Author: substitute

nope

Fresh and exhilarating burst of freshness

I have no joke, I just like saying Tonka bean.

(This was “courtesy” redmaenad who is not a very nice lady.)

It feels lately like the Reagan administration never ended. Nuclear fear, nebulous wars on ideas, scary rumbles of fascism from Washington, military chic, legwarmers, doublethink. Oh, and uncharismatic doomed wimpy opposition, that too.

It’s a great time to be a music fan, a great time to buy a good fast cheap car, a great time to be into computers, and a dreadful time to be a human being. Maybe if I turn up the stereo in my car or stay up coding all night I can forget that I’m a human being? Sounds like a plan.

I dreamed that I had been assigned to reprint a classic novel by the Great Author, who was in his declining years. The great man had unfortunately become a gin-soaked parody of himself, raging and disoriented, and a thoroughgoing racist. He filled the room with cheap alcohol stench and foul language. Meanwhile, I reprinted the novel. This was done by feeding a long strip of paper about 5” wide into a kind of hopper or feed that pulled in the paper as a vending machine pulls in a dollar bill. The machine jerked and clanked and tore the paper, or refused it. After tremendous frustration I got the feed going and fed all the novel through, and it came out the other end as nice manuscript pages to be sent to the printer. Unfortunately the author had managed to mechanically or psychically pervert the printing machine so that the clean manuscript pages appeared instead with his revisions scrawled on them in smudged black pen, and the revisions were all his drunken hate-filled blather about niggers and kikes and fucking slants. I had no choice but to send this dreadful thing off to the printers while he yelled abuse at me.

I don’t think so, Anne.

The recent Anne Rice drama reminds me of my favorite story about her; now it can be told.

My father was a novelist. At one point he shared an agent with Ms. Rice; this agent is now retired, has changed her name (literally), and is enjoying a relaxed life in the South of France farming peonies or something.

Anyway, Agent Lady was out to dinner with Anne and her entourage, who were one-upping each other with sycophantic compliments on her latest, which was I think the second vampire book at the time, or maybe the third. “I just can’t believe your talent, it’s so refreshing” and “Your books are world-changing” etc. etc.

Finally one of them said “You know, I think it’s going to be recognized at some point that you’re really one of the top authors in the literary canon. You’re better than Shakespeare, you know.”

Ms. Rice acknowledged this in a gracefuly, queenly manor and the rest of the table nodded happily. Agent Lady didn’t. “You’re really good, Anne,” she said, “but Shakespeare stands alone. I think it’s too much to compare any living writer to someone of that stature.”

“So,” said the vampire writer, “you don’t find my work superior to Shakespeare?”

“No. I couldn’t honestly say that. It just wouldn’t be right.”

“I’m not sure that someone with that sentiment is the right agent for me,” intoned Ms. Rice. The shocked Anne-posse was silent. Agent Lady stood up. “You’re right, Anne. I’m not.” And she walked out. And she wasn’t her agent any more, which probably lost her hundreds and hundreds of thousands of dollars. But she’s a happier person today for it, I bet.