Four years ago I interviewed a 17-year-old hormonal Alaskan guy named Marty Beckerman, who at that tender age imagined himself the next Dave Barry. Now he’s 21, he’s got a new book out and reviewers are calling him a rough mix of Hunter S. Thompson and Lenny Bruce.
Beckerman’s tome, to be released later this month by MTV Books, is called
“GENERATION S.L.U.T. (sexually liberated urban teens): A Brutal Feel-Up Session With Today’s Sex-Crazed Adolescent Populace.” He’s gotten praiseworthy blurbs from HST, Neal Pollack and a host of respectable people.
I may have accidentally been among the first to interview The Next Big Thing In American Letters. Wow. One of Marty’s latest posts at his Web site is a bash to the face of East Cost literary hipsters. A highlight:
As everyone who’s anyone knows, books and albums are meant to be appreciated, not actually enjoyed. This is why Hipsters pay absolutely ridiculous rents to live in New York City?so they can bitch about all the writers/musicians who actually make enough money to buy their own food.
This is because all Hipsters want to be writers/musicians, but?thanks to East Coast Mediocrity?are unable to create anything with Heart, Soul or Passion. Thus, America is plagued with this eternally jealous, quasi-artistic subculture of snooty, ambitious (yet soul-dead) intellectual drones who dictate that “literature” can only be cynical, worthless bullshit reaffirming their lifelong belief that life isn’t worth living.
You know these people?they wear horn-rimmed glasses, listen to bad garage/grunge bands (sloppy female singers encouraged), avoid bathing and talk shit about anyone talented enough to be successful as an artist. Granted, most of the successful writers/musicians in America are untalented scum, but that’s only because the good writers/musicians are scared of losing their Hipster Credibility by actually marketing themselves to the Mainstream.
Gotta give this guy credit, he’s absolutely fearless.
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