TALES FROM THE BARSTOOL
By: Clint Lien

"Stephen King sucks."

That's what the guy said. "Stephen King sucks." A few of the regulars grumbled their agreement. No one was ready to drink to it, but no one disagreed - not even me.

"I mean, you name one book that guy penned worth a shit." We were in a Hollywood bar so he used the word "penned," as is required in Tinsel Town. Walter, a professional extra in his fifties, commented that he kinda liked "The Stand."

The critic snorted. According to him "The Stand" was a derivative of fifty better books before it. Walter didn't know any of the fifty books so he just shrugged and said he liked it okay anyway.

The critic turned to me. "You're a writer - tell these guys what's what with this shmuck." I shrugged, and told him I didn't mind King. The critic was disgusted with me. He announced we were all Philistines. One of the other fellows tried to end the conversation by stating that no one was saying it was high art, just something to pass the time away in an airport or a doctor's office.

"Yeah, barely," the critic agreed. "I heard he wrote all his books dead drunk. Makes sense to me." On that note the conversation was over everywhere but in my head.

"Stephen King sucks." It buzzed in my brain like a busy signal. I sat before all of them and proclaimed that I didn't mind him. Didn't mind him? Was that the truth? The truth was I own first editions of every book he's published under his real name and I'm working on the Bachman books. So to say I didn't mind King was an understatement of somewhat galactic proportions. I felt like Judas and I didn't even get the thirty pieces of silver. I was more like Peter - a pure coward.

Why didn't I stand up for him? Why did Walter have nothing more to say? I could see it in his eyes - he liked Stephen King more than he was saying but his loyalty stopped with his less than enthusiastic support for "The Stand."

A scotch and a half later and I had the answer. It made me sad. It was simple. It was Stephen King's time - his turn. He'd drawn the piece of paper with the black dot and now he must be stoned. We had put him on his pedestal and now it was time to take him down and tear him apart. He had moved out of the world of the novelist and into that place normally reserved for the biggest actors and the most successful rock stars.

It's the nature of the beast. We put them up there, call them gods, wait for them to screw up - and there's a lot of latitude when it comes to "screwing up" - then we savage them to a mushy pulp. One bad movie. One bad album. One bad "thing." That's all it takes.

Charlie Chaplin knew about it. Babe Ruth knew about it. Rob Lowe, Madonna, Burt Reynolds, and any singer who had the misfortune to record a disco album in the Seventies knows all about it. I think the only way to avoid the experience is to have the good graces to die while you're on top. The hoards were sharpening their teeth for Morrison just before he checked out. Shrewd.

It looks like Meg Ryan is next in line. Meg, if you're reading this, I suggest you fake a fatal car accident, hang out in Borneo for a few months until the blood lusty hoards have found another target, then resurface. Claim amnesia.

Just wait until Tom Cruise slips. They thought they had him with the whole Lestat kafuffle. He slipped through on that one. He won't always be so lucky. It'll end bloody for him, but there is hope. Tom can take comfort - they can all take comfort - in the fact that there are several possibilities for resurrection.

If you're an actor and you've already suffered your fate, then I suggest taking small parts in big films and putting everything you've got into them. It worked for Kevin Bacon. Working for scale seems to pacify the crowd as well. Also, Tarentino can put you in one of his films. Actually, I think he's already been sacrificed himself - but there'll be a hip new director to take his place.

If you're a singer it's harder. Short of you releasing another certified hit, there's not much else you can do. The hip young director who replaced Tarentino can put one of your old ditties in a movie or you can crash an airplane into the side of a mountain. It's rough out there. No one ever said life was gonna be fair.

So now, armed with the truth, what was I gonna do? "Hemmingway was a drunk," I said.

"What are you talking about?" asked the critic.

"You said it made sense to you that Stephen King wrote his books while he was drunk. I'm just saying Hemmingway was a drunk, so was Poe -" At this point Walter interrupts. "They were all drunks - all the great writers."

The critic found this amusing. "Are you comparing those writers to Stephen King? You gotta be kidding me." He chuckled to himself for a moment. One has to remember that when you defend the condemned you run the risk of swinging with them, but I was getting brave. The scotch was helping. "I'm just saying you can't criticize him cause he was a drunk."

> "Alright, I'll criticize him cause he's a shitty writer." The critic had now moved on to comedy.

I shook hands with Glen Fiddich one more time. "Actually, I think he's a pretty good writer. In fact I think I like most everything he's written. I'd walk tall if I was ten percent the writer he is."

That's all it took. Walter chimed in. He agreed. Within thirty seconds the gang was discussing their favorite King books the way a group talks about their favorite episodes of the Simpsons. Mr. King would not be drawn and quartered in The Coach and Horses on this night. The critic was silenced. Of course, we wouldn't be able to hold back the tide forever. Stephen will have to take his shots everywhere people gather until his next number one best seller comes out, but it doesn't mean you have to be part of it.

If you don't like an someone's work, don't lie about it, but the next time you find yourself throwing stones ask yourself if you truly believe what you're saying or are you just running with the pack.

Ask yourself - does Stephen King really suck?

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