Obituary: The Faster Times
The Faster Times (July 9, 2009 – October 9, 2010) The Faster Times, an online newspaper known for attempting to find a way to make the internet pay writers, was pronounced dead on the scene of what Brooklyn Borough President Marty Markowitz called a “perverse and often baffling” three-day riot and siege of the Cobble Hill brownstone that the The Faster Times just purchased. “Who knew that journalist-bloggers had the upper body strength, let alone the organizational capacity to riot?” Markowitz asked.
Sadly, the Faster Times was torn limb for limb by a mob of seething, red-eyed editors who chanted about revolution, wasted hours and, inexplicably, the crappy font choice. “Justice, I say, Justice!” one editor screamed. The New York Times declared the riot a “a twee, revolution in the journalists’ minor league.”
Among TFT’s greatest advancements to Internet Media during its short but thorough run, was it’s idea that Facebook ‘Likes’ could be converted into dollars, though this plan never actually came to fruition. Had the likes-to-dollars conversion occurred, The Faster Times’s editors and writers could have been the 95th highest paid collective of journalist-bloggers in the first quarter of 2010.
In lieu of flowers, the remaining two editors who didn’t wish the Faster Times a slow and painful death are asking for mourners to “Like” the Faster Times’s Corpse’s Facebook page.
MEAN WEEK Writing Prompt
How about you just go write something, asshole? Stop: blogging about writing, commenting on blogs about writing, surfing the web for youtube videos that might somehow “inspire” you to think about your “craft”, hanging out at dull author readings, having a beer with a boring writer after a dull author reading, having a beer (or five) alone when the laptop is sitting right there with a barely considered manuscript on it, starting another online literary journal or blog, playing video games and trying somehow to appreciate them on a “narrative” level, reading a book because you are “researching” something, getting involved in some “project” that is loosely connected to “literary” work, masturbating while high, etc. etc., and write. I mean, you’re a “writer,” right?
2 Obituaries: One Story & Failbetter
One Story (June 24, 2002 to October 25, 2010) The offices of long handed and literary-Illuminati-color-coded One Story collapsed this week in a grand gesture of at last fully defining in unwavering lifelike syntax their own definitive time, setting, and central theme. Long teased and haunted by their authors’ knack and exuberance in the construction of sentences that end the story as exploration before it can begin, the corpus of long story has whispered in its ruffling thin pages a yearning for at last the transcendence of the human spirit into the beyond, at last concretely demonstrating that yes, we all die, and yes the human heart is large, and yes, A really does lead to B if you line it up right. Survived by a collection of sentences clearly of a reputable but closely related bloodline, a brief but heartwarming reflection on One Story’s days and times will be issued to all past subscribers as well as anyone who has serially submitted to their enterprise every single open reading period since their inception, which notably and privately led to their development of the now ubiquitous Submission Manager (since bastardized incessantly by at least three anarchistic, freely sharing knockoffs), which affords self-hating pencil pushers across the globe the right to realize just how ridiculous this whole submit-then-wait-then-hate-then-submit-again thing is. Meanwhile, the spirit of the One Story lives on: truly, by now, a single story in our minds, espousing all. Friends and relatives remain hopeful that the termination of the ephemeral notion of the singular short story proves to extend beyond its time into a one to three book contract for those involved on the merit of this leap of faith into the demonstrable prowess of details that is the narrative short prose masterwork, more evidence that even if Raymond Carver is dead he isn’t dead and neither (for real this time) is Michael Chabon.
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Failbetter (May 10, 2000 to October 25, 2010) At last deciding to put their money where their browser is, longtime publishers of romantically edgy online lit Failbetter succumbed to their own moniker and failed as hard as they could, driving their proverbial website animus into the proverbial nowhere of even this special little world called the online. Originators of the insanely-long-submission-response-time-even-if-you’re-just-a-website rule of thumb, Failbetter will surely be preserved only as we all remember them, if we remember anything, which in my case is that year when AWP was in Atlanta and these dudes showed up in suits standing next to a laptop on a table telling you to check out their website right there in the Hilton so that you might remember to do the same again when you got home, though as I recall again the web connection in the Hilton’s basement sucked and you couldn’t even do that, a pretty decent failure on the part of online literature perhaps in some way predicting this biggest and baddest of all failures, again ahead of the curve of all of us in publishing or elsewhere still supposedly extant, like gash marks on the wrists in a vertical fashion years before the gun goes in the mouth.
One Obituary: Duotrope’s Digest
Duotrope’s Digest (August 4, 2005-October 14, 2010) Duotrope died today, of its own name, some vague ailment of droopy eyelids and an ass so smart its brain filled its hole and then all the universe exploded into the nearest ceiling fan. Today dead, Duotrope of serial liposuction, as in the last time (Jesus, chill-the-fuck-out, you Heidi Blair Montag of a site. Hey guys, leave Newpages! We got bigger tits!) they crunk-a-ma-jigged the layout and then hit me and my kin up for money. (As I write this, Duotrope is status HIGH, as in YELLOW, 36% short of their monthly pecuniary quest. Year-to-Date they are 20% short, labeled HIGHE$$T, or Holy Fuck!, a RED alert 4 alarm {low} fire of tattooed lipstick. [Like our government, Duotrope has a color code system that all but douche bags ignore]). Duotrope dead of popped pronephros, dribble, dribble…Duotrope deceased, choked on the very versicolor vomit of statistics they choose to shove down our hoary throats (They eat it too, see? That’s how they know it tastes good.) Do you understand Willow Springs accepts 0% of submissions (well, fuck me and my latest Spam-villanelle), yet they reject 88%? (If you don’t believe me, go to Duotrope.). Dark times, folks. Death by jostled lynx this morning, Duotrope. Dead by sub-sprachgefühl, I mean divaricator/dust, of course. Or simple spoon? Note: Duotrope killed today by wound of flung nacho. Duotrope eaten by my father. Like every empire (or umpire) known to history, Duotrope has fallen. Croaked. Expired. Sad to report, that spreadsheet we once called Duotrope, dead as disco this morning, done, d-uh, died–of exposure.
Tortoise and the Hair
Malcolm Gladwell
Getting really tired of Malcolm Gladwell’s “genius” hair, that intentional stylization, or at least neglect, of the intellectually consumed. His 1999 appearance on Charlie Rose is proof that he understands what normal hair is (no comment on the tie). In 2008, on the same show, he looks either high on meth or himself. Gladwell has made a career of being a provocative thinker, and while I do find him pleasantly curious at times, his constantly enthralled persona is exhausting. One more cappuccino on the per-diem en route to The New Yorker offices and he’s gonna have an epiphany about foam. (What the tale don’t tell you is that a fast rabbit is running away from itself.) True, everyone is a poster child of their own cause; I’m just weary of the cause.
What’s More Annoying: Special HTMLG Self-Reflexive Edition
What’s more annoying:
How Amy McDaniel never misses an opportunity to remind us that she studied with David Foster Wallace, which somehow endowed her with a magical (foolproof) grammar wand?
OR
How I never miss an opportunity to come across as a rotten pretentious elitist who loves the sound of his own voice yet can’t seem to talk about anything of interest or importance other than worn out concepts like experimental writing?
OR
How often HTMLG discusses Tao Lin?
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The fact that Chelsea Martin is still on the roster, even though she hasn’t posted since the great Wiggergate fiasco?
OR
How Justin Taylor, the inventor of the “craven self-promotion” label, which (btw) appears to have been discontinued, can somehow always find a way of self-promoting in every post?
OR
How Jimmy Chen seems both extremely smart and utterly incapable of playing any role other than class clown?
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The way Roxane Gay champions good ole fashion storytelling, the way regular folks do?
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How Ken Baumann is so smart and handsome and successful?
OR
???
Sean Lovelace—
Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week.
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