Mike Sorrentino

Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino calls himself “The Situation” because his abdominal muscles, per his perception of them, are so extreme in their contour and firmness, that it has become, well, a situation. To refer to oneself in not just the third-person, but as an incident, is freaking awesome. I was immediately drawn to Mike very early on in the show because of his difficulty with women. Despite the hot tubs, Korbel, body lotion, and other courting paraphernalia, he never quite scored. Here, a neurotic man under a sheath of muscle. In the season finale, he makes out with roommate Snooki — a sad letdown to a season full of potential snatch, in which two scratched hearts (he was quickly rejected by Sammi after a brief window of interest) mend each other with the wet gauze of tongues. I was actually subdued by their awkward, tentative compassion, as it was very sad.

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Q: Bob, what about the situation of American poets. Kenneth Rexroth has estimated that since 1900 about 30 American poets have committed suicide.
A: Thirty poets! What about American housewives, mailmen, street cleaners, miners? Jesus Christ, what’s so special about 30 people that are called poets? I’ve known some very good people that have committed suicide. One didn’t do nothing but work in a gas station all his life. Nobody referred to him as a poet, but if you’re gonna call people like Robert Frost a poet, then I got to say this gas station boy was a poet too.

And it isn’t even MEAN WEEK at the Rumpus! Click through anywhere to read the whole sick amazing thing.

The Rumpus received a press release for a new book today, along with a kind personal note. Unfortunately, we can’t cover every book that gets released. But since a lot of people who read this site have blogs of their own we thought we would share this press release with you. Feel free to contact the publicist directly.

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Hi Stephen,

I came across your website and have a story idea that is appropriate for your readers. We have several options of how we can provide content for your site, too (see below).

TOPIC: Pets bring us joy and companionship. However, as with all living things, there comes a time when we have to say goodbye to our furry friends. Have you ever wondered where your pet goes after it passes from this place? Animal lover and rescuer Susi Pittman, who is often referred to as “Susi of Assisi,” explores this question in her new book, Animals in Heaven? Catholics Want to Know!

via the Huffington Post:

Cameron lays out a plan to subvert ‘Darwin Day’ on November 22, 2009 — a date marking the 150th anniversary of the publishing of Charles Darwin’s “Origin of Species.” Cameron says that he and like-minded activists plan to deliver 50,000 copies of an altered version of Darwin’s book to students at dozens of U.S. universities.

Cameron explains that this “very special” edition of the “Origin of Species” will include an introduction explaining “Adolf Hitler’s undeniable connection” to the theory of evolution, and highlighting “Darwin’s racism” and “his disdain for women.”

“Who isn’t gonna take it and say, ‘Thank you very much!’?”

I don’t know about you, but I kinda want one. Talk about new text…

Let's just be friends, okay?

She lifted an eyebrow. “You want a truce, do you?”

“Yes, most particularly in the bedroom.” His fingers inched toward the small of her back, pausing to draw clever little circles over a spot where she was extremely sensitive.

Damn him for knowing about that spot, she thought as she arched involuntarily beneath his touch. Her heart hammered, telltale moisture gathering between her thighs.

“It’s not as if we’d be breaking any rules,” he pointed out with husky persuasion. “Quite the contrary, in fact, since our union is sanctioned by the laws of both God and man. So why deny ourselves? Why not enjoy what pleasure we can find?”…

In a devastating move, he stroked his hand over her naked bottom., then slid a pair of fingers deep into her aching core. Her spine arched, instant bliss flooding her system.…

And he was right, she did love it. And she would be devastated if he stopped. But he had to know that already, since her body was quite literally weeping from the ecstacy he’d given her, and was giving her still.

The good people over at Jezebel are asking “Why Don’t Women Watch More Porn?” The Jez post is actually a response to / analysis of this piece by Violet Blue, “Are more women OK with watching porn?” which was published in O the Oprah Magazine and for some reason is online at…CNN? Okay, sure. But I thought the fun really started in the Jezebel comments thread, especially after Lux Alptraum from Jez’s quasi-disowned sister-site Fleshbot showed up and offered to help the group out with recommendations of more palatable porn. Also, reading this post taught me a new word–kyriarchy. It’s one of those great crit-theory words that perfectly describe a really-existing situation, and yet you just know that if anyone ever used it earnestly in your presence, you’d bolt. Oh well. Still a cool word.

Oh also, since I forgot to give it its own post when it came out the other day, there’s also a new installment of Susie Bright and her daughter Aretha doing tag-team sex Q&A, which both is and is not what it sounds like.

Susie Bright was plugging this on her facebook yesterday, and it popped up in the feed on my page, and it seemed pretty neat. This is all NSFW, so caveat whatever. …

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I met this girl and I sort of liked her and she liked books and stories and I sort of knew how to write stories and I wrote little stories for her and she said hey these are pretty good, you should try maybe to write them longer and be a little more serious about it and I liked her so I decided I would go ahead and do that. Then unpleasant stuff happened.

I wrote this story for her and put it on my blog.

(That whole thing is a link.)

06.07.2009 THE SUSAN G. KOMEN RACE FOR THE CURE.

(That’s another one.)

In the early nineties Bono said “We thought we were a punk band, for about 2 seconds”  (paraphrase) and I’ve hated U2 since. (Actually, I didn’t like them before that either, even though I can be TYPICAL and say Boy was a pretty good record.) I felt alienated; they were suggesting that “yeah, we liked what is important to you, we got it and everything, but we’ve moved on and look at us now. Now we’re cool.”

So it isn’t like that when I say I was a feminist for two seconds. I didn’t get it, and I still want to be one. I wish I was a feminist more than anything. I did a semester in grad school for theology because I think feminist theology is maybe second only to queer theology in terms of, you know, solving all of life’s problems. My tongue is set firmly on the bottom of my mouth here.

But my tenure as a feminist was stalled after reading Luce Irigaray and learning that cutting the umbilical cord gives a child its primary name, namely the navel, a sufficient identifier, READ MORE >

Yes. I speak of March Madness, which started about twenty minutes ago. Take a break from all the hand-wringing, keyboard headbutting and stylistic nose-picking. It’s a yearly dose of last-minute heroics and jingoistic chaos that is otherwise missing from our collective Calvinist nightmare, and I for one plan on ignoring work to ride the Golden Gopher.

And just to make this a book post, check out this recent reissued gem. It’s about the 1979 Portland Trailblazers, and it will gut punch your life. Also: I heard Blake can dunk.

See, guys? Narrative magazine isn’t a scam. THIS IS A SCAM.

Earlier, I posted about Michael J. Duckett, the self-help predator who sent me an unsolicited email promising me he could teach me to SELL A MILLION COPIES OF MY BOOK if I only go to his weekend seminar (Regular price $999, but with the “scholarship” he was offering, only a measly $299.) I wrote back with the following reasonable query: “Where did you get my email address?” I didn’t get an answer, but today Michael J. Duckett sent me a new solicitation:

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Writing is nothing more than a guided dream.

Borges said that. I would say that Fabiana is a dream. I go now to watch her boyfriend play tennis, or at least some of her other compatriots. Happy Boobs Friday, people.

This man does not write poetry, but he does play tennis. I think about him a great deal, usually when I am naked.

It’s warm and sunny here in New York and the days are getting longer. I know, it’s only February. I know that the wind is causing all sorts of tragedy. But it IS boobs/chesticles friday. (I think I am the only one not ready to give up boobs/chesticles friday.)  And it has been positively Spring-like here. Time to make babies! I want to make babies with this man to our left. And speaking of baby making, Robert Frost wrote this wonderfully raw poem about Spring-time lust and fecundity:

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profile picture without evidence of flash that you took this yourself

and I saw the best minds of my generation
living in lofts
thinking they were the best minds of their generation
while the world hacked up tax breaks and jet fighters

-Death Lasts
Shake
by Joshua Beckman

Joshua Beckman has a wikipedia page.
Joshua Beckman has a page on poets.org.

Joshua Beckman is a great mind and a great poet. As early as 2004 you could google his name and ‘rock star poet’ would surface as a result.

Over the past ten years he’s published six books of poetry. His seventh, “Take It” is due sometime this year from Wave Books.

The first thing I read by him was his tiny, tiny book (amazon cites it at 6.1 x 4 x 0.5 inches and 3.8 ounces, I would say it is the size of about half a sandwich) “Your Time Has Come” put out by Verse Press.

This holiday season I Secret Santa’d myself and picked up “Shake” and “Something I Expected to Be Different.”

Start your New Year right and pledge to read a poem a day until you’ve mowed down his entire collection of works.

for Barry

 
The Nude Swim
by Anne Sexton

On the southwest side of Capri
we found a little unknown grotto
where no people were and we
entered it completely
and let our bodies lose all
their loneliness.

All the fish in us
had escaped for a minute.
The real fish did not mind.
We did not disturb their personal life.
We calmly trailed over them
and under them, shedding
air bubbles, little white
balloons that drifted up
into the sun by the boat
where the Italian boatman slept
with his hat over his face.

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Hey Cutie!

Nerve is coming out with a best of the first ten years book, called Nerve: The First Ten Years. Vote for your favorite stories (and photographs) and make a writer happy. Also, I ate a very greasy re-heated grilled cheese sandwich and my stomach sort of hurts, (I’ve had a mild hangover  today, too.) And for some wierd reason, looking at this photograph  makes my stomach hurt a little bit more (but also makes me feel celebratory in the magic that is the internet sort of way). Someone post more stuff -quick! Oh wait! It’s Friday! You’all are out.

Wait! A Haiku contest- the best haiku about this picture gets a package of indie press books from me!  Bring it on.

let’s be breast friends forever.

This is my friend Wen.  He owns a print business.  He makes some sweet shirts.  I tricked Wen and took this picture of his boob.

This is not juvenile.  This is fun.