Tuesday, December 30, 2008 2 comments

The Ballad of Weezy Salah

by Lusy Dupree

The perils of the internet do not cease during the Holidays, of course. The ruses just get more focused.

Most are familiar with the traditional e-mail scam: an unsolicited message is received from an unknown person in a foreign land requesting financial assistance with the promise of a large financial reward. Following the instructions, victims of the so-called "Advance-fee fraud" (aka the Nigerian E-mail scheme) send money overseas with little hope of seing any return.

According to legend, the e-mail scheme business is a major industry in Lagos, where internet cafes cater to scammers working on prying the cash out from overseas. The ideas of the scams have been numerous, if not silly, at times using false airline tickets, diplomas, and even the forged signature of the Nigerian president.

Evidently, as we at the New Madrid discovered, the scam artists began targeting Christmas Tree vendors during these holidays. One of our contributors - who at times has operated a Christmas Tree farm (really) - received a slew of grammatically-flawed sales inquiries at his business address from a number of email addresses, each asking for an order of trees to be sent overseas.

The scam comes in when the "purchaser" demands a certain shipping agent (of course, a fake one) be used and paid in advance by the tree vendor, as we discovered in the following correspondence.

In this case, however, something beautiful blossomed from our correspondence with the scammers: true love, the ultimate Christmas gift.

Please enjoy the following exchanges. We responded in turn as an "independent Christmas Tree consultant" for the below correspondence. It is long in length, but a quick read that is entirely worth your time.

The correspondence from the scammers is entirely unedited.

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Tuesday, November 11, 2008 1 comments

The Ecstasy of James Dickey

by Donn Cooper

His intimates and apologists liked to talk about the real James Dickey–fortunate son of Buckhead, mollycoddled introvert, intuitive teacher, and sensitive genius. Most people, instead, witnessed the evil doppelganger Jimbo. A creature of carnal appetites disproportionate even to his 6'3" frame, he reveled in shock and scandal, in sauntering over to the dean’s wife and asserting his droit d’ ecrivian right to a quickie. As a character Jimbo had limited range, lettered redneck or great, countrified Id. For both sexes the latter was a harrowing encounter on the reading circuit, a drawling and crapulent incubus that, outside of groupie meets fish, could put Led Zeppelin to shame.


Jimbo’s supersized persona compensated for James’s self-consciousness and public discomfort. Dickey submerged what he felt were connotations of effeminacy inherent to being a poet by playing a distorted imago of his father, a modernized Rooney Lee, new and improved with co-eds and amphetamines. His bombast and manufactured egotism grew out of another professional insecurity as well. Being an unacknowledged legislator of the world was hardly reward for an American poet in the second half of the twentieth century. Shelley’s term “unacknowledged” didn’t sit well, especially in America, especially where fame means success. Through his boorish antics Dickey, in part, was trying to cement his spot on Mount Parnassus, albeit per the ignominious route of celebrity.

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The Image of the South

by Donn Cooper

Cataloguing has become a fool’s errand. It’s a parlor game played by Elizabethan relics, workaday ironists, and other lovers of futility. Definition has become absurd, even regarding the sexes. The canon and its kind are defunct, undermined by rhizomes of minority literatures and performativity theories. Earnest litanies are the exclusive trade of academics, obscurantists, and human dynamos–folks like Harold Bloom whose dryness, oddness, and mind-numbing productiveness help deflect insult. Make a list; suffer the stings and arrows of cavilers and anarchists. Invite impolite accusations of defective methodologies and criteria. With your inadvertent omissions provoke an infinite comment loop, generating compulsive and riotous list-making that underscores the inherent impossibility of making lists.

Southern film’s primum mobile index is Larry Langman and David Ebner’s Hollyood’s Image of the South: A Century of Southern Films, published in 2001. Given the difficulty of the matter, the compilers’ measuring stick for Southernness is sound enough: “When we categorize a film as a ‘southern,’ we mean to say that it has passed the ‘Confederate test.’ The action either takes place at any time in one of the states that composed the Confederacy or else it takes place during the Civil War in some other state but Southern troops are involved.” Langman and Ebner, unfortunately, ought to apply their standard a tad more rigorously.

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Sunday, September 28, 2008 1 comments

You Must, Must Control the Rock



sarah barracuda


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