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Archive for January, 2012January 2012 in Black LambVolume 10, Number 1 — January 2012January 1st, 2012 Ninth Anniversary Issue In our Ninth Anniversary Issue, editor Terry Ross ponders things he’s done for nine years in a row, and things he hasn’t. In California dreaming, Elizabeth Fournier rides a bike around San Francisco with a guy in spandex. Patsy Tompkins reflects on her forty years in New York City in Becoming a New Yorker. In Anniversary schmalz, Ed Goldberg goes round and round with the number nine.
Posted by: The Editors The anniversary schmalzJanuary 1st, 2012 BY ED GOLDBERG Number 9, Number 9, Number 9…. This is the ninth anniversary of the Black Lamb monthly, and congratulations to Terry Ross for his perseverance, and for reading and enjoying my brain droppings for these years. I have relished the soapbox for my views on everything from the moribund condition of the literary novel, to the state of pop music in twenty-first-century America, to why George Romero’s zombie movies transcend their own genre. I have received mostly positive comments, even from people who may disagree with me. Recently, Terry printed a dyspeptic rant from someone who found my politics to be, oh, bullshit, I guess. It was a great piece of verbal psychodrama and talking-point bile, and did nothing but reinforce everything I wrote. (Just to set the record straight, I do not own a bumper-sticker festooned Volvo, but a Ford hybrid with no stickers. Unlike, say, Sarah Palin, everything I believe can’t be reduced to a slogan. And, does he still deny that Rick Perry is a preening ass and moral leper? I am not a red, although there’s nothing wrong with that, but I am deeply pink. I also take pleasure in the fact that the writer lives in Berkeley, and every day for him must be a vista of hell. Nyuk nyuk nyuk.) Nine is a fraught number. In its printed form, it is not unlike a spermatozoa, or a stylized embryo. Human gestation lasts nine months. One is high on Cloud 9, or in the Ninth Circle of Dante’s Inferno. The pop geniuses Lieber and Stoller knew that the real-deal love potion was Number 9, and the literary lion Kurt Vonnegut made the apocalyptic substance that destroyed the earth Ice-nine. There used to be nine planets. (Sorry, Pluto.)
Posted by: The Editors
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