From The New Yorker:
...I used to love music, back when it had melody and chords and lyrics. But now it has no melody and no chords, just thwack-thwacking, and they even seem to be cutting back on the thwack-thwacking, so now it’s sometimes just thwa, and, as far as lyrics, do you consider these lyrics?Hump my hump,
My stumpy lumpy hump!
Hump my dump, you lumpy slumpy dump!
I’ll dump your hump,
and then just hump your dump,
You lumpy frumply clump.
I’m sorry. To me? Those are not lyrics. In my day, lyrics were used to express real emotion, like the emotion of being totally stoned and trying to talk this totally stoned chick into sleeping with you in the name of love, which lasted forever, if only you held on to your dreams.
George Saunders isn't just a pimp. He is a platform-shoed, befeathered-hat-wearing hermit living atop a mountain that pimps climb and ask of him how they, too, can achieve perfect pimpitude.
He's got a new book coming out. And in case you haven't already, read this one and this one, too.
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