Tuesday, May 19, 2009
by Fred Fawnicoly
So, when kill a book reviewer? Not “critic”, since this north-side-of-the-border hasn’t had a resident critic since Frye died. Reviewers have to have social agendas, since preening’s important to them. Ask around. This is Canada, after all. Everybody knows everybody. Go to a place your hate-object will be, preening. Aim, shoot, and leave.
Who? Book reviewer? Yep, the one getting exposure in the journals, mags and papers that pass your obviously superior work up. ’Nuff said.
Where? In front of as many book maggots as possible. Preferably at a prize-awarding ceremony. Outside on the street, obviously, because only the clique particular to the award will be invited inside. They’re Torontonians. No one will grab you after. Wear a George Bowering mask. Everyone who doesn’t live there hates the West Coast.
How? Well, in a coffee shop near Jane and Finch, I met a guy who knew a guy who’d sell me a 9 millimeter. Met another guy on another day who’d do the job himself, guaranteed, for the same price as the handgun. So your part’s easy enough. Wear a George Bowering mask. Pay the guy who’ll do the job. He won’t give a shit what coast you’re from. He’ll think it’s a Nixon mask.
And what? Yes, a reviewer is a what.
Why kill a reviewer? Well, why kill a cock roach? Why kill a Norwegian rat? Rhetorical questions are sooooo annoying!