Dharma Beatdown
Chillin' by the Hell-realm water cooler.‘Pervasive appropriateness,’ fuck you Alanis.
On my way in to work today, I came around a bend on the expressway and as I neared the traffic signal, I saw that a semi truck had laid on its brakes- hard, as it had arrived at the red light. There were long skidmarks and HUGE cloud of mephitic smoke. Lots of smoke.
As I pulled up alongside and stopped, I took a look at the cab of the truck. Guess who it belonged to?
AHAAAAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHHA
Haters: Eat a bag of dicks
You know, as a man of very modest intellectual powers, and as an artist, a disciple of philosophy, and lover of mental stimulation, I must confess to a certain desire. I want to argue. I want to debate, to exchange barbs and quips and bon mots, to engage in some mutual shit-talking or a healthy round of the Dozens. Unfortunately, like some jaded gourmand with limited restaurant choices at hand, or a libertine who can sense the inhibitions that lock every sweaty curve away from him, I realize that it is not easy to get what I want. Most people are not up to the task. They assume that the idea of conflict, of opposition, is a negative one, and in their shallow understanding, their fear, we see a crude mimicry of the graceful forms that aesthetic debate can be. The haters- these rude commentators- are like untaught martial artists angry that the master has effortlessly counted coup on them, now losing control and striking out to wound.
But just as these martial tyros end up on the floor, embarassed and unharmed, so the haters are going to get called out for their bullshit. I’ve tried to be nice, to make allowances for ignorance, but at this point it’s not helping anyone. These haters are absolute shitheads, and they’re not even good at it.
In Zen, we have a concept called ‘dharma combat.’ It is from this idea that I took the name of the blog. Simply explained, dharma combat is some combination of masters and senior students engaging in dialogue to test each others’ understanding and experience. Its nature is variable. The dialogue can run from cryptic to mundane, the language can be refined or scatological, and dharma combat can end in tears, laughter, frustration, or enlightenment. But as I have opined already, it is not for the rank novice. I’d like to take dharma combat as a model for modern oppositional discourse and critical response, with the idea that everyone can join in eventually and no whiny pee-pee pants get their feelings hurt.
Now, on to the good stuff.
In a previous post I critiqued, honestly, a local band. It turns out that they are good friends of my little brother’s, so I know I can’t be accused of cronyism. As can be easily read in the comments to that post, a representative of another local band responded in a rude and childish way to this criticism. The commentator was friends with the first band, and they play together, so I will call cronyism on her. My response was sharp, yet I tried to retain some humility and harmony, and I further went on to make a seperate post reviewing her band in an honest and actually flattering way. Make note- the important thing here is honesty, to yourself and the rest of the world. We’ll come back to that. The point is, I have been really good to these people.
So now that the ashes are cold, along comes some anonymous douchebag to have a go at me. I’m starting to feel like Gene Wilder’s character in “Blazing Saddles,” laying my guns down undefeated and then getting shot in the ass by some young punk. Let’s take his comment apart bit by bit, together, shall we.
Anonymous said…
Well, there’s your first red flag. If this douche had really wanted me to understand his points, or to initiate some sort of dialogue, he would’ve at least left some way for me to contact him, instead of hiding behind the Intarweb anonymity that so perfectly matches his mediocrity. At least use a fake name with a dump email attached. I’m sure Eazy-E had a PO Box for Dr. Dre to send letters to in between albums.
welcome to the northwest. it gets chilly so people put on a flannel.
First off, already in the Northwest. Been here 18 years and counting. Your point? And my point, with the flannel, was that it was obviously a fashion choice, and a poor one. It looked like crap, and IT WAS JULY. The opposite of chilly. I used to wear a suit and trenchcoat at gigs sometimes. That was silly. But there were gigs where we all wore hipwaders, or we all wore masonic robes. It was part of the overall aesthetic. People wondered what crazy shit these guys were going to have on. While the flannel might have matched the WIBG aesthetic, nobody told the bass player that. So I don’t see any consistency.
you attacking some guy for his body type/ appearance is pathetic.
Show me the attack. I reviewed the performance, which I liked overall, and talked about the parts of it that bothered me. That’s my prerogative. I am the one putting my opinion out there. Everyone has an opinion. Anyone can express it inarticulately over PBR with their hangers-on or in an anonymous web post. But to expose your opinion for every douchebag with an aggregator, and to do it in a consistent and philosophically honest way that leaves you open and vulnerable- that’s hard. One could easily say that the singer of WIBG doesn’t say anything bad about me, so why pick on him? Well, that’s kind of the point. He behaves in an extraordinary manner (getting on stage, using affected mannerisms), which takes courage, but if it had come off as being beneficial instead of detrimental to him and his band, I would have applauded him in an extraordinary manner instead of riffing on him in one. I don’t know the guy, there is nothing personal in it. And if he wants to check out my band and review it, he’s welcome to. I would hope that his criticism would display as much integrity and dedication as mine does. Criticism is egalitarian. Anyone can do it. It’s even easier these days, but we must set the bar higher.
and, judging by yr comment to ms hatkin, it seems like you need to ditch the ego bullshit
Well, you sir cannot judge by my comment because you clearly did not comprehend it. I don’t believe you read my followup post either. I assume by ‘ditching the ego bullshit’ you mean me talking about myself and what I’ve done. Well, you may recall, had you actually understood the things you read, that she challenged me with “WHO ARE YOU?” I did not take that as rhetorical. The rest of her comment seemed to indicate that I was not an artist myself, but a soulless critic lambasting other people out of feelings of inadequacy for being able to do what they do. I responded to that challenge. Not only is the field of criticism enriched by the experience of its practitioners, I feel that the sterotype of the cloistered, hateful critic is unfair. Do you want a realtor who’s never bought a house? A doctor who’s never been sick? Neither of those examples stay in business very long. Speaking in a strictly reductivist fashion, I believe that academic criticism that is uninformed by experience ends up as a fruitless discussion of qualia. Which sucks. Like you, Anonymous. Stop giving ‘ego’ a bad name. For better or worse, without ego there would be no human consciousness, and we don’t need to ditch the ego, simply reconcile it.
quit explaining how yr projects are more legit than ‘hipster’ trends and ahead of some imaginary cultural curve
Don’t put words in my mouth, motherfucker! If you’re going to come up with your own ill-informed meanings for my statements, then use your own ‘I’ statements. Don’t be a coward. And if you are going to be a coward, at least don’t be complete-ass wrong. My explanation of my own projects’ legitimacy is a response to Ms. Hatkin’s prejudicial attempt to discredit me. Her own statements about how hard it is to play her style of music in a town that loves it are incorrect, at best. If I am independent of ‘some imaginary cultural curve,’ not ahead of it as you say, then it only signals my freedom from faddishness and my ability to have a broader perspective. And someone in this dialogue definitely needs to have that.
go back to buddha for some enlightenment.
Oh, snap! This was what set it off for me. I have to wonder, since you are clearly so insensitive and intolerant, do you tell aboriginal people to “Go back where they came from?” Do you really want to go there? Atheism is a core doctrine of Zen Buddhism, and like pretty much everyone in the world I was born an atheist. Remaining one makes me one of the last officially persecuted minorities in this country. Is that what you want, to make religiously inflammatory comments without any clue of what you’re talking about? Again, you did not try to initiate a dialogue with me, but made a foolish drive-by comment without any sort of class or grace or wisdom. All this- the art, the learning, the critique, the philosophy, is part of my yearning towards enlightenment. I don’t need to go back to the Buddha for that.
And that’s that. Ignorant motherfuckers need to chill. Or, step up. And thanks to Louie CK for the title of the post. I’m not stealing your act, don’t kill me, man…
Why "Spartan" may be the best movie ever written
This is a repost from myspace from a while back. Kayla and I had dinner with her old roomies, who I had never met. They seem like pretty cool kids, but after I was dissing “Fargo” they seemed to think I was some sort of cinematic reject. We also got to the subject of “All The Real Girls,” a David Gordon Green movie that is one of Kayla’s favorites. I hold it to be the counterexample of the movie I’m about to review, and wrong in every place that “Spartan” is right, a pointless piece of cinema about a whole town of timewasters where the smartest person is a five-year-old with Down’s. So, here it is, in brief. I was really just starting to get rolling with being a critical philosophy douchebag, so I didn’t have all that much to say. I mean, I was a minimalist.
I got a fucking book contract
So, it’s not exactly news that I have a book deal with Evil Nerd Empire for a trilogy of short novels. We’re in the final stages of book one, “Antipaladin Blues,” just waiting on the illustrator. However, I got my contract in the mail yesterday, and I’m very excited. This is a big deal for me. It’s a lot of fun, and I have enthusiastically picked up working on book two, “Archlich Hotel.” Characters are already getting stabbed, a wizard has been called an asshole, and it’s shaping up to be sheer wall-to-wall awesomeness. I’ll take some pictures of me signing the contract and acting like a buffoon.
Also, in some other fun news, I sent off the Coeur Machant demo link to a few labels. I heard back from one of them, Central Contol, which is Barry Adamson’s label. They liked our stuff, but the roster is full up, so they want us to check back with them later. And I looked at alonetone, and sure enough, the guy I talked to had listened to a few songs. Woot!
Morrissey- ‘Years Of’ Brutal Asskicking begin… now.
I was going to write a full review of Morrissey’s new album, “Years of Refusal” which is due to be released Valentine’s Day. Instead I’m going to share this actual conversation with my wife which happened this morning on the way to work when she plugged her iPod in.
Me: Hey, we could put my iPod in instead and listen to some of my music.
Kayla: Uh, no thanks. (the volume comes on very loud.) Jesus Christ, how loud do you listen to music in the car?
Me: The new Morrissey is pretty awesome, I had to turn it up.
Kayla: …
Me: We should put it in. I think you’d actually like this one, it’s pretty hardcore.
Kayla: I doubt that.
Me: It starts rocking and does not let up. He’s crazy, like stabbing people and cutting off heads.
Kayla: Morrissey is not stabbing people! He sucks!
Me: Seriously, he’s out of control. Morrissey’s tearing shit up over there. (I listen to the Third Eye Blind coming out of the speakers.) It rocks much harder than this crap.
Kayla: You’re ridiculous.
So, I heartily recommend it. Morrissey is rapidly becoming the Slayer of brit-pop- instead of wimping out over the years, the music keeps getting tougher and more brutal. For the rare opportunity to hear an artist who has actually matured in his work, check out “Years of Refusal.” Just remember to check your Smiths nostalgia and kneejerk Morrissey hatred at the door.
"Bradley Sands is Nicholas Murray Butler’s Ass"
The “Bradley Sands Is A Dick” anthology is now available. Check out the official announcement from official editory Andersen Prunty here, and don’t forget to vote for the best segment (mine) in the sidebar.
Not sure how to explain this antho… it was for short stories, and I submitted an acrostic. It was so full of win, that I was rejected. Andersen said that it would be included in a foreword to show the breadth of weirdness in the submissions, though apparently, to continue the meminess, it was so full of fail that it was admitted into the main body of work. The winner will be named Bradley Sands’ archnemesis, and I do think I can fit the bill. I did threaten to “crawl inside [Sands'] ass and bust out all [his] teeth when I’m reborn through [his] ugly face.” So read it… there’s great stuff here… Jordan Krall, Garrett Cook, Kek-w, Cameron Pierce, and many more. And Mandy Moore.
My winter vacation
Just returned from a week visiting with Kayla’s fam down in the Paso/SLO area in California. A decent little break from the work grind, and great to have some time basically alone with my lovely wife and baby. A few things occurred to me through the week, and here they is.
Right before I left, I did karaoke with Tim, Robin, Sarah, and Edweird. It was a good night, and one of our previous haunts has come back better than before in wake of the smoking ban. The notable thing about this, apart from their acquisition of a sizeable number of Morrissey songs, is the fact that I managed to get semi-Rickrolled during karaoke. What? How is that even possible? Let me explain. I decided that in the wake of my Rick Astley halloween costume, I should try to do “Never Gonna Give You Up” at karaoke someday. So, I put it up that night as my very last song. Karaoke was about over, and I had two songs up, that one and “Ride On” by AC/DC. “Ride On” should have been the last song the way the timing went, so when I got called up for the last time, I was expecting that. The kj told me she loved the song when she was a kid, and she seemed like a rocker type, then…
We had a lot of down time in Cali. This was more of a family visit trip, and of course Amelia is just a wee baby. It’s important to read to little children, and not just board books and Dick and Jane horseshit. So while we were there I was reading Richard Dawkins to her. As I was reading the chapter on computer-simulated life in “The Blind Watchmaker” I realized something. Not only is he probably one of the most important people in science and philosophy, but he’s a cool motherfucker. There’s a perception that Dawkins is a douchebag, perhaps because he is so tenacious when it comes to the religion issue, but that perception is not really based on anything. I’ve talked to him before. I called in to the Infidel Guy show years back when he was on, and while I knew who he was then, in the sense of him being an influential evolutionary biologist, I didn’t know that this was the godfather of fucking meme theory. He just sounded like a cool dude. Dawkins and Reg were discussing atheism and evolution, and I had a legit question about using current advances in artificial life simulacra as a philosophical stepping stone to breaking the ice with our less enlightened creationist friends. Dawkins was a complete gentleman and discussed it with me. He didn’t say “Hey, I wrote some of those programs, there’s a whole chapter devoted to it in my book which you can buy on Amazon!” So kudos to you sir.
I also finished “Last Call” by Tim Powers. I was going to comment on that but have decided to devote a seperate entry to that, because it’s a bigger literary issue, entitled ‘What the fuck is wrong with Tim Powers?’
We had dinner with Kayla’s cousin in SLO, a fun little college town during the height of its farmer’s market. This was my only small world moment of the whole trip. I’ve been a fan of Michael Helm’s photography for a while, since I’ve seen him featured on DA. So, it was pretty easy for me to notice that fetish model Natalie Addams, a favorite of his, was sitting a couple tables across from us. What’s that, you say? Of course I didn’t say anything? That would be gauche! I didn’t say anything to Wallace Shawn when I ran into him in downtown PDX… just gave him a dignified nod. And for that I received a saucy wink.
Just like undead "Heroes"
I’ve really had to think about this one. Why do I like the series “Heroes” so much?
I’m not sure, really. Perhaps it was the potential of it: a mainstream TV show that dealt with comic-book type superheros, able to tell vivid stories. Perhaps that’s also why I keep watching it, despite its failure to deliver. It’s hard to pinpoint one person to blame for this, anyway. Creators, writers, actors, etc. all deliver. Even Wendy and Lisa made a bang-up score, despite it being repeated over and over and each episode.
So after some discussion with the fine folks on Fark, I came to realize that the only thing I could think of to save “Heroes” is a complete recast- not reboot, recast- for humorous effect. And here it is!
Leelee Sobieski. Why? Why the fuck not.
As head cutting semi-villain Sylar:
Mike Patton. Imposing, creepy as fuck, and versatile enough to handle any last minute character about faces the writers can throw at him.
Next up, in a surprising twist, as both Petrelli brothers Peter and Nathan:
David Duchovny. That’s kind of an inside joke.
As Machiavellian mama Petrelli:
Porn star Sasha Grey. And with Duchovny on the set, it should get interesting. Yes, I know she’s younger than he is, but you saw “The Manchurian Candidate” didn’t you?
And finally, just to wrap this shit up, let me come to my favorite character of the whole series. There were so many cool choices I could have gone with, but this was the first one I thought of, and it’s perhaps the best. As Arthur Petrelli:
A pipe dream, sure. But now, no matter what “Heroes” may sling at us, we’ve all had this little moment together, haven’t we?
I agree with Bradley Sands
There’s something wrong in the blogosphere. Maybe the wrong thing is us.
I got to meet Bradley for the first time at BizarroCon over the weekend. It was a relief to find that he was not nearly as intimidating as I feared him to be, but instead endearing and quite possibly in the final throes of syphilitic agony. jk, bradley, bff omg.
He asked me why I haven’t been blogging in a while, as he himself had not been. We both had the same problem with converse lead-ups and solutions. Bradley had been talking about his personal life, and was done with it. I had been talking about whatever, and was done with it.
As you may know, I am in the midst of a Kafka-esque custody battle. One of the defeats I have suffered is that I can only see my kids at a supervised facility, and don’t get much of a chance to talk about any real issues with them. The weekend before the con was the first time I talked to them about being with Kayla and how they were going to have a new little sister. Leading up to that, it felt…bourgeouis to me to have this momentous issue to deal with and then at the same time to be blogging about how Justice uses sidechain compression or some shit.
Well, I’ve talked to the kids. The struggle continues. My blog is still here. Justice still pumps a pretty mean sidechain. Bradley Sands came up with the idea that instead of blogging about our lives how they really were, we should just lie. Make up some completely random interesting crap, so it doesn’t take so much out of us. Well, isn’t what we already do with the writing? I don’t know if he’s already doing that strategy. I’ll have to be very careful reading his blog posts, especially the ones that say how handsome I am.
Not sure what my strategy will be. I think since I am of a certain persuasion, I can swallow the dilemma and move forward. Back on the worst horse.
Next blog: more on the con, how awesome it was and how it ultimately made me feel like shit.
Garrett Cook’s "Murderland Part 1" Review
If there was one thing that Hunter Thompson demonstrated through his writing and his antics, and we writers can take especial note, is that we are forever haunted by four ghosts, ‘patron haints’ if I may be allowed to coin a phrase: the Buddha, David Hume, Heraclitus, and Werner Heisenberg. I bring this up because recent events in my personal blogosphere have shown me just how small a world it is, and with some thoughts on interdependence, I realized I wanted to make things go ahead correctly.
One thing I’ve noticed is that a lot people review their friends’ work with a less than critical eye. While that’s great, it’s nice to buoy your friends up a bit with praise, I think it does them a bit of disservice. I’ve seen reviews that are little more than a regurgitation of the jacket copy. Why bother putting that kind of review up? I’ve determined that I’m not going to do that. So disclosure time: I’ll be reviewing “Murderland Part 1:h8″ by Garrett Cook. He’s a friend from afar- hopefully moving to PDX soon, and I hope I helped him with that a bit. We’re also having our series of books come out from the same publisher, Evil Nerd Empire. What’s the word for that? ‘Labelmates’ sounds more rock ‘n roll, so I guess that works.
‘Murderland,’ in brief, is the story of Jeremy Jenkins, a mild-mannered pharmacist whose cover story of being a moralizing nebbish hides that he is in fact a vigilante killing the popularly-sanctioned serial killers of his day, but also one himself, targeting scores of young blondes who he believes to be the hosts of an invisible techno-chthonic menace that only he can see. It is here in Jeremy’s insanity that he joins the ranks of other wonderful unreliable narrators such as Severian or Patrick Bateman: is Jeremy really a golden Adonis as he sees himself? Is there truly a Nanite invasion, or just a sick justification? A split personality also crops up as the assassin part of Jeremy’s mind, and this personality is so effortlessly charming that it made me wish, as I did about William Hurt’s apparition in ‘Mr. Brooks’, that it would get a lot more face time with the reader.
“You kill like a girl. Pills, Jeremy? God, pills? I’m starting to feel that my faith in you is quite misplaced. I need a Cuchulain and I get a Borgia.”
My one complaint about this bit, and quite a backhanded one at that, is that Cook’s voice in this novel is so strong, especially for a debut novel, that the transitions between the main character and his ‘secret sharer’ were a little too well-done. That same narrative voice makes this a wonderfully strong read, and very brisk- I read it over lunch and break at work and barely noticed when suddenly the book was over, and had to do a bit of a double-take. I’d read some comments about the futuristic or experimental language of the book, but did not see much of evidence of that. The running patter in Jeremy’s head allows a graceful buildup to a nice piece of classic thriller-type climax: conveyed by Murderland’s top murder afficionado, both reader and Jeremy realize the true magnitude of his violence and its impact on the world of ‘Reap.’ Great stuff. Again the narrative voice is so strong that it tends to overwhelm the supporting characters, such as Jeremy’s girlfriend Cass. Her emergence at the end of the book as a ‘real person’ seemed a bit pat, but I feel that is part and parcel with transition into the action of the next book, as well as her association to the world of ‘Reap,’ as you’ll see in a minute.
It is this alternate world of ‘Reap’ where ‘Murderland’ falls a bit flat, and I don’t think it is Cook’s fault at all. The dystopian shocker, as a genre, has a pedigree going back almost 200 years, but as a vital, living form of art seems to lack enough critical work being thrown at it. In ‘Murderland’ serial killers are extended a sort of disability/affirmative action, that instead of causing them to be mocked as our Asperger’s sufferers are, instead are lionized by letting the basest instincts of the public run wild. This is a marvelous concept, like something Aldous Huxley would have come up with had ‘Answer Me!’ been around when he was alive. Instead we are treated to the same old stuff: murder-themed restaurants, gangs of people dressed like Jack the Ripper, and TV shows tracking killing instead of sports. One character does stand out: serpent-jawed Godless Jack, who shows the potential of combining the self-righteous killer with the bodily transgressive for maximum creepy effect.
So what went south? And just barely, because this is a great book, and perhaps only a fellow writer with a head full of philosophy and nose for the Frankfurt school would really go this far. There’s a pitfall in this fiction that needs to be explored, and I suppose instead of being bummed that I am rambling away from review territory, Garrett Cook may be pleased that I am inspired by his work to tackle a new term for the genre: ‘The Reverse Uncanny Valley.’
The Uncanny Valley is a theory, not considered scientific necessarily, that as simulacra (such as robots or CGI characters) become more realistic, human reactions to them become more favorable up to a certain point, at which point they drop off sharply. Plotted on a graph, this dip in reactions is the Valley. The commonly accepted explanation is that as more things become ‘normal,’ the details that are not are more noticeable, and the brain rejects the whole. I disagree. To me, I think that something about an almost-perfect robot causes us to consciously or unconsciously question exactly what it is that makes us human, and we can’t put our finger on it. Thus revulsion towards the object of our existential confusion. Obviously, if you want to sell a robot or market a cartoon character, no dice. Thus, as stated in the “Shrek” DVD extras, they had to make Princess Fiona less beautiful, because she was creeping the animators out. In a critical view, the idea of the Uncanny Valley is not a scientic one, supportable with data, but a philosophic and methodological one: we want it to be there as part of our aesthetics, we have decided that there will be an Uncanny Valley to avoid in the creation of simulacra.
However, a sort of mirror image exists, not a precise opposite, but a complimentary technique, and for a lack of better term, I’m calling it the Reverse Uncanny Valley. Perhaps something like Cook’s Canyon would be more appropriate- but I must confess I am hoping that Stigler’s Law of Eponymy doesn’t take hold and Gulbranson’s Canyon might be it.
So taking it as a given that there is an Uncanny Valley showcasing how little we know about what makes us human, I think there’s very strong evidence that the Reverse Valley tells us all about how our society is fucked up and staring us in the face every day, only no matter how weird and roundabout a way it may choose to tell us, the issues it confronts are very immediate and direct. The dystopia- the fractured place- in the future, well, it’s not in the future, and it’s revolting because we’re standing at ground zero, realizing it on the same level as staring into the soulless eyes of a robot with a sweet, fuckable body and perfect face. Take “A Clockwork Orange”- perhaps the most recognizable and effective piece of dystopian fiction (book and film) ever. Bowler hats and penis furniture aside, it’s really about kids talking funny, morals being challenged, the government not giving a shit about you, and violence lying in the heart of everyone. Timeless stuff, and apply it to the environment of your story, and you have dystopian lit first class. It’s going to resonate. Don’t doubt me. I laughed when I read about the futuristic Stalin ad campaign in “Terraplane,” but I wasn’t laughing when I bought that bottle of black bean sauce with a dancing Stalin on it at the Russian market a month later.
Of course there’s a wide spectrum- ranging from the prosaic and heartbreaking “Random Acts of Senseless Violence” by Jack Womack to “Grape City” by Kevin L. Donihe. Womack’s is the diary of a 12-year-old girl during an economic collapse, and her eventual transformation into a killer. No miracles or alternate history required. Donihe gives us a vision of a humanity so distorted that demons and devils have been brought to their knees by our perversity and brutality, and the story veers into surreal and absurd at every turn, but still shows us our true face right now.
That’s the power of dystopian fiction. Despite the trappings of a usually escapist science fiction setting, its immediacy lets us know we are somewhere between ankle-and upper lip-deep in the flood. The heavy hitters of this literature are credited with social change and literary influence unlike any other genre. Apart from the stylistic flubs I mentioned earlier(consequences of an industry-wide ignorance, and the equivalent of spiked armpads in post-apocalyptic movies), “Murderland” shows that Garrett Cook may be on his way to being one of those heavy hitters. Protagonist Jeremy reminds us that we’re just a couple of newspaper articles away from going native wherever we are, and that is in the classic spirit of running straight down to the bottom of the Valley. Perhaps now that Cook knows why he should … perhaps he’ll
homestead for a while. There aren’t many writers I’d rather have down there.
My novel 10 A BOOT STOMPING 20 A HUMAN FACE 30 GOTO 10
