New York Review of Bucks

The only email address the New York Review of Books will give you is to their advertising department. Fucking punks. So who's all about editorial and who's all about money? Fuck 'em, they can buy one of my books if they want to review it. After they read about it somewhere else.

I'm about two seconds away from writing off the entire American cultural machine. So full of themselves and so fucking pretentious and precious they are. From the guy publishing the zine to get some scene cred to the vegan animal rights punk promoter to the university embattled and embittered post-modernists—ain't none of 'em got love. And they're liberal, counter-cultural and money hating to the core. Drunk and confllicted punk rockers all of 'em.

I know the money folks ain't that cute either, but at least they're honest about their bullshit. At least you know what they think, what they're working for and who they are. Ironically, at least they'll reveal some vulnerability.

Keep your dicks out of the machine my brothers. My sisters, keep your tits and hips out. These guys will fuck you up hard-core. WIth the white mind-fuck of alll time.