Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men

Twice, in public, “others” (as we’ll call them) pointed at this book (as I ate with it for a week or so) and said, “I heard that’s not so good, not like the early stuff, it’s supposed to be crime fiction….” This logic, which usually comes from the hot, flapping maws of English Lit grads, is flawed, old, stupid, and on par with this statement: (Proudly stated) “I don’t own a TV.”

TV and worthy Modern Crime Fiction are both good for you. Great for you. Tell me otherwise, and after I use choice and funny words to put you in your (small, and small-minded) place, I will hog tie you with lamp cord, pepper spray your lie-spewing mouth, and make you eat the contents of a tackle box at gun point.

I finished and enjoyed that book. It’s great, actually. Violent, dead end noir from the first five pages on. Really violent, and I don’t normally stomach violence with ease. Best motel sequences of any recent read.

Oh, J.T. Leroy and anyone that enjoys his writing can GO GET FUCKED! His forced, affected dialectical abominations are defiling an area of the country in which I live and love. Plus, he’s not even real. As I previously exposed, SCOOPED, he is really the pen name of a middle-aged lesbian. Please spread that rumor. And his writing is not real criticism. Unwavering garbage.

I finished The Swimmer, the 1968 commercial failure starring Burt Lancaster as, well, you’ll just have to rent this wonderful oddity. Burt wears only a pair of tight swimming trunks throughout the entire movie. Interesting early jab at surburbia. Much more engaging than anything Todd Solondz, John Waters, or whatever pretentious assbasket directed American Beauty (looking him up on IMDB is not worth the energy). You must rent The Swimmer. NOW!