PLEDGE UP ON THIS, MOTHERFUCKER

This is kinda funny, but if there's one thing I've learned over the last couple of years of freelancin' and book-writin' and general struggling-writer action, it's that if you're a real writer, you barely have any kind of human interaction at all, let alone friendships, whether based on snarky popcult one-upmanship or anything else. If you don't wake up and immediately stagger from the bed to the keyboard to type type type until you pass out again sixteen hours later, you're a pussy and a dilettante.

See here for more on what charming motherfuckers us writers are. And here for the continuing adventures of the greatest writer alive.

EARTH, GOD FORBID

Like Dylan Carlson's personal problems haven't thrown enough obstacles in Earth's path, they got themselves ripped off by a scuzzy con man. I decided to write a story on the band (which you can read here) without knowing any of this stuff, and when I started doing the research (you know, like a real journalist), it got pretty fun for a few minutes, talking to U.S. Marshals in Oregon and Alaska and whatnot. (Apparently, Josh Hunt was arrested in Chicago the other day, so that settles that.)

Oh, and on a totally different note...if they come to your town, go see God Forbid. They're fucking great.

INVITED BACK TO THE COOL KIDS' CLUB

I've never been able to really work the Voice. There are some critics who are in there just about every week, and I don't know how they do it, because every pitch I send gets tossed back with a "sorry, the section's full for months." And yet, when I send something on spec, I've got about a 20% chance of seeing it in print. But writing for the Voice is tough, because Chuck's a tough (albeit really, really good) editor; you've gotta bring your A game. So do I wanna sweat that much, mentally, for the possibility of absolutely no reward? Not really, I don't, no. I'm a businessman, not some teenaged lunatic with too much time on his hands. I don't have nearly enough time on my hands.

But sometimes I do bash something out and send it Chuck's way, and it lands in print. Like this week. Here are my thoughts on Trivium's Ascendancy.

OKAY, YEAH, BUT...

The central conceit of this article is true, but not universal. Yes, there are a lot of pissypants little twats running around these days. But the lit world has more than enough room for blustery fake macho, too: books like A Million Little Pieces and Another Bullshit Night In Suck City get hyped to the skies, and let's not even talk about the cult of Chuck Palahniuk. It seems obvious that the reviewer just got pissed off and decided to connect the dots between the three folks he was currently finding most intolerable. The plural of anecdote being data, and all that.

(For the record, I hate both the pussyboy artistes and the faux-knuckledraggers. I'm kinda hoping there's a Third Way, a middle path. (If there isn't, I'm doomed to a life of writing nonfiction.))

UPDATE: Speaking of writers who are neither pussies nor testosterone-addled psychopaths, there's a moderately interesting article on Michel Houellebecq in the L.A. Weekly. Hope the English translation of his new one doesn't take too long to arrive.

PLUGGING AWAY

Hey, you know who I like? Hate Eternal. Might even go see 'em play on Sunday night with Incantation and Krisiun, in NYC.