ToBS R2: ‘everybody has a story’ vs. following several thousand people on twitter
[Matchup #37 in Tournament of Bookshit]
‘everybody has a story’
Right off I’ll bypass the obvious sphincter analogy here and instead say: I’m willing to embrace this everybody-has-a-story-notion as a hypothetical. At an abstract level, it speaks to the unlimited potential for human creativity, the idea that if we turn inward long enough and well enough we can eventually locate and activate that nascent Shakespeare hidden in all of us. Okay, pretty trippy, but sure. It all reminds me of that psychedelic scene from the gnostic gospel of St. Thomas when Jesus turns to his disciples and says: “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.” Of course it’s not the easiest of orders if what you’re attempting to bring forth is serious literature or great art. With stakes like that suddenly self-destruction seems not only possible, but plausible, maybe even inevitable. This, I suppose, is why it seems like so many of our best scribes are bad livers with bad livers. In saecula saeculorum. READ MORE >
ToBS R2: Calling yourself the editor-in-chief of an online journal vs. bowties
[Matchup #36 in Tournament of Bookshit]
I know what you’re thinking: clearly the answer is “Having an opinion about MFA rankings.”
But we have to work with what’s given us which means other possible solutions (“Garamond,” and “Fetishizing experimentation while hating on those who fetishize narrative” among them) are left unavailable as is information seemingly vital to out trial. Do these online literary journals actually have sub-editors? Are these bowties pre-tied? Is this a wedding? If the editor-and-chief marries a sub-editor does the sub-editor move up in rank? Does the rank require a uniform? Does the uniform require a bowtie?
Clearly the answer is “Writing a Story That Uses the Word Pus.” READ MORE >
ToBS R2: [yourauthorname].com vs. working at Best Buy
[Matchup #35 in Tournament of Bookshit]
adamrobinson.com redirects to some Sarasota Real Estate company. That’s stupid. adamrobinson.org is “The Truth,” a Christian dude’s fervent website. He was married in November. Congratulations to you both! adamrobinson.blogspot.combelongs to a bass player who hasn’t updated since 2004. So basically [yourauthorname.com] sucks for my fellow Adam Robinsons. Except for maybe the preacher and his Dreamweaving and his wife/husband and his devotional books which are available at bulk pricing in case you’re interested. But enough about myauthorname.com – how’re things for yours? I do appreciate being able to go to one site and seeing all of your publications listed, for when I’m bored and hiding out in the bathroom at my job working at Best Buy, crying and scrolling through your mobile site on my Samsung Vibrant S2, reading your sweet poems on the toilet with my pants up. Plus that blue shirt matches my eyes and I happen to know a lot about RAM anyway, and sound cards (SOUND CARDS!!! People upgrade your SOUND CARDS!!!), and how Dell’s GX270 desktop form factor has a known issue with the nodes leaking on the motherboard so, sorry mister, you’ll probably need to buy a whole new machine if you’re going to finish that manuscript which I hope you saved to one of our external harddrives. But in this challonge I need to hearken to the best authorname.com case study, which was aboutjatyler.com, made famous by those early Stamp Stories. I mean, damn, that’s how you get your name out there, on the backs of little slips of paper.
- – – READ MORE >
ToBS R2: the guy who goes 20 minutes over the suggested reading time vs. AWP
[Matchup #34 in Tournament of Bookshit]
To locate the source of a power that’s true and absolute, a power that comes from the center of the integrity of the essence of each contestant, one must not go through hate, but love. So hear you this, Guy Who Goes 20 Minutes Over the Suggested Reading Time—GWG20MOTSRT, if I may be so bold—you have made me love you. You’re right, for the first 50 minutes, I wasn’t really even paying attention to you or the carefully coiffured bedhead you clutched as if in pain in between poems, though I did come up with some handy new ways to discreetly check my email on my phone, and looking back now, it’s safe to say I was taking you for granted, GWG20MOTSRT, or GWG20MO, can I call you GWG20MO? But G-MO, a few moments before it’s been suggested by who knows what power (probably that guy sitting in the front row who introduced you not 57 minutes earlier) or what authority (God’s) that you step down or at least cede the floor to a Q&A, I begin, at last, to notice you. I notice your breath, the speed and cadence of your voice, the way you shift from foot to foot, with an increasing and increasingly wild alertness, as if there is some kind of pattern to be discerned there, a pattern that might gesture towards a greater, future happiness. Perhaps two swipes through that hair, now drooping despite its coif, means two more poems; perhaps when you’ve leaned on your right elbow’s jacket patch for the length of three gossamer moons and a grackle, the task of supporting of your own admirably well-kept head will become too much and you’ll be forced to shut the book—GWG20MO, I can’t take my eyes off you. It’s as if we’re the only two people in the room. You’re sweating now and I can see it and it’s so intimate. Do you give even one good God damn for me? Can you hear me shift and sigh and slouch towards you? Is this punishment for those times I very suavely deleted messages from Groupon about 25% off tanning with the heel of my boot while American starlings combed pensively those vast and lyric skies? I am rapt. I have failed to resist you. I have, so very badly, to pee. READ MORE >
ToBS R2: ‘magic realism’ vs. Alcoholism
[Matchup #33 in Tournament of Bookshit]
Gabriel Garcia Marquez dropped his iPhone on the sidewalk. A crack shot through the street sending fire hydrants blasting into the sky, splitting the 9/11 Memorial in two, setting the Wall Street Bull a-bucking after a bunch of shrieking schoolgirls in preppy outfits. No, wait. As Gabriel Garcia Marquez took an upskirt of himself on the base of the Statue of Liberty, Alcoholism stumbled over and sent his iPhone tracing a slow arc to the sea. When Marquez looked up Alcoholism held one of those Zack Morris phones to his face and said, “I’m at your house.” Gabriel paled as he reached for the phone. Alcoholism punched him in the nose with it. “Just kidding, jackass. I went to your house but you weren’t there. So I burned it down.” Gabriel held his bloody nose in both hands peering through a pair of watery almonds. “By the by, saw those penis enlargement pills in your medicine cabinet. Are those for your clit?” Before Marquez could stutter, Alcoholism reared a fist and hooked a hole through his face, which contorted into hyperbole. “L-O-L,” slurred Alcoholism. “Who do you think you are, Franz-fucking-Kafka? I think no.” READ MORE >
ToBS R1: ‘lyric essays’ vs. Daily facebook updates on what you’re doing with your students
[Matchup #32 in Tournament of Bookshit]
‘Lyric Essays’
Before he got married, my friend Michael couldn’t really be bothered to spend a lot of time cooking for himself. Or, well, he wasn’t really motivated to invest a lot of his precious time in the act of preparing food in a kitchen for his consumption. (I’m sure Michael would appreciate me telling you that once he began his long-term, now state/church sanctioned relationship, this changed.) Also, Michael didn’t really have a lot of money. So, not having the finances to go out to eat every night, and not having the inclination to spend a lot of time cooking—because he was instead inclined to read and learn banjo—Michael ate a lot of Banquet Turkey Pot Pies. READ MORE >
ToBS R1: middle age white male sex scene vs. middle age white male self published sci fi novel pt 1 of 4
[Matchup #31 in Tournament of Bookshit]
Holy receding hairlines! This is quite the week for middle-aged men, with no less than two new texts targeting the graying templed-set: Middle Aged White Male Heterosexual Sex Scene AND Middle Age White Male Self-Published Sci Fi Novel Pt 1! TJY and the Actionettes have made no secret of our fetish for hot, pot-bellied daddies – so this is the kind of news that has us sweating off our makeup, creaming our sequins and quaking in our stilettos! READ MORE >
ToBS R1: the Georgia Review vs dinner at Chili’s
[Matchup #30 in Tournament of Bookshit]
I’ve never read the Georgia Review. I have eaten dinner at Chili’s probably 50 times throughout my life. My favorite dish to get at Chili’s, the dish that has remained my favorite transitioning through all of the various eating habits I’ve had (being no-restriction to vegetarian to pesceterian to vegan), is the fajitas. The fajitas at Chili’s are exciting because they are a spectacle. Looking at the website for the Georgia Review, I see a complete lack of spectacle. Chili’s was my favorite restaurant growing up because it took me a while to develop any sort of palate for foods that are not ultimately mediocre. While it would seem that both the Georgia Review and Chili’s are ostensibly mediocre, Chili’s maintains a specific midwestern magic. Chili’s is, I guess, supposed to be “Tex-Mex” food, though that term really has no meaning whatsoever. READ MORE >
ToBS R1: Sewage Treatment Technologies vs. The Pulitzer Prize
[Matchup #28 in Tournament of Bookshit]
A corpus containing all Pulitzer Prize-winning books in the Fiction category from 1948-present and the Novel category from 1917-1947
vs.
A list of sewage treatment technologies, included below: READ MORE >
ToBS R1: trolling for spelling errors in blog posts vs. changing your facebook picture daily
[Matchup #27 in Tournament of Bookshit]
I don’t know.
I’ve never had a blog.
I haven’t been on Facebook in almost a year.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this, what the fuck “Trolling for spelling errors in your blog vs. changing your Facebook profile pic daily” means.
This would be so much easier if I’d been given something easy, like:
Jimmy Chen vs. every woman on HTMLGIANT.
Or HTMLGIANT 2009 vs. HTMLGIANT 2011.
Or being Matt Bell vs. not being Matt Bell.
Or telling Blake no vs. telling him yes.
(Is it possible for the gender with the vagina to tell Blake Butler no?)
Fuck Blake Butler. Fuck HTMLGIANT. Fuck “mean week.” READ MORE >
ToBS R1: horny middle aged balding poetry professor on campus vs. horny college age dude-bro poet on facebook
[Matchup #26 in Tournament of Bookshit]
internet vs. intellect
i’ll probably never get a facebook friend request from a dude or an email from a male professor again, but:
horny middle aged balding poetry professor on campus vs.
horny college aged dude-bro poet on facebook
starts talking to you about gender and offers you an independent study on Judith Butler
starts talking to you about gender and offers to publish you in his online journal
winner: if the journal is well put together with other impressive contributors, bro READ MORE >
ToBS R1: declaring ‘__ is dead’ vs. nationwide facebook invite to local reading
[Matchup #25 in Tournament of Bookshit]
DECLARING ___ IS DEAD VS. NATIONWIDE FACEBOOK INVITE TO LOCAL READING
-OR-
HOW I SPENT MEAN WEEK MAKING A POST SO STUPID THAT AFTER YOU READ THIS POST THE POST WILL HAVE A CHILD NAMED “GOOBER T.L.D.R” BECAUSE THE POST ISN’T EVEN GOOD AT COMING UP WITH NAMES FOR ITS CHILDREN
On the one hand, nothing really dies. Like I have this receipt from a movie I saw right here in my pocket. What good is it doing anybody? The movie was about the financial industry. We were made to feel sorry for people because they buried their dogs just like everybody else. In one scene, Snapple showed off its brand of bottled water. The best scene was when a guy who used to make bridges explained that money wasn’t a bridge, e.g. it didn’t save anybody in traffic. Adam and I saw the movie in NYC. Driving home, Adam and Joe and I got stuck in traffic. The reasons were mysterious. Adam’s chips were locked in the trunk. I wasn’t really hungry because I’d eaten two breakfasts and Adam’s tiramisu, which he gave me to shut me up after we argued about the relevance of the bridge scene. The tiramisu was delicious and sort of ridiculously conceptualized, just like NYC. -+-+-+-+-+- Listen: READ MORE >
ToBS R1: Chapbook blurbs vs Facebook-based political ‘activism’
[Matchup #24 in Tournament of Bookshit]
Facebook-Based Political ‘Activism’
Active is a funny word. Also the word, Like. You know Flannery O’Connor never asked a damn person to be a Christian, she just wrote these badass stories where all the phonies got their fucking heads blown off and their families slaughtered and then maybe some “Agent of Grace” would go and seduce a fat ass and steal their fake leg. That’s the way to do it. Seems to me you got a mirror problem. Or you spent sixth grade with an eye-blinking tic. (They called you Blinky.) Or photos of your own head or your severe-or-doughy offspring’s head all J.C. Penny glossy on the beige-ass walls. I bet your palms smell hot and funky. You’re white. Tuck in your shirt and have one of those little cases on your belt for the cellphone and a little ripple, a little soft, soft, soft fish-belly over the top of the waist of the jeans. Keep four pill bottles in a neat, black case stuffed in a Nike shoe, in the crisper drawer of your refrigerator. But what do I know? Nothing, except that to ask if I’m happy every day is a goddamn insult to the other 98% wondering why the light bulb keeps flickering off…Hey Slaw-Cheeks, Facebook groups, Pages and Events are as helpful for your enemies as they are for you. Only James Bond villains tell everyone their plans, and see what happens? Sharks, de-railed trains, suffocated by octopi, shot by Bond/shot by Bond/shot by Bond, oh my. Or: I keep getting this vision of sweaty you in the Toys “R” Us parking lot masturbating to a conjured image of a yellow cats, smiling yellow cats running circles along a Go-Cart track in Rhode Island…You don’t tip bartenders for shit, do you? That nagging feeling, it’s your head rolling about a black cart rumbling and clanking iron-wheeled down a dark road, to the dump, all of this an honest image of the shadowworld, your soul, a knobby goat (most likely pulled the cart—that’s called honest work, you Enormous Fuck) gnawing at your eye socket, then to the elbow, the pale, calloused index finger of your Liking. You hose. You greasy hose. READ MORE >
ToBS R1: lit blogging at age 35 vs. tweeting at age 45
[Matchup #22 in Tournament of Bookshit]
Using two specific examples I will discuss lit blogging at age 35 versus tweeting at age 45 and declare a winner. I’d like to note that this entry is merely in the spirit of Mean Week. I respect both Matt and Deb. The idea alone that I thought of their names when considering this topic should only be aligned with admiration. And neither is a true winner. If you’re involved in any way – writer, reader, twitter user, lit blogger – in the “lit scene,” you’re a loser by default. Happy Mean Week, nerds.
Example One: Lit blogging at age 35 READ MORE >
ToBS R1: calling anything you write a manuscript vs. author photos
[Matchup #22 in Tournament of Bookshit]
Calling Anything You Write A Manuscript
I just copypasted my blogger into google docs for a 45,000 word count. My nanowrimo just feels right. The manuscript I drafted and polished in February is complete. A novel in tweets. Everything I write is gold. This is like _______ meets ________. It’s _________ with a twist. I think people want to read about my breakup. It’s 50,000 on my daily bathroom experiences. I oulipo’d this baby without the first half of the alphabet. It’s called ‘beastial fiction’. I just wrote down everything my mother said. I’m a method writer. Why do you think the title is “Cock In Hand”? I used a typewriter for authenticity. The blank spaces represent epic minimalism. READ MORE >
ToBS R1: Gmail chat people who are always visible vs. People who leave really long comments
[Matchup #21 in Tournament of Bookshit]
Gmail chat people who are always visible
We get it. You are always online and you want the world to know it. You are connected and plugged in and able to immediately respond to every electronic message appearing in your Inbox. You are there, waiting beneath the pale glow of your monitor, to chat and abuse emoticons and the English language typing phrases like i want 2 c u cum. You are the Motel 6 of Gmail—your light is always on, always green. When you’re busy, you do not hesitate to turn on the red light but still, you are there. Never, though, is your light yellow. Never does that light fade to gray. You do not idle. You do not step away from the computer. You do not stop typing. Your fingers are always tap tap tapping away, letting the world know you will not abandon your virtual post. You are the Internet presence. You are the bright e-mail light in the dark, dark night. We see the messages you leave, floating in the screen ether just below your name. You’re writing or you’re reading or you’re promoting the last thing you wrote. More often than not, you are passive aggressively communicating your displeasure about the state of the world or, as is usually the case, the state of your world. You are pithy or bitter or bitterly pithy but at least you are there. You will always be there. The rest of us, lurking silently behind the gray dot of feigned absence, we watch and we wait. Sooner or later, your time will come. Your light too, will go gray. READ MORE >
ToBS R1: ‘curating’ a reading series vs. crossing off typed name & signing your name below it in yr book
[Matchup #20 in Tournament of Bookshit]
‘curating’ a reading series
pros: you will have something to do, you will have a legitimate reason to talk to and meet writers you like, you will be able to promote writers you like which may distract you from shit-talking writers you dislike
cons: ~90% of readings i’ve been to have ‘seemed bleak,’ you will quickly ‘run out of’ readers to ask to read, you might feel pressure to promote the readings so it won’t be awkward when the audience is small, you might feel pressure to introduce every reader with enthusiasm and to appear happy/excited that they’re reading for your series, you will be in positions where you might have to either ignore or reject certain people who want to read for your series READ MORE >
ToBS R1: shortshort referring to whiskey consumption vs. asking facebook friends to review yr book on amazon
[Matchup #19 in Tournament of Bookshit]
Whiskey as cultural flashpoint implies a kind of toughness, a kind of rambunctious, possibly-troubled badassness of attitude (due to overuse it’s shifting into a symbol of extended upper-middleclass adolescence aspiring to evoke the above) exactly counteracted by the poncey formal envelope of ‘short-short.’ These two clichés epitomize the literary trinket cranked out by our culture. A frilly package whose contents purport to be “broken,” like Hugh Laurie blues album.
The whiskey person travels to writers’ conferences where people like Denis Johnson and Tim O’Brien tell them to characterize with vivid detail. This is advice they need to hear (since their ‘short-short’ is, other than cultural flashpoint, an orgy of exposition) but will never heed. When they return form the conference, they only talk about who they met, never about what they learned. They mention the drink they had with Denis Johnson, and how cool and normal he seemed, yet also weird in a couple of ways! Then they ask you how your weekend was, and they actually care. READ MORE >
ToBS R1: talking shit about New Yorker while submitting frqntly to NYer vs. dream sequence w talking animals
[Matchup #18 in Tournament of Bookshit]
Let’s tie these together.
1. Don’t worry about it: your story/novel excerpt with the talking animal dream sequences is not going to get published in The New Yorker.
2. This might be why you have to talk shit about The New Yorker. You know you will never be published there.
3. This might be why you talk shit about God. You know he doesn’t exist.
4. But still, you submit.
5. But still, you pray.
6. Don’t worry about it: it’s okay not to know who you are. Every rejection will move you closer to some knowing. READ MORE >
