BARREL MAGIC

Big Oops

We writers are a witty bunch, mostly--: then we turn witless and pretend to embrace the joylessness of the Conservative Regime by spanking ourselves for past excesses. Oh, how wrong we were to enjoy that last pack of cigarettes, that last puff, that lonely glass of Scotch downed in one breath, a little toot, a big bonghit, a long drag on that hootch that lengthened our literary legs much as that wee mushroom expanded and contracted Alice in Wonderland. We now tout the benefits of exercise, the love of nature, the art of the wild:-- Self Censorship had its day and now we're onto the next long play --"Oops, I had fun but it was nasty" ala Cold Comfort Farm, backwards. And it's a selective long play,-- jealous writers, horny professors, sullen students, murderous graduate assistants, goofy literary agents, and on and on,-- one might say that we're hungover because the age we're at (or in) has left us exhausted. But why? It's not as though anyone ever really cared about literature-in-the-making. The stale cakes, for some odd reason, had always enjoyed a large consumership--but now even the good old stuff is suspect for all the wrong reasons. And the public doesn't seem to care that we're self-flogging,-- It likes the Beats. It thinks Shakespeare kicks ass. Why then have we become so suspicious of our first joys? Why have we descended into grimness? Maybe it's not the conservatives' fault. Maybe it's festering in our conscience when it could be lit up in our hookah.

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