Due apologies for the less than substantial posting, good readers. I’m slumped over, trying to get the L.A. Rollins book in shape for the printer before the end of the month, struggling with InDesign quirks, smoking my pungent Latakia blend in a filterless bent pipe, and drinking Bukowskian quantities of cheap American beer. The day job is positively oppressive.
The good news is that the book has turned into a sumptuous behemoth; what started out as a moderately supplemented reprint of an obscure libertarian monograph has evolved into a genuine compendium, consisting of four "books" that collectively provide a nearly complete survey of the work of this forgotten zetetic recluse and equal-opportunity iconoclast, — of this unclassifiable cornball-cum-dissident whose aphoristic spleen (on full display in Lucifer’s Lexicon) made me laugh when I was enduring summer and night classes after flunking two years of high school English back whenever that was. Now, it seems hardly a day goes by that I don’t receive another
hand-addressed envelope in the box, stuffed with more Bierceian bombast
from Herr Rollins, usually with a hand-written note politely expressing hope that the latest batch will
make it in time. Lou isn’t online, so everything he sends comes through the post, every word in longhand. And I’m a piss-poor transcriptionist, alas. Maybe I’m a prisoner to nostalgia, but it feels downright surreal, bringing these books — this book — to life, and I promise things haven’t yet kicked into gear. You’ll see, fuckers. Those of you foolish enough to care. Nine-Banded Books will conquer the universe. Texas is the reason that the president’s dead.
I do mean to keep things afloat here, albeit for present purposes with these threadbare link-enhanced fixes. And I try to pay attention to the tubes, especially to those restless Adderall-scented truth-stalking fringes where quasi-kindred spirits take the lead. Jesus, those kids is scary-smart. Some of ’em, anyway. And I’ve been playing along as time permits — over at that ever unpredictable stop where the guy whose name is a series of consonant letters keeps channel-surfing; over at that impossible-to-believe forum, where a proud father turned penitent antinatalist plies his ambidextrous mindmeat to corner and refine the quixotically doomed case against breeding; over at that all-but-hidden nook where a self-described "(currently non-practicing) suicide" deftly connects the dismal dots. It’s a strange congregation, says the suds. All this cerebral slumming that from a distance collapses into tristesse, or beerdrunk romance.
Permit me, then, this inelegant segue. To the obligatory filler. Cause baby there’s no guide-ance when the random rules.
- Robert Lindsay is probably crazy, probably a semi-closeted Stu Mead fan, but always, always entertaining.
- The great Nicholson Baker — my favorite unrepentant "white person" — sings the praises of Wikipedia. Mark Bauerlein and Agnostic demur.
- Against the fawning tide of gratingly predictable NRO sycophancy, the Derb implores old Tom Wolfe to bone up on his evo-bio. (hat-tip to Razib)
- In a note-perfect distillation of his tormented memoir, Swimming in A Sea of Death, Susan Sontag’s good son, David Rieff, explains "Why I Had to Lie to My Dying Mother."
- The inimitable J-Man heaps scorn on a hapless Girl Scout.
- In a welcome respite from his tiresome Obama blogging, Steve Sailer promises a careful dissection the the latest (conservative) argument against encroaching "geneticism." UPDATE: soup’s up.
- And speaking of books, Katherine Dunn’s interminably anticipated fourth novel, The Cut Man, is now slated to be released . . . around the same time as Harlan Ellison’s The Last Dangerous Visions.
And finally, to close the circle, I want to point up this excellent dissident essay on the FLDS raid by my favorite "Catholic reactionary," Andy Nowicki, whose indescribably impolitic book, Considering Suicide, will be published by Nine-Banded Books in 2009. Just you wait.