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ABOUTNow in its 14th year of publication, this magazine was created to offer the discerning reader a stimulating selection of excellent original writing. Black Lamb Review is a literate rather than a literary publication. Regular columns by writers in a variety of geographic locations and vocations are supplemented by features, reviews, articles on books and authors, and a selection of “departments,” including an acerbic advice column and a lamb recipe. SUBMISSIONSBlack Lamb welcomes submissions from new writers. Email us. QUESTIONSIf you have questions or comments regarding Black Lamb, please email us. |
Archive for the 'Roberts' CategoryA decent manBetrayal in WisconsinJune 1st, 2016 BY GREG ROBERTS Recollections Of A Long Life: 1829-1915 I like reading books that no one has heard of. The 1950 memoirs of Valentin R. Garfias, Garf From Mexico, was limited to 2,000 copies, one of which was discarded by Cal State University, Hayward, ending up at a Salvation Army store. An excellent read — and if you do read it, you are one of only dozens, like Spix macaws.
Is it an important work? Very important. Just because something is obscure says nothing. Mozart’s Sinfonia Concertante in E-flat languished for more than a century before it was rediscovered. And what about Moby Dick? So there.
Posted by: The Editors Programmed to fishJanuary 1st, 2016 BY GREG ROBERTS I was supposed to have done big things… but fishing got in the way. It was fishing that kept me from being the professor, the comedian, the writer, the big star. “You’re a funny guy — you could have started The Onion when you were in Madison, man,” said one of my old college chums. Maybe I could have. Maybe a lot of people could have. But if you sit at a fly-tying bench for six hours, further relaxed by forty-ouncers of Carling Black Label, there isn’t much cerebral juice left for the demanding task of writing The Onion.
Fishing sabotaged all those glorious might-have-beens. No brain surgeon or astrophysicist has spent more time at his craft than I have squandered at the fly-tying vise, laying down swatches of yak hair and polypropylene, and adding doll eyes with a glob of epoxy, hoping to make a sardine that the fish will think is real.
Posted by: The Editors Rise up!November 1st, 2015 BY GREG ROBERTS Many modern developments are worse than their predecessors. White sliced bread is a tasteless blob compared to a baguette or focaccia; modern factory chickens aren’t half as good as the yellow-meated ones that once roamed the barnyard. Many things that we created for mass consumption are a step backward, a devolution. Electric musical instruments fall into this category. Hammond organs, electric violins, and certainly electric guitars are abominations that sound much worse than their acoustic originals. That noise is unnatural and unhealthy but — like a fakir chewing on splinters of glass — we are now used to it. Even the academics and intellectuals embrace music that is “ritardando.” When Carl Sagan selected material for a cultural capsule to be launched into space, he chose, in addition to J.S. Bach, the music of Chuck Berry. Carl was in kneejerk mode when he did that: wannabe cool mode, pandering mode. In retrospect he was just another lame-o.
Posted by: The Editors Post ArmageddonThere's a sweet new world waiting for us out there.December 1st, 2014 BY GREG ROBERTS
I’m feeling fascination, even sympathy, for a complete nut case named Timothy Treadwell, the poor guy who lived with grizzly bears in Alaska and who eventually died in their paws. Everything I know about the grizzly man comes from the documentary of that name, directed by Werner Herzog. This excellent film tells the story of a drug-addicted loser actor from Los Angeles who discovered the natural world and was saved by it. The bears were such an exhilarating drug for Treadwell, he needed no other for the rest of his life. Watching Treadwell play with his animal friends, you can’t help but like the guy. You envy the joy that he exudes in this wilderness setting, no matter the hardships of tent life and the miserable wind and rain that come with the territory. You start to overlook his delusionary behavior. He thought he was protecting the bears, when in fact they needed no protection: they are apex predators protected by park boundaries. Worse, Treadwell thought he had become a member of the bear tribe, when in fact he was on the path to being their victim, along with his naïve girlfriend, Amy.
Posted by: The Editors The poor people of ParisCompared to Americans, Europeans live like peasants.November 1st, 2013 BY GREG ROBERTS In the 1970s our family worked for rich people who kept summer homes near Three Lakes, Wisc. Yard work, housework, boat and pier work — we were the avant garde of today’s Mexicans. Not exactly; we were good friends with the boss, a bank president, and he invited us to many an elaborate cook-out with porterhouse steaks the size of Frisbees and glasses of port from the 1930s.
Alan, the Englishman, visited our house one day and was amazed at what he found. A Ford pickup, a Buick Park Avenue, boats on trailers, snowmobiles, and fine shotguns hanging on the living room walls. He was pole-axed by such wealth in the hands of people who did the same kind of work as he. “Good Lord, everyone is rich in this country,” he said, as if it were leprosy. And later I heard his wife mutter, “Our last big dream was to buy a sewing machine, and we saved the whole year to do it.” That’s Europeans for you. In spite of the Magna Carta, they never had anything and never will. And they seem to be getting worse. A bicycle ride to the cafe, an espresso and cigarette, and a conversation on Twitter. Man, that’s living! And now it’s time to pedal back home to Mama and Papa, to the same crappy apartment and small room you grew up in.
Posted by: The Editors A losing propositionThe state is destroying families by the thousands.February 1st, 2012 BY GREG ROBERTS I keep glancing at my office door, wondering when the state-sponsored prostitutes will show up and start the sting. One of these girls, the under-age daughter of a recent Miss Venezuela, is sure to present a severe test of will as she flings her sequined robe into a corner and jumps into my lap. I’ll have to push her naked little ass away or be arrested by the state, then bankrupted by the courts and crooked lawyers. So far today I’ve been lucky. The only visitors have been a UPS driver and a propane salesman. You think I’m delusional? Hell no, the state is busily engaged in destroying people every day. It’s big business. If the state’s transgressions with gambling are any indicator, it’s only a matter of months before the prostitute sting hits every household.
Posted by: The Editors Family unfriendlyA neighborhood without kids isn't normal.October 1st, 2011 BY GREG ROBERTS
Posted by: The Editors Eighth Anniversary IssueWe are the Franklin Party of 1847.January 1st, 2011 BY GREG ROBERTS These past eight years have seen an enormous effort from the human work force. Billions of people toiled like termites in a million strange tasks from tapping rubber to launching satellites and designing dildoes.
Posted by: The Editors A decent manBetrayal in WisconsinJuly 1st, 2010 BY GREG ROBERTS I like reading books that no one has heard of. The 1950 memoirs of Valentin R. Garfias, Garf From Mexico, was limited to 2,000 copies, one of which was discarded by Cal State University, Hayward, ending up at the Salvation Army store. An excellent read — and if you do read it, you are in the dozens, like Spix macaws.
Is it an important work? Very important. Obscurity means nothing. Mozart’s Sinfonia Concertante in E-flat languished for more than a century before it was rediscovered. And what about Moby-Dick? So there. Isaac Stephenson’s remarkable life conveys a clear message to us: people living in the mid-1800s were amazingly resourceful, resilient, and self-reliant, and we need to be more like them. We are malnourished slugs, slaves to larger machines, and mentally torpid as well, the light bulb in our brain flickering like a feeble firefly.
Posted by: The Editors Slave children at dawnIf you're Superman, you just might make the minimum wage.May 1st, 2007 BY GREG ROBERTS Thank you, Mr. Dickens, for having alerted us to the appalling scourge of child labor. Your good work helped end the abomination of children picking rags and bones from the banks of the Thames, or walking the filthy streets with a bucket, collecting feces for the tanneries. What’s that, I spoke too soon? You say the slavery continues? Quite so, governor —thousands of children are slouching through the snow and rain, hard-pressed and sleep-deprived, scrounging for coolie wages. They are newsboys. They ride their bicycles through the dark streets at four a.m., when the methamphetamine addict is still tacking out at 3,000 rpms, when the angry drunk is pulling the tab on his fourteenth beer, when vicious dogs are at the peak of paranoia.
Posted by: The Editors |
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