Just when you thought it was safe to consider reentering responsible public life, the Rynders are out in a paroxysm of auto-afflatus. In sync, perhaps, with the grinding self-annulment of a certain Party, a few people who actually think Rynd is readable are suddenly inhabiting the everysphere, and they're cockier than ever. Call it a swan song, or a paroxysm of refuge into the fantasy self - but it's there.
Battered by the unremitting implosion of their dearest-held myths (the unfailing power of "self-improvement" -- which I think means making money -- the rejection of the poor, and the general embrace for horridly leaden prose), one might have expected a little humility from this crowd.
Alas, this was not to be.
At any rate, we'd like to hear your Rynd stories. Not the roll-in-the-hay, tell-me-the-Russian-for-nipple-again kind of Greenspan personal stories, but accounts of your experiences reading Rynd, and realizing that you'd rather read the Des Moines phonebook.
So send us your stories at:
We'll be culling all submissions for the really good stuff.
And please don't hold back. Your effort shall not be wasted. We have excellent taste, so if you send us the premium scribbles, we'll put them on a plate for all to view.