Taylor Dinerman

Forty days and forty nights have passed, and still The Space Review refuses to publish my rebuttal to Taylor Dinerman's witless rant against my most recent book. Although patience is a virtue, perhaps not all things come to he who waits....

One afternoon during my current sojourn through the American Southwest, I was at a truck stop on Route 66 in the middle of New Mexico, and I became aware of a trickster playing a flute. There was also the spirit of someone who had rolled down that same road long ago. "If you can't join them, Beat them." A North Beach coffee house came to mind, but also drifting in was a four-chord Velvet voice from the Village.

Diner-man. Diner-man.
I don't know, some say that's not his real name
Diner-man, Diner-man
As a nom de plume just seems kind of lame
Diner-man, Diner-man
Maybe he was a low rent food critic
Diner-man, Diner-man
On a mission from Wantaugh to Bushwick
Diner-man, Diner-man
To write reviews of every greasy spoon
Diner-man, Diner-man
Knew every blue plate from there to the moon

Which decided him to reach for the sky
And give the far right Space Review a try

Diner-man, Diner-man
Tries to write like a libertarian
Diner-man, Diner-man
Comes off like a baby barbarian
Diner-man, Diner-man
Quick to criticize what he doesn't know
Diner-man, Diner-man
His ravings, not his reason, boldly go
Diner-man, Diner-man
English literature is not his thing
Diner-man, Diner-man
He doesn't know Coleridge from Kipling

The White Man's Burden is still on his back
Thinks knocking it is a racial attack

Diner-man, Diner-man
Though he fancies himself a journalist
Diner-man, Diner-man
You won't see him on the New York Times list
Diner-man, Diner-man
No, all he's got is a beef and a blog
Diner-man, Diner-man
But it isn't like falling off a log
Diner-man, Diner-man
It's a real tough job, yeah, and he's the man
Diner-man, Diner-man
He writes two words together when he can

Go back to the blue plate meals you once bought
Where your words might have been some food for thought