Nevertheless, even though they are desperately few and farrnbetween, there are real people and moments in the history ofrnour popular culture that are worthwhile and worthy of honor.rnFellini and his works (treated elsewhere in this issue) arernsurely among these precious few. And you will have your ownrnspecial favorites and examples, though I am willing to wagerrnthat in whatever field you choose to consider, from grandrnopera to Grand Ole Opry, the honorable few will be very few.rnAnd they will be creators and performers, not producers andrndealers.rnDear George Garrett,rnI was planning to write a letter to Christy Turiington, the supermodelrn(it’s all about models these days), and tell her myrnthrilling life story and see if I can’t, you know, like make friends.rnAnd I may even do that a little later. But right now I considerrnit my bounden duty to deal with you.rnYou certainly sound like a bitter and cynical little old man.rnJudging by this article of yours, which you in fact have notrnfinished yet, there is no real popular culture in our countryrnanymore (if there ever was any), just a whole lot of massproducedrnand -packaged junk. Trash created by trash for trashrnon all sides and at all levels. Your not-so-subtle subtext seemsrnto be that next to nothing is or can be immune from thernAIDS-like viral infection of this faux pop culture foisted on usrnby degenerate and probably subhuman criminals and blatantlyrndesigned to appeal to our most bestial and atavistic promptings.rnAm I right or am I wrong? Let your readers (if any) decidernfor themselves.rnBut before we get that far, maybe I can talk you out of publishingrnthis thing. Look, be sensible. You are no Saul Bellow orrnPhilip Roth. That’s for sure. You are not even an Updike or arnRichard Ford. In the pop culture game of the literary you arerna definite benchwarmcr. People will say, if they haven’t already,rnthat you are just sour and mean-spirited and even jealous of thernothers, writers like Jay Mclnerncy and Norman Mailer who havernearned their stars and wound stripes. They are legitimaternpublic figures. You don’t catch them saying bad things aboutrnthe state of popular culture in America. They are very carefulrnwho they criticize. And so should you be.rnBut, for the sake of argument, let’s say you really believe whatrnyou’ve been saying, which, basically, is that the worid has gonerncrazy. So? You noticed that. It has happened in the lastrndecade of every century we know anything about. Believe me,rnit won’t last long. And on the other side of the great millennialrndivide there is plenty of profit for all, if we just wait patiently forrnour turn at the trough.rnMeanwhile, watch your step. Control yourself. The greatrnthing about popular culture as it’s practiced nowadays is that itrnis altogether disposable and utterly forgettable. If you can’trnstand Eddie Murphy or Beavis and Butt-head it doesn’t matter.rnSomething else, better or worse, the same and different, will bernalong before you can say Rumpelstiltskin.rnNow I better finish this off right away. I don’t want to keeprnmy supermodel waiting.rnAll the best,rnJohn TownernP.S. You want a second opinion? You’re ugly, too.rnP.P.S. On second thought, I think I’ll write Kate Moss. Herrncockney accent is cute, and her belly button is wonderful. Irnthink I may be in love again. crnHigh Summerrnby Tom DischrnWhen the bluebells have left off bloomingrnAnd the woods are dusty and dry.rnIt’s time to go to the moviesrnAnd switch from Low Cool to Hi.rnWhen all the daffodils have witheredrnAnd the scum is thick on the shore,rnThen go where the weather caressesrnIn a large department store.rnThe season of blossoms is fleeting;rnThen comes the wearisome weeksrnWhen even the beaches are beastlyrnAnd the rusty screen door squeaks.rnAnd you sigh for those simpler summersrnWhen you stayed in the city and drankrnPerriers by a recycling fountainrnIn the plaza of Chemical Bank.rnAPRIL 1994/23rnrnrn