I picked up a copy of The Believer the other day, because it seems that in the book writin' world, that magazine is like the cool kids' table. (Not necessarily the popular kids' table, because all the really popular kids have their own tables, and J.K. Rowling probably has her own cafeteria. Her own cafeteria that's full of money that she swims in like Scrooge McDuck. At least, I think so.)
So I had to indulge my complicated feelings. I think they go something like this: God, I can't stand the smug, self-satisfied, cleverer-than-thou tone of this whole thing. Why haven't they asked me to write anything? Do they even know I exist? I liked Sarah Silverman's guest shot as the advice columnist, and Nick Hornby's book reviews, and the rest...eh. There's one incomprehensible piece claiming to be a manifesto. I think it's about how the guy likes to read nonfiction. But it's hard to tell because it's mostly a list of titles masquerading as an essay.
And worst of all, a fawning interview with the execrable Robyn Hitchcock, in which the interviewer flaunts his Anglophilia ("Americans can't be sad and funny at the same time") and says how he was the only one in the audience at a concert who got a "joke" that Mr. Hitchcock made from the stage. Hitchcock himself comes off as less of a tool than I might have expected, though he does talk about how you have to be smart to like his music. I would amend that and say you have to be in love with how smart you think you are, but anyway. My hatred of Robyn Hitchcock stems from a freezing cold day in April 1991, when I sat in a 40-degree, rain-drenched Foxboro stadium for 8 hours watching this Earth Day concert. Most of the groups that performed gave it a good shot despite the rain and the cold, and Midnight Oil and Fishbone in particular played their hearts out for the frozen crowd. I was freezing my butt off in about 7 layers of clothes, and one guy in Fishbone performed in only a gold-lame speedo. And Robyn Hitchcock came out all bundled up, did some incomprehensible rap about a guy losing his car keys in the wash, then stopped mid-song, said, "Sod it, it's too cold," and walked off stage. I mean, even the Indigo Girls and Joan Baez played like the professionals they were, even though freezing my butt off and watching the Indigo Girls and Joan Baez is as close to hell as I ever want to get.
