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rick moody's "why the talking heads matter" essay is one big unreadable run-on sentence. an excerpt: "it's the 70s—new year's eve 1978—and we're making for the show at the beacon, there's a bunch of us, dressed like we don't know how to tuck anything in, and no one has slept with anyone else yet, because we aren't smart enough to do that, we don't even know if we have endocrines yet, doesn't matter..." i'm not going to finish the sentence because i'm not sure there's enough space on the internet to continue to the end.
- elizabeth spiers, "rick moody is the worst music reviewer of his generation," the kicker december 4, 2003
posted December 08, 2003 in crap, music, print. 20042002