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.
“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.