It will not surprise anyone that Dave Lull has tracked down the Book TV program on Historical Scholarship Through Fiction that I played a minor part in.
WARNING: THIS COMMENT'S V. LONG; ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK . . .
Seconded, thanks wise, Mr. Lull; what a treat replete. Heart and soulful 'ere-'n'-eyeful. Anything but dregmatic dullful. And, if you shift the second comma, my compliment's complete.
The clip's perfectly timed; tastily copacetically flavoured; and, generously topped with a side of grand-spunky gravy (since, unlike many such showboater presentations, its participants' sentences don't all begin with I, aye, yippi-ki-me-oh-my-oh-magnifico-am-I-pignaciously-perfecto-pie-in-the-self-absorbed [o]ink sty).
Love that tie, Frank; but, the suit's swellegant and you're simply stun-wonderfully keenly fucking swelloquent. What can I sway, eh? K. Swoppt-off me feet; so, standing "O" Man-o-Maestro; don't think you missed a single beat.
(Deb's got impeccable taste, IOW; one ought never forget a wardrobe consultant's impossible to replace. LOL-on-a-roll.)
Larry's a fine friend, a good man, and a truly amazing writer who brings a breath of fresh ear to the feast on display, the one we're privileged to hear, here; but, more importantly, in his novels, exspeshully Any Known Blood, he proves the sky's no limit.
At one point, the guy says, "I Hope to Lift You Off the Page." That's an accurate encaptivating snapshot of Larry "Soaring-If-Books-Should-Thrill-Brill" Hill.
IOW, Mr. Hill's an all-round utility infielder whose non-fiction's equally electrifrying. The Commonwealth is *the* big deal you say it is, Frank; as prestigious as the INMAC or Manqué Booker; natch, we all know about shitorious awards; still, for once, someone got one right (and, yep, his brother *is* that Dan "Sometimes When We Touch" Hill, a fact which hurt him, a little, at the start, given we called said older bro' "Down Hill." Oh, again, yep, his dad *is* that natural-born king of the hill who ruled Ontario in his capacity as Lieutenant Governor for many a moonbeam. Thus, if nothing else, Hill continues to show time does abso-deffo side-wind all hells).
(Erm, Boy-oh-buoyed am I this night. Excuse moi? Yes, in fact, my mother did indeedly warn me about me me me which explains why I don't leave home without me, see? I kinda aced a task today is all; am a recovering agoraphobe and did a four-hour round trip from here to downhell and back without once bursting into tears or hiding in the vegetable aisles; so, mebbe this sorta explains the glowjob? Hope so. Please forgive with TIA.)
Oh, yeah, the other little logical reason? Frank, Darlin', do you have any idea how very much we missed you? Prolly not and I won't even try to convey our relief you're home, safe, sated, and the pair of you obviously enjoyed a time sublime in a wonderful clime.
While you were gone your co-BITErs admirably held down the fort; but, our twenty-worst century fears made more inroads on the down-and-out slides. The hole-sale slaughter of book pages hit The Globe and Mail with a vicious two-week hiatus whack, an incomprehensible attack that resonated around the world and bodes poorly for the future of one of the last stand-alones in the universe.
Glut-cut-throatery to the Nth degree. Susan B.'s been sacked come 7 September at yer Inky and that's simply too sad to believe, almost (and, S? Thank you for the kind props on yer found poem, since it's coming on crushlike and I'm already over the legal limit in this novella; just sorry to hear your news because I shall miss your Rose-rich reviews).
Welp, it sure as hell looks like push has down-dumb gawddamned come to shovelling the last spade of shit on the grave of one of the world's last reliquaries of cut-above literaria extraordinairia. Both Martin and Jack are devastated; the entire country, in fact, is in that state of can't-talk shock ('cept yip-yappy me).
We were forced to take a two-week hiatus (for the first time in over a century). And, that's just the tip of the sliceberg, looks like, the other nine-tenths ne'er to be seen again in these har Canuckian parts. On our cultural hands and needs, I shamelessly pleads with anyone who reads BITE (Books, Inq.: The Epilogue), from editors to writers to reviewers to proofers, to email our Editor-in-Chief Edward Greenspon and politely request he reconsider considering this drastic measure before cultureless utilitarianism nails us to the nines:
egreenspon /at/ globeandmail /dot/ com
Um, pls not to mention you know who, tnx. If we need to read to remind ourselves of the BOOKS section's worth and value, might I suggest a wee peek-see at but one of its more interesting aspects which recently ran? It's a lively exchange in "The Symposium" featuring none other than our own Nigel Beale:
http://tinyurl.com/globeandemail
Again, you was warmed so, please, no snide-swipes nor flames for happy yappy dames. Bad enough someone's gone to the trouble of registering yours truly on every XXX raunchy, kinky, risible, horrifisable website dans le monde already. Yes, I am a dwarf crossdressing black tigress avec two heads merry-widowing in tarantula tails offset by red ruby stilettos that will shiv yer Nazi heart to shreds.
The hits just keep on creaming. Happy, now? Ta.
You bat right, Frank? For some reason, I had you pegged as a southpaw. Something we discussed along the lines of Bill "The Spaceman" Lee's quiplash concerning lefties being the only peep-squeaks in their right minds, something involving Aristotle, McLuhan, Joan of Arc, Bill Clinton, Glenn Gould, Garbo, Twain, Jack the Ripper, Murrow, JFK, and your local global-village idiot disappearing from the screen very five-foot shortly, believe you me, me
WARNING: THIS COMMENT'S V. LONG; ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK . . .
ReplyDeleteSeconded, thanks wise, Mr. Lull; what a treat replete. Heart and soulful 'ere-'n'-eyeful. Anything but dregmatic dullful. And, if you shift the second comma, my compliment's complete.
The clip's perfectly timed; tastily copacetically flavoured; and, generously topped with a side of grand-spunky gravy (since, unlike many such showboater presentations, its participants' sentences don't all begin with I, aye, yippi-ki-me-oh-my-oh-magnifico-am-I-pignaciously-perfecto-pie-in-the-self-absorbed [o]ink sty).
Love that tie, Frank; but, the suit's swellegant and you're simply stun-wonderfully keenly fucking swelloquent. What can I sway, eh? K. Swoppt-off me feet; so, standing "O" Man-o-Maestro; don't think you missed a single beat.
(Deb's got impeccable taste, IOW; one ought never forget a wardrobe consultant's impossible to replace. LOL-on-a-roll.)
Larry's a fine friend, a good man, and a truly amazing writer who brings a breath of fresh ear to the feast on display, the one we're privileged to hear, here; but, more importantly, in his novels, exspeshully Any Known Blood, he proves the sky's no limit.
At one point, the guy says, "I Hope to Lift You Off the Page." That's an accurate encaptivating snapshot of Larry "Soaring-If-Books-Should-Thrill-Brill" Hill.
IOW, Mr. Hill's an all-round utility infielder whose non-fiction's equally electrifrying. The Commonwealth is *the* big deal you say it is, Frank; as prestigious as the INMAC or Manqué Booker; natch, we all know about shitorious awards; still, for once, someone got one right (and, yep, his brother *is* that Dan "Sometimes When We Touch" Hill, a fact which hurt him, a little, at the start, given we called said older bro' "Down Hill." Oh, again, yep, his dad *is* that natural-born king of the hill who ruled Ontario in his capacity as Lieutenant Governor for many a moonbeam. Thus, if nothing else, Hill continues to show time does abso-deffo side-wind all hells).
(Erm, Boy-oh-buoyed am I this night. Excuse moi? Yes, in fact, my mother did indeedly warn me about me me me which explains why I don't leave home without me, see? I kinda aced a task today is all; am a recovering agoraphobe and did a four-hour round trip from here to downhell and back without once bursting into tears or hiding in the vegetable aisles; so, mebbe this sorta explains the glowjob? Hope so. Please forgive with TIA.)
Oh, yeah, the other little logical reason? Frank, Darlin', do you have any idea how very much we missed you? Prolly not and I won't even try to convey our relief you're home, safe, sated, and the pair of you obviously enjoyed a time sublime in a wonderful clime.
While you were gone your co-BITErs admirably held down the fort; but, our twenty-worst century fears made more inroads on the down-and-out slides. The hole-sale slaughter of book pages hit The Globe and Mail with a vicious two-week hiatus whack, an incomprehensible attack that resonated around the world and bodes poorly for the future of one of the last stand-alones in the universe.
Glut-cut-throatery to the Nth degree. Susan B.'s been sacked come 7 September at yer Inky and that's simply too sad to believe, almost (and, S? Thank you for the kind props on yer found poem, since it's coming on crushlike and I'm already over the legal limit in this novella; just sorry to hear your news because I shall miss your Rose-rich reviews).
Welp, it sure as hell looks like push has down-dumb gawddamned come to shovelling the last spade of shit on the grave of one of the world's last reliquaries of cut-above literaria extraordinairia. Both Martin and Jack are devastated; the entire country, in fact, is in that state of can't-talk shock ('cept yip-yappy me).
We were forced to take a two-week hiatus (for the first time in over a century). And, that's just the tip of the sliceberg, looks like, the other nine-tenths ne'er to be seen again in these har Canuckian parts. On our cultural hands and needs, I shamelessly pleads with anyone who reads BITE (Books, Inq.: The Epilogue), from editors to writers to reviewers to proofers, to email our Editor-in-Chief Edward Greenspon and politely request he reconsider considering this drastic measure before cultureless utilitarianism nails us to the nines:
egreenspon /at/ globeandmail /dot/ com
Um, pls not to mention you know who, tnx. If we need to read to remind ourselves of the BOOKS section's worth and value, might I suggest a wee peek-see at but one of its more interesting aspects which recently ran? It's a lively exchange in "The Symposium" featuring none other than our own Nigel Beale:
http://tinyurl.com/globeandemail
Again, you was warmed so, please, no snide-swipes nor flames for happy yappy dames. Bad enough someone's gone to the trouble of registering yours truly on every XXX raunchy, kinky, risible, horrifisable website dans le monde already. Yes, I am a dwarf crossdressing black tigress avec two heads merry-widowing in tarantula tails offset by red ruby stilettos that will shiv yer Nazi heart to shreds.
The hits just keep on creaming. Happy, now? Ta.
You bat right, Frank? For some reason, I had you pegged as a southpaw. Something we discussed along the lines of Bill "The Spaceman" Lee's quiplash concerning lefties being the only peep-squeaks in their right minds, something involving Aristotle, McLuhan, Joan of Arc, Bill Clinton, Glenn Gould, Garbo, Twain, Jack the Ripper, Murrow, JFK, and your local global-village idiot disappearing from the screen very five-foot shortly, believe you me, me