So Bad, He Has His Own Category of Badness

Yes, joining the illustrious ranks of Lauren Slater and Jayson Blair, Stanley Crouch has become one of Beatrice's "bad, bad writers." Because I can do things like that. As debate continues in the comments section, where we may have the first African-American critic willing to go on record concerning Crouch's fundamental badness not just in this affair but as a writer period, Tom Scocca perpetuates the news cycle in the New York Observer with an "Off the Record" column that gives Crouch yet another opportunity to crow about his exploits. Noting that Crouch gets a free pass for slapping a guy while Ian Spiegelman got canned from the Post for talking trash, Scocca concludes: "It’s not acceptable to threaten somebody with violence. Just skip ahead to the violence!"

"Frankly," Mr. Crouch declared, "I think that whatever misbehavior—large or small, in the great past or the recent past of my life—I don’t think that’s going to stand up next to my writing."

Of course, the editors of Jazz Times, among many others forced to read Crouch's prose over the years, might not agree. But it's a bold attempt to claim absolution for oneself nonetheless.