All Hail Peter Schjeldahl!: in his latest bold pronunciation of life influencing the outputs of a writer.

My doctrine is wrong. Petey S. in the New Yorker has corrected the outlook of life upon art and we are none the better for it. Lately I’ve been getting my messages mixed from academe and the print media. I was impressed upon that life had no bearing upon art, and then this article schleps into my view. What a world. :(


I will not even get into my hilarious, cushing view on the ‘work and life’ of this overly compensated deadbeat ‘writer’.



Evan Kerry 2014

The Atlantic Monthly gushes, as their fave show crushes.


They tell us the how and the why of the thing that is True Detective.

Ostensibly, this show on HBO is the best thing going. Now why would I dare agree with that? I don’t. To say something is the best on the telly is telling how good your favorite brand of ketchup would be to my tongue. non compos mentis

The review/advert for the show is so chock full of unrepentant enthusiasm that I would rather not watch it after reading. I’m not going to muse over the difficulties I had with the review, this quote will suffice: “But while the pairing isn’t entirely new, it is nonetheless sublime.” For when one runs out of ideas or angles or anything original you must label something SUBLIME. One must get just how sublime this showing of metaphysicality through police procedural drame is though. Only HBO, the top-tier of Television programming, apparently can muster such a review and such a fawning.

Transparent, A- for overall true to forminess

As the graffitist hones his craft, I sit back and sharpen the graft, of some lacerating mumbles, while the world around me stumbles.

As I look back at the blog I’ve been writing these past years, it has been called to my attention the harshness with which I’ve dealt certain subjects. My only plea, a protection if you will against a total misanthropy, is that what I’ve been attempting to achieve is a critical vandalism of culture akin to the scrawling on walls and freight trains so prevalent around the USA, if not the world. The abject adoption of a subject by writing on it is Graffiti’s stock and trade. But what the twit gravely sees on the wall the auteur prides, and so it is with my blooming rants and tirades against all that compends the world.

The general image of culture isn’t pure however it isn’t exactly swampy either. For someone like myself to rail against and latch on to aspects I find disagreeable isn’t exactly agreeable, but then again I don’t depend on culture for my sustenance so a unique viewpoint is the one I accept.

Evan Kerry







Pastels Crying Almost


Follow me on Instagram, if you feel so inclined:  @evan_kerry

How reviews in the current New Yorker display our acceptance yet disgust with the status quo, unremarkable proferring of the occasional best, and the communal longing for our own Golden Age

Here are the requisite links:



Inside Llewyn Davis and American Hustle are reviewed above by the New Yorker. Which if read, leads one to believe they’re being cheated by Hollywood and the New Yorker. Where is our golden age? We might shout this out and hear nothing, except this whine of a subtle notion that we are cheated by the formulaic genres now entombed on the screen for us each week. But if you consider that the Hollywood motion machine has been around a century and some change, you can then understand that this certain contemporary vibe is all a collective farce and the rule of thumb would then be: keep them happy and talking about it.

How do we move forward from this sad state of affairs? I don’t know, nor care.

Verdict: The Utmost Transparency

Evan Kerry


In which an unwritten work is mercilessly reviewed; or, what I’d like to see written and how…

In this instant classic of suspenselessness we find the villain Jan Hoovervort murdering the UN Secretary General and shooting fifteen delegates in Queens, then he makes an abortive path to Washington D.C. to tackle the sitting President with hugs and bullets. Suffice to say he does not complete his quest and he dies in the doing.

The immediate, glaring defect of this work is the fateful reconciliation to his task that Jan displays. He knows he is enforcing a coercive effect on history and he relishes the lifeless act of murder needed for completion. Yet the ease with which he flows in this mode is astounding. He relegates his life to the assassin’s creed and loves every minute of it. For he knows that murder is a simple art and if someone is to be deposed then all the easier for it. And that is the impact Jan Hoovervort gives to the world, the senseless homicide of a somewhat defenseless official. Jan mars the consciousness of this world with pure, facile evil.

The dominant strain of mur’drous writing inflicts on the reader a false suspension of disbelief. The truth is in the telling for the above mentioned faux ouvre. You would have had a difficult time with the cult classic Is Your Mind My Own?

Evan Kerry



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