Dear N.Y.T.B.R. Pt. V
The New York Times Book Review
229 West 43rd Street
New York, N.Y. 10036
April 6, 2003
All through the dark of night, I lurked by my local newsstand, half hidden by the milk crates and the Hefty bags of trash, waiting, waiting, waiting, stealthy but patient like the mighty jungle cat just so I could grab a copy of the Sunday Times in midair as it was tossed from the truck.
I checked the Book Review, before the war coverage, before the job listings.
Still, no mention of me or my book or my rap act.
At this point, it’s like an elaborate joke that has misfired; it’s no longer worth the punchline, but you guys are way too deep into the ruse to give up now. There is no fathomable reason for you to ignore a book when J. D. Salinger emerges from his Batcave just to endorse my Great American Novel. Salman Rushdie marches down the streets of Tehran waving the hardcover copy I signed for him, and you sit on your high N.Y.T.B.R. throne, laughing, ignoring. Jewel writes a whole volume of good poetry about my book, and you guys are just filling in the Daily Jumble.
I swear, N.Y.T.B.R., I’m almost ready to just stop writing.
Except for letters to you. Those I got plenty of.