Velociworld

Caveat Emptor

It is the writer's lot to suffer the slings and arrows of criticism with a certain degree of detachment, if not amusement. After all, we learn from criticism, especially of the constructive variety, therefore it is an invaluable commodity in the writer's arsenal. The japes and burbles of the dissatisfied, the affronted, and the disappointed also keep the writer humble, a necessary ingredient in his future concoctions. I like to think of criticism as the roux in a creative writer's gumbo of mumbo-jumbo: positively stank to gaze upon by itself, absolutely essential in binding the final product together.

And so it was when I read my friend Dax Montana's review of A Trip of Goats. While not precisely what I would term constructive criticism, he certainly evoked a sense of having been had, leavened by the backhanded compliment of having expected far greater things given my regular offerings of total fucking awesomeness for free. In this aspect I suppose Dax is like most folks on the bitter end of the American Dream: after so many delicious repasts of free government cheese, one is prone to fits of outrage and tears of bewailment when one discovers the bilious yellow spackle adorning one's Quarter Pounder actually cost real money.

Fortunately, Dax gives us a more visual précis of his disillusionment, that we may imprint upon our collective retinae what he was unable to describe in more florid terms:

Never one to tolerate passive-aggressive behavior in another, considering that character flaw my sole entitlement by virtue of my cocoon-like worldview, I salute this single-minded (dare I say myopic?) exemplar of Dax's reaction. It is evocative of Foreigner's Dirty White Boy, a one-chord song, sure, but one chord furiously, relentlessly, and passionately power-slammed. Play on playa, as Nasty Nas encouraged us.

Ultimately, of course, I feel absolutely rotten that I've let Dax down. Like the Bull-besotted gentlemen of leisure at my local convenience store scratch-off counter, he bought a pig in a poke, and was aggrieved with the payoff. I feel the same pain with my miniscule hoard of Coca-Cola stock: sure, it's technically a blue chip, but with a price-to-earnings ratio of 42, I don't feel like the Monopoly bugger when the penny stock dividends pay out.

One lesson to be learned from this is that life ain't fair. A far better lesson to be learned is that I skimmed eight dollars and ninety cents off of Dax Montana, which is more than my Coke stock has paid out the last few distributions. But as an artist I am more sensitive to others' pain than the average mere mortal. It's a gift, and a curse. Therefore to alleviate Dax's umbrage, and suffering, I'm dedicating my next ten blog posts to him. Gratis. He can do with them as he wishes. They're probably fungible in the way that cow flatulence in an automobile gas tank is fungible, so he may find pecuniary value in them in the whirlpooling waters at the end of the revenue stream.

Consider this post the first installment of my magnanimous gesture, my friend. And rest assured you'll be far more pleased with my next novel. Even if you don't see yourself in a certain character I've inserted therein, I'm sure everyone else will.

As an aside, I sincerely hope Dax purchases my next novel in electronic format, for not only will it be less expensive for him, he may then cut out the middleman, and shit directly upon his keyboard.