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To My Fans

RobertLevin

New member
The Author Addresses His Base

“At times a misogynist, at times a bestiality apologizer, at all times puerile, sex-obsessed and offensive…Levin, a sexagenarian, sounds like a moronic twenty-something who’s had a few too many and is trying to pick up chicks by throwing SAT vocab randomly into his sentences…What kind of people would want to read this?”
— Sara Plourde in her review of When Pacino’s Hot, I’m Hot: A Miscellany of Stories & Commentary (The Drill Press), on the GoodReads web site.


I’d like, first of all, to say how moved I am by the vast quantity of mail you’ve sent me expressing your outrage over the not so favorable review I recently received for my collection of fiction and essays, When Pacino’s Hot, I’m Hot. Your rush to console me and to defend the book, which I know that many of you are modeling your lives on (and which is available online from Barnes & Noble for the ridiculously low price of $10), has so warmed my heart as to affect my very chemistry. My breath has never been sweeter.

And it’s not just your loyalty that’s impressed me, but the depth and succinctness of the comments you’ve made. “This REVUE is fukkedup!!,” for example, is a marvel of concision and implicitly speaks of an exceptional literary acumen. (Thank you, “Deek from People’s Creek.” And sure, I’d be happy to take a look at that pamphlet of quatrains you’ve just completed.)

Yes, this review—written, it turns out, by a recently graduated English major—is an execrable thing. I mean I’ll readily concede that my stuff is susceptible to criticism. I have indeed been known to use words William Buckley had to look up. (Plus, I’m not only capable of dangling a participle, and of taking immense pleasure in watching it write in terror, but I can do it twice in the same sentence.) That said however, the degree to which I’ve been misrepresented in the review is astonishing. Bestiality rescued my sex life. It would never occur to me to apologize for it.

(Okay, I was making a little joke there. Bestiality’s never been my bowl of Jack Daniels—no, that one time in college doesn’t count. And the story, “Dog Days,” which the reviewer is obviously referencing, isn’t really about bestiality, as any discerning reader would recognize. Don’t get me wrong though. I have nothing against bestiality. Hardly. I agree with our own “NatureBoy in Schenectady”—whose memoir/self-help manual, “How To Win Your Girlfriend Back After You’ve ****ed Her Ferret,” I very much admire—that speciesism has no place in the twenty-first century. Nice job, NB.)

Outraged, as I say, by this Plourde person’s mindless denigration of my book (not to mention that unforgivable knock on your character and intelligence), a lot of you are calling for retaliation. “#6728351 from San Quentin” suggests that a woman with the temerity to write a book review despite a “glaring lack of reading comprehension skills” may “need some killing.” And his offer to “take care of this matter” for me upon his release is, on its surface, very generous. But you know as well as I do, #6728351, that you’re not getting out. You’re never getting out. We’ve been through this before—once when you learned that the scurvy mattress back I married ran off with another guy and twice after that when you heard that the second and third scurvy mattress backs I married ran off with other guys. Your getting out is a fantasy, man. So I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from jerking me around.

In any case, and as egregious as the violation is, retaliation could not be farther from my thoughts.

Do I need to point out that the metaphysical meditations included in the book prompted the Jersey City Journal of Philosophic Inquiry to remark, “As opaque and incomprehensible as it gets”? (Which says something good about the depth of my intellection, right?) Would an author of my caliber allow his chain to get yanked by the reflexive reaction of an apparent animal rights freak who’s evidently coming from that whacko women’s liberation thing as well? (I’m speaking, in the latter case, of the “misogynist” accusation that was presumably sparked by the story, “Sex With A Very Large Woman”—a story in which I was only trying to have some fun.) Yes, it’s certainly true that this tone deaf ignoramus has committed a grave injustice, not just to you and yours truly but also to her readers. From now on these folks will picture a puddle of something green and viscous should they think of When Pacino’s Hot, I’m Hot (which can also be purchased from Amazon.com, where it’s eligible for Super-Saver Shipping). Still—what’s a few missed sales?—there’s no way on earth that I’d stoop to avenge her inane remarks.

For instance: I would never publically suggest that, projecting her own propensities on to me (propensities she’s clearly riddled with guilt about), it’s Sara Plourde who’s using her writing to “pick up chicks.” (Jesus. You can tell what her obsession is just from the swagger of her syntax, which practically reeks of Old Spice.) Nor would I openly posit the theory that her review is nothing more than a pus discharge; that Sara Plourde, who could stand to lose a few pounds (her prose style also gives this away), saw a resemblance to her own body in that “Large Woman” story and, in a fit of pique that overwhelmed any capacity she might have to be objective, squeezed her lingering adolescent pimples all over her keyboard.

No. As you can see, I’m handling this review with the maturity, grace and dignity that you’d expect from a man of my stature.

Now I know you guys. I know my fans. For my own protection I read the paper that team of psychopathologists did on you last year very carefully. I know that you have as much control over your emotions as I have over my bladder. I know about that very destructive fire several of you set in your anger management class and about that thing in Rochester too. (I also know—I have no idea what it means, but I find it very disquieting—that a disproportionate number of you play the tuba.) So I’m fully aware that my taking the high road in this situation is unlikely to dissuade you from doing something weird. Inasmuch as you’re going to do what you’ve got to do, all I’ll ask is that you deny any knowledge of my whereabouts and pay your own attorney’s fees this time. (I’m speaking directly to you here, “HermaphroditeWannaBe.” And by the way, Hermph, congratulations on finally succeeding in going down on yourself. We’re all pulling for you to get out of traction as quickly as possible.)

Let me see now…I wanted to bring up something else while I had everyone together, but I can’t remember what it was. Oh yeah: What the hell happened to the recruitment drive? Did I make a mistake putting “Peckerhead” in charge of the Fan Club? Did the junior high schools finally dry up? Five new fans a month at the measly dues we’re charging is bullshit. Fifty would be more like it. Fifty should be the goal. Get me fifty and you’ll make me even prouder of you than I already am.
 

jpr62902

Jeanclaude Spam Banhammer
SUPER Site Supporter
An interesting rebuttal, but 'twas a smidgeon difficult to read. I would suggest more commas, periods (too many run-on sentences) and paragraphs. Got a link to the original essays about which so many are fussing? (And no, I'm not buying it on Amazon)
 

Bobcat

Je Suis Charlie Hebdo
GOLD Site Supporter
Have you seen his fat woman piece? :rolf2: It's in this forum (Creative Writing & Poetry) somewhere...
 

pirate_girl

legendary ⚓
GOLD Site Supporter
An interesting rebuttal, but 'twas a smidgeon difficult to read. I would suggest more commas, periods (too many run-on sentences) and paragraphs. Got a link to the original essays about which so many are fussing? (And no, I'm not buying it on Amazon)
:rolf2:

Have you seen his fat woman piece? :rolf2: It's in this forum (Creative Writing & Poetry) somewhere...
Yeah.. and I've seen it other places as well.. over and over again.
Fans??
Where? oh sorry... smart ass is kicking in..:whistling:
 

jpr62902

Jeanclaude Spam Banhammer
SUPER Site Supporter
Now I'm curious. The search function for the good Mr. Levin's posts isn't working. Perhaps someone could offer some assistance?
 

jpr62902

Jeanclaude Spam Banhammer
SUPER Site Supporter
Ummmm, Lollie? Readst thou not my entire query?

"The search function for the good Mr. Levin's posts isn't working.":hide:

Nevertheless, thanks for your help!
 

pirate_girl

legendary ⚓
GOLD Site Supporter
Ummmm, Lollie? Readst thou not my entire query?

"The search function for the good Mr. Levin's posts isn't working.":hide:



Nevertheless, thanks for your help!


Here ya go.. a pox upon me lad, for thy f@#$%^&* mistake.. :D




During my twenties and thirties, it was my goal to have sex with every physical type of woman on the planet.

I'd prefer not to hear any stuff about this. I was proceeding from the belief that by sleeping with a representative of every kind of female body, and every category of appearance I would, in effect, come to know all women and that such an accomplishment would be good for my writing.

Okay?

Of course, even to gather only samples from what, you realize when you get into it, is a vast assortment of sizes, shapes and physiognomies, would have meant putting up numbers comparable to Wilt Chamberlain's. And being all of five-foot-six, more skinny than slim - and with a nose you would think must obstruct my vision - I'd obviously set my bar too high. But spurred by the promise of the literary rewards that even limited success would yield, I determinedly pursued my objective, and had it not been for a prostate gland the Harvard School of Medicine will surely make a bid for upon my demise, I'd probably have been at it much longer.

Middle-aged now and long out of the hunt, I'm forced to concede that my writing would have been better served by writing more and researching less. Still, the time spent on my project wasn't entirely wasted. Collateral though it may be, I did reap one unanticipated and very practical benefit. While my collection of memories isn't as comprehensive as I'd have wished (variations on the theme of plainness are more than adequately represented but girls who look like Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Connelly are glaringly missing), the mental snapshots I've kept of the women I WAS able to cop have been more than sufficient in their quantity and variety to save me the price of a subscription to ''Jugs.''

And, indeed, I have been left with a story or two to tell.

Not least for the adventure it amounted to, a hookup I think of a lot was with a twenty-something woman named Peggie who'd just days before - and for the first time - come to New York from the Midwest on a month-long vacation.

We met in a bar. I was standing alone, casing the action, when I heard, right behind me, the sound of a sharp quick fart - like a wooden match striking. Turning to look I confronted a sight only the word ''humongous'' could accurately depict - a female at least a foot taller than I was and approximately the width of the Great Wall of China.

She was smiling flirtatiously at me and, though taken aback by her appearance (not to mention her method of getting my attention) and reflexively recoiling, I quickly recovered when I realized the opportunity she was presenting me with. Here was my chance to cross gross obesity from the list of body types I hadn't yet scored.

In a brief conversation - during which it occurred to me that she'd be almost agreeable-looking if she just lost 300 pounds - Peggie told me she was a cashier at a Kalamazoo, Michigan supermarket (a career chosen, she readily admitted, for the substantial food discount it offered); that she had once played a Packard convertible in a high school production of ''Grease,'' and that her parents had tragically expired in a suicide pact just weeks after her birth.

Then she invited me to her hotel room.

(As we were leaving, I saw the bartender, who could not, of course, have understood my agenda, shaking his head in disbelief.

''That's it,'' he nudged the customer slouched in front of him. ''Right there - that dude. That's the definition of drunk.'')

At her hotel, to which we necessarily took separate cabs, the first thing Peggie did was crack open, and inhale, the complete contents of a package of Mallomars. Then, from a utility-kitchen refrigerator, she retrieved and devoured (in exactly what order I don't recall) a container of chicken wings, a combo plate of tacos and an economy-size tub of Velveeta.

Finally she put a Barry Manilow tape into her boom box.

Now it's not that I mind Barry Manilow all that much, but the more appropriate musical accompaniment to the night's activities would have been the theme from ''Raiders of the Lost Ark.'' The thing was - and my insistence that we leave on no more than the bathroom light was definitely a contributing factor - I could not for the life of me find Peggie's vulva. I'd heard that this was a common occurrence with very fat women, and especially with very fat women in poor lighting, but it still took a lot longer than I would have expected. Why? Simply put, Peggie's body could have served as a Special Forces training ground for the field of hazards and challenges it presented. I'm speaking of the twisting climbs and sudden valleys, the crags, the craters and the amazing plenitude of gullies, ravines and bogs that I was, and on my hands and knees, obliged to negotiate and traverse in my search. A dismaying project to begin with, my progress was further impeded by an extraordinary number of ambiguous fissures and crevices that, not quickly identifiable, required time-consuming investigation and study. You wouldn't believe how many deceptive nooks and seductive crannies I came across. In fact, at one point, when I thought for sure that I'd located and entered the secret cave, I discovered, to my chagrin, that I'd inserted myself inside of what was only a fold of fiercely perspiring epidermis. What's more, I realized, when I looked up, that I was seriously lost in some apparently outlying district of Peggie's anatomy.

You're thinking that I had only myself to blame, that not to stop and ask for directions is typical of a man. Well, I swear, I was just about to when I heard, in the distance, what sounded like the swift currents of a babbling brook. Groping my way toward the sound it increased in volume until it was a deafening roar and I knew I was directly above its source. Reasonably confident that I'd located Peggie's stomach, I paused to collect myself and survey my surroundings. In the absence of a compass I was looking for some sort of marker with which to establish my coordinates. When I noticed that the horizon ahead of me was blocked by an especially pronounced elevation in the terrain, I reasoned that I was likely facing north. With a cautious optimism I began, then, to crawl slowly backwards. You can imagine the rush I got when before too long my toes were caressed by a soft and lush foliage, and then bathed in the gentle bubbling of a warm spring.

I was at last at the pleasure grove.

Feeling like a world-beater, I was glowing with a sense of accomplishment and I have to confess that I indulged myself in a moment of pride. Relying on my instincts and wit, persevering in the face of exceptional difficulties, I had achieved an elusive goal other men would certainly have given up on. The moment was short-lived however. After effecting penetration my mettle was tested some more. Twice I was jettisoned (and put in jeopardy of becoming a ceiling fixture) by the astonishing power of Peggie's pelvic motion. It was really disappointing. Each time I was forced to go back to square one and I had to reach deep inside myself for a stick-to-itiveness that I wasn't at all sure I possessed. But I hung tough and on my third expedition, with my eyes now accustomed to the dark, I was recognizing landmarks and proceeding with dispatch. At the treasure chest within minutes, I managed, this time, to more or less stay put and, let me tell you, like clinging to the back of a great whale in a high sea, those final seconds were every bit as exhilarating as the Splash Mountain ride at Disney World.

In the morning, Peggie, cheery and humming to herself (doubtless never before the object of such committed attention), seemed unaware of my odyssey. After eating a cake, and washing it down with a quart of chocolate milk, she asked me if she could take a time-delay Polaroid of the two of us naked in bed. (Should you ever come across this picture, I am in it. That's the top of my head, not a puppy, just behind her left ankle.) Then she announced that she was cutting her trip short and returning home. There was no reason, she said, to remain in New York now, because no big-city experience that she might imagine could possibly surpass her night with me.

Having completed my mission and worried she'd suggest that we get together again, I was enormously relieved by and immediately supportive of her decision.

As I departed though, I did sense from her expression that she was maybe a little ambivalent about changing her plans; that she was thinking of something she might later regret missing. Not wishing to prolong the moment I chose not to ask any questions, so I'll never know just what the thing was. Yes, it could have been the Transit Museum or the Edgar Allan Poe Cottage. But I suspect that more likely on her mind was forgoing the chance to discover a new food group.
 

jpr62902

Jeanclaude Spam Banhammer
SUPER Site Supporter
Again, dude. Learn to use commas and periods more. Compartmentalize your thoughts in smaller paragraphs -- otherwise, you just keep this long train of thought going where the listener starts wandering off and thinking to themselves, "Should I have some tea right now? I mean it is almost 10 o'clock and I have to get up early tomorrow. Maybe I'll just have some popcorn instead. Oh wait. I have to finish reading," and then they have to start the sentence all over again, but by that time the phone rings and it's their long lost brother who just found their long lost puppy, but it's got Parvo and they have to figure out whether or not to spend all that money to cure the puppy's Parvo, and then they realize thy're still reading this self laudatory, misogynistic drivel ...... See what I mean?

I couldn't even get through the whole thing.........

And thanks again, PG.:)
 

rback33

Hangin in Tornado Alley
SUPER Site Supporter
I kept waiting for where it got good when I read it... it never did.
 

pirate_girl

legendary ⚓
GOLD Site Supporter
"I was at last at the pleasure grove.
Feeling like a world-beater, I was glowing with a sense of accomplishment and I have to confess that I indulged myself in a moment of pride".





That's not what I'd call it...:yum:
 
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