Well, well, well. We see that David Raposa has released his latest column on the Pitchfork Media Web site. And after distractedly reading the review no less than one time, we have no choice but to conclude that Raposa – like so many of his Pitchfork contemporaries – has once again unwittingly invoked the old careworn dilemma regarding the dual loyalty – in essence, the very location – of the reviewer. Permit me to elucidate.
Interested in my bullshit ramblings? Of course you are. I love the sound of my own literary voice. So everyone else must as well.
But anyway, before I ferret any further, let me try to make you understand something, okay? You see, to truly be a reviewer – and, therefore, we may posit, a cultural steward – we must always inhabit space upon the correct side of that famous Rubiconian line of demarcation – the line between being and becoming. We see the consciously successful treatment of said boundary line in the works of many of our most well-known thinkers and critics – from gentle Hesiod (particularly in his heart-breaking and essential Works And Days) to razor-sharp Sidney Blumenthal. From intellectual colossus John Henry Newman and The Idea of a University to, of course, the so-called “obscure” 19th-century poet and personality Walter Pater (only his early material, though, obviously). We find it in our brightest lights of punditry and formulation, but sadly, we do not find it here. And at this point, I will bolster my ostensible street cred by keying in some gratuitous curse words. Fucking fuck! Shit Cock!
I would venture to conclude that Raposa’s review is not merely a study in putrefaction, but is downright execrable. How much more phraseology can we exhume to express the sentiment of “self-indulgent, solipsistic drivel?” Plenty. But I don’t want to confuse or soporify you.
In any case, you may ask – is this a valid or supportable conclusion? Well – I’ll let me be the judge of that. But suffice it to say – we witness repeated violations of accepted journalistic style, as comma after comma appears outside the quote marks, rather than within them. Needless to say, this is an editorial blunder the likes of which could confound the eternal patience of even old James Reston himself! Need I say more? The prosecution rests, your honor. The prosecution rests.
And for all those subhuman troglodytes who maintain in their sublimating brains the “inclination” to disagree with this by-definition highly subjective exercise – I say that I will fight you right now! Because you plebians are either with me, or you are with the terrorists. And you don’t want to be a terrorist now, do you? Or be thought of as lame?
But what important point was I making? Ah, yes – I will fight you right now! So be afraid! Fucking fuck! Shit Cock! This oh-so-deliberately tattered knit scarf transmogrifies into quite the formidable garrote, while these three-inch-thick horn rims function also as a fearsome flying bludgeon, in the long tradition of the “boomeranging” weapons of Java and ancient Sumatra (what, you thought they originated in fucking Australia?). So pay no attention to that insecure nerd behind the curtain. FOR I AM THE GREAT AND POWERFUL OZ! What’s that word you say? Word up.
