You won’t get answers about the end. You won’t even get answers about the beginning. But there was a punk writer movement in Philadelphia. They defeated the Pagans and ruled South Street. They moved invisibly through the city, on motorcycles that could not be heard. They wrote their own Bible, about the elders who had corrupted and fouled their education. They rewrote writing. And then they disappeared into quantum unreality. Don’t tell Facebook there’s a Kindle book. They will punish.
Here are the first two paragraphs of a book that’s got no (well, some) writing in it but mostly an exhaustive criticism of 20th century writing. Who wants to hear that? You maybe. A complete demolition of 20th century fiction writing? Horrors:
The package was wrapped in old burlap and smelled of rotten hay. It was tied up with four knotted-together railroad bandannas that disintegrated under my fingertips when I tried to loosen them. The fabric that had been crumpled inside the faded brown knots still glowed red, like artificially preserved flowers. And inside the burlap bag was the object I had spent almost almost three years looking for — not one but two manuscripts of the fabled Boomer Bible. At times over the many months of my search, I had almost given up hope of ever finding it, and even when I held it in my hands, I almost couldn’t believe it really did exist.
That day, I promised myself I would see it published, even if I never made a nickel out of it, because here was proof that the punks of Punk City had done what the stories said they had. It was all true. A bunch of born losers had tried to write it all down they way they saw it and heard it from the Baby Boomers.
And then the story began. Shammadamma.