Monday, 15 October 2007

Dear Good Sense, I humbly request that you not leave me when I need you most. I mean, you (mostly*) stuck with me as I chatted with Adam and John on Friday night and Saturday morning, but you abandoned me as I strode toward the front of the Walnut Room and introduced myself to James Wood. Like, seriously dude—seriously—what was up with that? I was convinced that walking up to him and telling he was completely misreading William Gass was a good idea. You should've been there, you know, to tell me that Wood would've listened politely for about thirty seconds before shuffling away from the garrulous guy with the evident chip on his shoulder. You would've consoled me. Told me I was right and didn't need to prove it to anybody. Instead, you were, well, where were you? In the room, reading Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell? Mourning the Tigers' loss? Watching Boston break its own heart? Seriously, I needed you tonight, but you were "too busy" to keep my mouth in check. It followed my brain. Now I'm an ass. I mean, Opportunistic Careerism stood by me, so hopefully Wood'll remember the name emblazoned on my name tag instead of the one I proffered. (What's the worst that can happen? Wood can't have John caned now, can he?) Still, I'm upset you deserted me, and continue to do so. Don't you know what time it is? No one with you would still be awake, yet here I am, watching Matt Damon foil the best laid plans of mousy bureaucrats ... Yours, SEK *I've been told never to repeat that story. I mean, I'd already been told not to, but now I have independent verification that it's not the sort of story I should tell.
For John Emerson's Eyes Only It is a Friday night in a posh "green" hotel. (Meaning there are no phone books and the toilet paper scours tender bottoms.) Blogging mega-stars Scott Kaufman and John Holbo convene in the lobby. They come prepared: Holbo wears a leather jacket, Kaufman a corduroy one. They sit pensively and discuss a lecture Kaufman didn't attend. An elevator door opens. Out walks a young man who has also come prepared: it is Adam Kotsko, clad in a jacket made of leather and rage. Kotsko: (bears his teeth with a growl) Are you ... ? Kaufman: (politely) Yes. Nice to finally meet you. Holbo: (unbuttons his shirt to reveal a chest oiled for battle) Likewise. So we were just saying ... Kaufman: (politely) ... that we didn't think it was going to be any big deal if we ... Kotsko: (reaches behind his back for a cudgel) Wait, which one is "we," I mean ... Kaufman: (politely) Sorry. (handsomely) I'm Scott. He's Holbo. Kotsko: (eyes oozing hatred) Adam, nice to meet you. Holbo: (with violence in his heart) So we're waiting for Wilczak, right? Kaufman: (politely) Yep. He's one of Meg's oldest friends, and he has this Ethiopian restaurant he wants to take us to. Kotsko: (lasers shooting from his eyes) Works for me. Holbo: (shields holding at ninety percent) Sounds delicious. Kaufman's cell-phone rings. In the background, Holbo and Kotsko viciously compare jackets. Kaufman motions them to follow, and like two beasts leashed to the same master, they oblige. They walk out of the hotel and under a heating lamp. Kotsko: (full of lunatic rage) Is that really necessary? Holbo: (genocide on his mind) I don't understand that. Kaufman: (politely shivering) It's not like it's c-c-cold out. Wilczak: (unaware of the lurking violence) So how you been, Scott? Kaufman: (politely shivering) C-c-can't complain ... The group makes its way to Wilczak's nifty new Volkswagen Jetta. Kaufman offers the taller Holbo the front seat. Holbo declines. Thoughts of Back-Seat Thunderdome pulse from his and Kotsko's eyes. The car starts and they chat idly for five minutes, until ... Kotsko: (with a look that would wet Steven Seagal's trousers) ... and then we realized where the loufah came from. Kaufman: (his polite eyes politely aglow with prophecy) This play sucks. Four people went out for a fun dinner. We laughed with and at each other. It was fun. Emerson's trying to stir shit up because he's bored. Kotsko: (needle laser pellets firing rapidly from his soulless eyes) What? Holbo: (fingers threateningly a-crackle with the dark power of The Analytic) What? Kaufman: (his polite voice thundering with polite portents of future inquiries) I CAN HEAR THE EMERSONIAN. HE SPEAKS IN PLAIN TONGUE BUT MEANS HARM. HE CAN NOT LET THE SHIT SETTLE. WHEN THE RAINS COME TO THE SOUTHERN LANDS HE MUST STIR THEM. HEED MY WORDS. LINK TO THIS POST. DO NOT LET HIS SINGLENESS PERSUADE YOU TO ... (coughing) ... to ... (coughing) ... sorry about that. Got something caught in...

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