Boob Friday Halloween Special Haiku Contest
Get published instantly at HTMLGIANT. In the comment section, contribute a haiku. Guidelines: it must involve halloween and boobs, and conform to 5-7-5 syllable count, to deter you asswipes from ‘going off.’
For example(s):
i suck, and i wish
i sucked more often–that is
tits painted orange
—
every woman has
two soft moons under her shirt
me: pagan spaceboy
Note, no doing this: ( . ) ( . )
I will judge the comment haikus. Winner will receive ‘hidden’ url link, specially designed for them, to my website that he/she can link to.
Uncategorized / 81 Comments
October 31st, 2008 / 2:25 pm
October 31st, 2008 / 2:25 pm
Thus spoke Pink, a review
When first encountering Sam Pink’s writing, one may be tempted to dismiss it, as I did, as adolescent misanthropy seasoned with Asperger’s syndrome. It’s hard to get past the graphic violence and misogyny. Though, if there is such a thing as an open mind, on a good day I think I have one, so I asked Sam to send me Yum Yum I Can’t Wait to Die, which he did.
I was immediately struck by how such dense ideas could be evoked/initiated by such simple and direct language. His writing is quite philosophical, yet not in some alienating solipsist way. I found myself re-reading sentences, trying to get my head around certain turns of phrases or concepts. He has a riddle-like way of saying things. Around the seventh page, I said to myself, “This is guy is fucking Nietzsche.” Both of them are able to get to truth while sounding like an asshole.
Yum Yum I Can’t Wait to Die is comprised of little aphorisms and modern pedestrian allegories, of a guy who is, well, completely fucked in the head. This may not be the most original motif, but Pink is less interested in his narrator, and more so on ideas. It’s a mixed bag of philosophy, hilarity, and rare moments of genuine sadness—made striking by Pink’s unlikely empathy. He speaks of a timeless omnipresent wind outlasting all of us; his dog protecting unbaptized babies in purgatory; leaves and twigs distorting the surface of a puddle, spraying the moon with blood, and so on. Each part is a violent haiku. And there are moments of stunning loneliness, marked by self-effacing irony:
Today a telemarketer called and I said, “Please don’t hang up on me. Please.”
Of course, before we start thinking this guy is Basho or Issa, he offers this:
I want to blow my head off with a shotgun, into the open birth canal of whatever pop star is currently cool, so she has to menstruate my splattered skull and brains.
Such hyperbolic violence is either rhetorical device, or Pink is truly a little insane. I doubt Sam Pink is actually his name. I imagine a guy whose snorted his own semen for material (pun intended). The object of his ‘ambivalent’ (to put it lightly) affection is an unnamed and vaguely implied girl, and one forgets the philosophy and realizes that this is just some lonely loser. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to jump into the narrator’s shoes. We’ve all been lonely, some of us still are. Pink’s words have a way to jumping inside you and moving organs around. To read him is to see things from a new inverted angle. He says, in my favorite line:
And when your mind is a field your tongue is a cloud.
Now my thoughts grow up-side-down towards a voiceless mouth. Thank you Sam Pink, you sick fuck.
Titular: Collaboratives Project
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS
Titular has begun a new project called ‘Collaboratives.’ From their website:
Our Collaboratives project publishes work from multiple writers in a conceptually cohesive manner. Each project will be published, and updated, as pieces are accepted. Writers may or may not wish to employ the exquisite corpse tactic by referencing the ‘start/end-points’ of preceeding/subsequent stories. Each piece should be between 100 – 400 words. In the subject heading of the submission, just write ‘collaboratives.’
Current Projects (and call for submissions):
I. IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME [Titles of pieces]: Swann’s Way, Within a Budding Grove, The Guermantes Way, Sodom and Gomorrah, The Captive, The Fugitive, and Time Regained.
II. NINE STORIES [Titles of pieces]: A Perfect Day for Bananafish, Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut, Just Before the War with the Eskimos, The Laughing Man, Down at the Dinghy, For Esme – with Love and Squalor, Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes, De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period, and Teddy.
III. SEINFELD [Titles of pieces]: Jerry, George, Elaine, Kramer, and Hello Newman.
IV. THE PASSION OF MEL GIBSON [Titles of pieces]: Mad Max, Lethal Weapon, Tequila Sunrise, Hamlet, Bird on a Wire, Braveheart, What Women Want, Chicken Run, Signs, The Passion of the Christ, and Apocalypto.
Let’s all submit something. I am excited, as this is exciting.
Uncategorized / 10 Comments
October 29th, 2008 / 7:39 pm
October 29th, 2008 / 7:39 pm
Mean Mondays: Trailer Trash
Movies of books have a way of retro-actively hijacking the memory, or sealed conception, of a book in one’s mind. If fiction’s merit is the ability to collaborate with the imaginations of its readers, then film productions of movies ruin it.
Though I have not seen Revolutionary Road (forthcoming, 2009), Leonardo DiCaprio will forever replace the image I had in my head of Frank Wheeler. I had imagined him as a dour-faced bearded Richard Yates type of man, and yet I will most likely see the movie—in some sick masochistic way to brine in my own indignation. I guarantee you the movie will focus on infidelity (with bonus tit scene(s) of Wheeler’s secretary/mistress), and less (if any) on what the book seemed for me to be about, namely, Frank’s irrevocable self-loathing and self-pity.
John Krasinski (of The Office fame) has written a screenplay for Brief Interviews with Hideous Men (in post-production), the late D.F. Wallace’s exploration into crass sexually-driven male vernacular, sorta like lowbrow stream o’ consciousness via a plumber or taxi driver. Here’s the catch: instead of conveying the fragmented way each ‘entry’ was written—and its existential narrative ‘incompleteness,’ Krasinski provides us a plot arc: a female graduate student, recently broken-up with her boyfriend, interviews men in order to understand their behavior. Now, I wasn’t looking for an epiphany—but Jesus—does everything have to be about a man/woman?
In porn, there are many categories: man/woman; man/man; woman/woman; woman/horse; woman/dog; man/car exhaust pipe; cartoon character/‘furry’; etc. (for the records, I only enjoy the first category). The film industry would do good to learn from porn. Don’t worry about love, just try to make it interesting, even if it involves a gallon of horse emission.
There ought to be a White List of books that it is illegal to adapt into film, because I’m so afraid one day I’m going to see Holden Caulfield on the big screen, hanging out with his girlfriend in Central Park.
N, the literary coefficient
Okay, this is complicated: ADD is Attention Deficit Disorder, and the acronym spells ‘add,’ and so, people with ADD are to do two things: 1) read the name of the following journals all the way through by 2) adding the letters following the addition sign. You may ask, ‘what is the point of this shit?’ to which I reply, ‘fuck off, I’m a contributing writer.’
I don’t no much about this journal, though they seem somewhat negative. I can imagine their rejection letter: No
From our very own M. Young and R. Call, this is a beautifully designed journal featuring the hard hitters of online lit today (R. Lopez, T. Lin, B. Butler, K. Spitzer, N. Cicero, C. Smith, et al). The Germanic umlaut is Mike’s way of saying ‘I’m am the fuhrer.’ The black and white logo reminds me of a cow. Noo Moo.
At 12PM sharp everyday, Diane Williams orders a latte and biscotti and sits down at a café and opens submissions. She has an engraved letter opener which reads “e-mail is for a-hole.” Once, she came across my submission and used it for a napkin. ‘Kiss me,’ my story said, and was ignored.
There’s something about being really smart and living in NYC that makes people who are either not as smart or not living in NYC feel like shit. Every time I see the photo of the editors in their apartment/office, burdened by the implications of their formidable ideas, I feel obsolete, pathetic, and stupid (I will admit, alot of that is my father’s fault). If you look closely at the clock, you’ll notice it’s 12:30PM, half an hour behind Ms. Williams. She downed the biscotti and is off to zen camp. ‘Kiss me’, I said to those guys, and they said, ‘the comma goes inside the quotation mark.’ Choads!
Uncategorized / 22 Comments
October 24th, 2008 / 1:34 pm
October 24th, 2008 / 1:34 pm
The seven credos
Ben Marcus guest edits the oct/nov fiction for GUERNICA, asking the seven writers to offer a one sentence credo:
1. I believe that writing is the highest resolution medium.
2. I struggle with the difference between what I pledge to myself and what I do finally; or, what I sometimes call my falseness; but when I say after all I’m not being false for wanting to be a certain way, that I just have high goals, I will have to agree that no one else around is false either and say for myself that I have the perpetual condition of falling short.
3. I endeavor, word by word, sentence by sentence, to write myself an adult-sized, customized uterus in which I and invited guests may duck, buck, and float.
4. (I write because) I am interested in dark and stormy nights, syntax and moments of delicate, major humiliation.
5. I ogle, grope, and weep; always in that order.
6. I don’t trust fiction with no sense of humor and I know I’m writing it when everything adds just so; I know I’m closer when I’m left holding extra parts—parts I know I need even though the thing runs fine without them.
7. I will be a lion for my own cause.
These are unattributed, and skimming to the list before reading Marcus’ intro, I assumed all 7 were his (made more convincingly by No. 3’s “customized uterus,” which shares Marcus’ dry and somewhat grotesque symbolic tendencies). I’m usually annoyed by manifesto-ish stuff, but this seems earnest enough. I really like how unabashed No. 7 is.
Here’s my credo: Everyone has a story, so put it down.
Okay, time to start printing out those long-ass stories. Geez, writers really have a lot of time on their hands. Good job Ben.
Uncategorized / 8 Comments
October 22nd, 2008 / 3:33 pm
October 22nd, 2008 / 3:33 pm
elimae’s tits
Without Google, it would be impossible to bring Boob Friday and Indie Lit—two rather arbitrary associations—together, which is what I’ve done.
If one were to google “tits elimae,” one would find this and this. (Incidentally, Blake’s blog is the third domain result.)
This first one, Untitled by Aaron Winslow, concerns saying pick-up lines under the influence. It’s a gem: funny, unexpected, and a little sad:
last nite i had a dream that i was all liquored up and i was walking around this bar saying things to women like, “is your father a thief? ‘cuz i’d like to jizz all over your tits.” and “do you wash your clothes in windex? ‘cuz i want to put my thumb up your ass.” and then i would laugh and laugh. and the best part was that the ladies thought it was funny too. those are the only two that i remember, but i think i said a bunch of them.
The second one, Military Courtesan by Mark Yakich, is a strange poem I do not understand. I only know it fills me up with experiences that feel lived, which is why I think I read:
In the world of small arms,
She offers a pair of tits. And you
Put them on like epaulets.She offers milk with vodka.
She offers you Eve without
Ivy, and a red in tender
That doesn’t mean raw.
I chose elimae for two reasons: 1) they are one of my favorite journals, and 2) I knew the pieces wouldn’t be too long.
Speaking of things not being too long, everyday is Dick Friday for me.
Uncategorized / 2 Comments
October 17th, 2008 / 5:33 pm
October 17th, 2008 / 5:33 pm
Inspiring Non-Erotic Tits
Um…isn’t it Boobs Friday? Come on people…
As part of Boobs Friday, I thought I might offer a different way to approach my favorite two palindromes: tit and boob. Gentlemen, remove your pacifiers from your mouths and put it somewhere else where it will fit. As for the ladies, I say this: What’s up bra? (Yah Blake, another pun.)
1. Yanni & Hootie and the Blowfish CDs
If there’s one thing less erotic than Yanni, it’s Hootie and the Blowfish. As a general rule, white and black people should not make music together. Often, the result is gray barf. Add to that Kenny G and I’m off to a gelding colony.
2. Venn Diagram
So like, Table A and Table B intersect, forming all hypothetically possible logical relations between a finite collection of sets or mutual population we shall refer to as cut off my balls right now I never want to jizz again.
3. Parasitic Fish Eyes
The sexiest a fish has even gotten for me was sushi, and that’s just because it felt like cunnilingus. She turned Japanese I really think so. As for glaucoma fins over here: love is blind, and so is that fish.
4. Jack Nicholson’s Manboobs
All play and no work makes Jack a fat man.
5. Colliding Planets
There’s a part of me that wishes this would happen to us, if anything, so that Sarah Palin would die. I’d cream my pants over that.
Uncategorized / 48 Comments
October 17th, 2008 / 1:00 pm
October 17th, 2008 / 1:00 pm
Fiction Workshops Examined
I don’t know what the secret of success is for writers, but I doubt it has anything to do with writing workshops. To be blunt (and it is Mean Week), it seems like you’re just paying strangers to take mild interest in your work. This might even be the case with an MFA in writing—who knows; I work full-time at an office and publish mere ‘flash’ online, so that tells you how much I know.
I google imaged “fiction workshop” and have written about some photos I’ve found.
I. NOT ENOUGH CHAIRS
Maybe they’re gearing us up for a life of the ‘starving artist,’ or maybe it’s some Hindu thing. All I know is, any more pressure on that women’s coccyx and she’s gonna accidentally CTRL-A and hit backspace. There goes two weeks of writing lady. Life is unfair, you should hit the save button more often.
II. IN A HURRY TO LEAVE
The guy’s already zipped up this bag. Shawl women in the middle is looking at for the nearest fire escape. Ms. Happy on the right can’t believe it’s already :57. They are thinking “I’m down 300 dollars and my ego is still a wet fish flopping over the barren plateau of my non-existent career.” Either that, or we got some major bladder issues.
III. UNHAPPY BLACK PEOPLE
If art is indeed a microcosm of society, then, as usual, the black people are pissed—and for good reason. I imagine they just got through reading five stories about boyfriends and living in apartments and trouble with granny or a weekend in Cape Cod that turned out colder than one thought. Tiesha (let’s call her that) works two jobs at KFC and Carl’s Jr., and she’s not in the fucking mood to hear white bitches moan about a blowjob gone bad.
IV. JUDGMENTAL BODY LANGUAGE
If you are a writer, deep down inside you think this: “My stories are better than this asswhipe over here. What kind of self-involved baby writes in the first-person anyways?” Graciousness is a myth; we are all resentful at attention directed at someone else; like every time Blake gets into another journal (which is every other day), I say ‘fuck him, I hope he cuts his cornea with the table of contents.’
V. WOMAN LIKE TO BE OUTSIDE
I’m not one for creating gender stereotypes, but seriously, women think fiction is better outside for some reason. It must have been E.M. Forster’s A Passage to India that started this fascination with abandoning one’s domestic prison and going outside into the sand swept wind. Of course, take away their sunglasses, suntan lotion, sunhats, and folding chairs and they’d be fucked. They’d come back into the foyer looking like Bukowski’s nose, or worse, Joan Didion’s face. (Be nice now, it’s mean week.)
Boys and Men
Love in the time of wordpress
Entropy may not be the perfect word, but it does come to mind. Just go to any Youtube video and read the comments—the ‘natural corrosion’ from discourse to insult to empty violence. Despite names or aliases, the overall anonymity of the internet enables such proclamations as ‘go fuck your mother’ or ‘n*gger, etc.’ as surely one would remain reticent in person, for fear of a face bashing.
It may have been Mean Week that initiated the male adolescent rhetoric in the comment sections, though I fear I’ve encountered this before. There must be something about being a literary man with a college (or higher) education and a WiFi connection that makes him want to say “go fist-fuck yourself” or “i am kevin sampsell’s penis.” Maybe it’s one too many rejection letters, or a plot arc that simply snapped. As for Kevin Sampsell’s penis, I gather it’s in Garamond 10pt. small caps.
Perhaps it is male bonding, or ironic derision as a form of peer respect, that causes such obsession with: a) penises and/or cocks b) said penises and/or cocks with the same girth as Barry Graham’s head, c) fists as a phallic enterprise, d) the lack of having a penis, e) chopping off heads, f) blood resulting from the chopping off of heads, or penises, or severe fisting, g) bags containing feces, h) the introduction of staples as a means to secure dismembered body parts, and i) ad infin.
Only Gene Morgan, however angry and mean, is able to refrain from such homoerotic inclinations; rather, his mention of blood (“Be sure to bring a towel to sop your blood up off of my front lawn.”) and violence is of a more current-day protestant and territorial nature. He is not interested cock. He just wants to impose severe head trauma on you (outside on his lawn, away from his child).
We can all learn from Gene. In the future, keep your violence inside of your pants.
Oh, and my address is: 69 Gofuckyourself Dr.
October 14th, 2008 / 1:33 pm