was an idea called punk writing, a rebellion against nihilism and authors hiding behind their solecisms. I made up a writing movement that required dueling in the open.
Punk City was their story. The Boomer Bible was their scripture. And every single one of the books in my repertoire are offshoots of that scripture, from the most analytical to the most personal. Because all share the same objective and the same source. A mission to expose and ridicule the fatuities of the twentieth and now the twenty first centuries. Writers hide behind their narratives. They have an obligation to tell who they are and what they believe. Why this monumentally massive work.
Thirteen books. 3000 pages more or less. Every kind of focus and compass point. Humor, satire, science, music, art, literature, history, technology, physics, analysis, spoof, and personal revelation, the past, the future, the nature of life. But all originating in a few fictional square blocks in Punk City c. 1980. One work. Thirteen books from a single inspiration.
I am the Salem Oak. 2017.
Funny how we keep hearing about the deaths of actors, 91, 92, sometimes 95. Must be old wise men. You know who all has died recently. Love to see their blank old eyes. They never were anybody. Must be a great empty way to live, pretending to be the ones who were somebody. When your own time comes, you still have your cheekbones.
Or maybe not. Poets die very young. In the twentieth century, the most talented writers teeeend to die quite young, are the ones who don’t live on and on like Michener and Herman Wouk to become tendentious bores.
Not to mention all the dirty minded Philip Roths of the world. Takes a professional Manhattan masturbator to think a literary reject can be saved by contemplating the flushing of a shiksa toilet on the upper east side. Literature? No. Trash lives forever.
i asked my wife to do the math. Mostly, great poets die in their twenties. Great fiction writers die iin their forties and fifties. She’s got the who’s who and the when’s whens. Ask her. I can barely get off the couch.
‘Nominated for best screenplay???!!! I want to gag every time I hear this sententious piece of crap declamation.
And our latest book is on sale at Amazon:
A world war all the European nations wanted, started by the assassination of a minor aristocrat, pursued by incompetent generals who thought they’d win in a week and then slew an entire generation of young men in a single blood-soaked trench called the Western Front. Who do you call? The Americans. Who had fought the first Modern War half a century before and knew how to win them. You need a Grant, a Sherman, a Pershing. Which we had. The point of Pershing’s spear was the Rainbow Division. My grandfather was a captain of infantry in one of the most illustrious regiments in the Rainbow Division. The 166th. This book consists of his letters home and his 1918 journal from the ghastliest front of the twentieth century.
For those who believe hurricanes have meaning, can be personified, are somehow portentous.
For the MSM, whose sole desire is to promote panic.
For all the Deplorables who save lives because that’s their nature.
For all the ones who think they can somehow get away.
For the ones who are smarter than that. What will be will be.
How are they going to make out? Mostly fine.
You heard it here first.
Or, as he got fatter and fatter, “Bigger (and bigger) coats”?
Or is it “bigger guns” after all?
Just asking. We love them all.