Meanwhile, parked in an elderly Buick, an editor in a well-cut suit handed a sheaf of manuscript to his passenger, an emaciated literary type in an old military overcoat and a greasy cloth cap pulled low.
"But Mr. Veblen,"stammered the poet(for the passenger was a member of that underpaid ilk,), "what's wrong with my stuff?"
"It reads like half-baked Bukowski, sauteed Brautigan, and parboiled Edna St. Vincent Millay," the smaller man snarled. "The kids won't touch it.You need music!Tunes! Acoustic-electric ersatz-authenticity, with sensitivity and singers with piercings!Amps!"
"Like fuzz-tones? Wah-wahs?" hazarded the bard, trying to get with things. "Ya thirty years behind the times, there, Woodstock," snarled the money man, "Get out of the car."