My Dearest Mr. Tarantino,
I know you didn’t mean to hand a pound of problems in a half pound sack to your beloved pallys. Many of us who are cut from the same cloth you are. Those of us who, regardless of age and background have managed to soak in all that permeates the culture. All manner of odd influences, all manner of disturbances both pure and foul. To inhale the social, political, artistic, and commercial scenes that play around us in a Jackson Pollock technicolor video of a off-key jazz combo that only plays backwards and only riffs on songs of the Dust Bowl. I KNOW you love us and did not want to put us in this position.
But this world, my sweet pally, is full of cats who don’t know anything except what happened to them in the last 12 minutes. Who somehow have sleepwalked through this big complex, ever moving, ever changing world and not seen a thing. It is said that you do not step into the same river twice. But these people are still in the parking lot fucking around with their trunks, nowhere near the river.
In short, you made Charles Manson, a feared and wretched creature of the past half century, a central figure of a film. And these youths did not know who he was and you made us all look like assholes going, “YOU DON’T KNOW WHO CHARLES MANSON IS? HOW THE HELL CAN YOU NOT KNOW? ONE OF THE GREAT PSYCHOPATHS OF ALL TIME! A GODDAMNED LEGEND IN THE FIELD OF BAD PEOPLE DOING BAD THINGS! GET OFF MY LAWN AND READ A BOOK ONCE IN AWHILE!”
There is no way to share the knowledge of Charles Manson without sounding like a fan. So….thanks for that, pally. For this reason, I’ll never watch Inglorious Basterds in the presence of anyone. I just … don’t even want to think about it.
See Ya Around the Block,
P.S. I know I should have done this a couple years ago, but I had a newsletter to get out. “Fabulous Fiends of Filmland”