Jimmy Chen Month at HTMLGIANT
Not to be outdone by Writers’ Bloc, which has declared this week to be Jimmy Chen Week, we’ve declared the month of May to be Jimmy Chen Month here at HTMLGIANT.
I like Jimmy Chen a lot: the many minds of JC
Jimmy Chen contains Asian multitudes
I think in future litmus tests of potential significant others, one could do well by presenting to them a bibliography of Jimmy Chen, inclusive not only of his fiction, but his blogging, his persona, his internet collage. Then watch their face. If they aren’t with it, they are worthless. Send them crying to their moms.
Knowing Jimmy Chen exists in the world has on more than one occasion made me feel better about my life, and about writing. This is strange, likely, as I have never met Jimmy, never even Gmail chatted with him, or had much direct correspondence with him outside of brief emails and blog comment banter. And yet in most every instance of him I can remember, I have come to believe that if more writers were like Jimmy Chen, this whole game would be so much better off.
There are lots of ways I could define this sweeping statement, but rather than explain why he is a good person (which I believe he is), or positive for the mind, or just plain goddamn funny, I’d rather look at what he does more concretely, and in the mind of how what Jimmy does can be used as a model or a mindset worth trying to strive for.
Top 5 WILFs
A WILF is a ‘writer I’d like to fuck,’ our new enterprise conceived by contributor pr. Since I really like the idea of hypothetical fucking, I cannot contain myself and have posted a top 5 list:
1. VIRGINIA WOOLF
That Virginia Woolf was a lesbian may explain the impractical choices in women I still have which sustained my virginity to an embarrassing point which shall not be disclosed at this juncture. That she has been dead for seventy-some years does not implicate any penchant for necrophilia — for I don’t literally want to ‘fuck’ Virginia Woolf at this point in her decomposition — I simply would have wanted to, had I been more of a man in England at the break of the twentieth century; she at the ripe age of eighteen.
2. PAUL AUSTER
That Paul Auster is a man may explain the impractical choices in women which let to the aforementioned exasperated virginity. I’m straight, but fuck that guy is gorgeous. When I think of his New York Trilogy, I think of his dong and ballsack. I went to his reading once and every woman almost had an orgasm when he spoke. I quivered a little myself, though it was probably just gas from my burrito.
transcription for Jimmy Chen
This is the face of genius. This is the genius of face.
[with a hat tip to Peter Masiak, who left these many and several fine words in my inbox late last night, with this message attached: “ever just read the lyrics? I had about 75% wrong.”]
“The Country Diary Of A Subway Conductor”
“O get him out of there!” What if it cost 25c
to wake up in the morning? A dollar, ten dollars?
I’d pay it all the way to the poor house. It’s not made
if it’s made in Roanoke. Night pulling up in front of
the house like a bus. It came at me with shears. Her
sweater had faces, famouse faces knitted all over it.
The porch swing ticked off Central Daylight time.
“How many hours do you think it’ll take me to smoke this
cigarette?” she said with a smile. The smell of fried
food came drifting out one of the castle windows.
“Lets go around back” I said “my brother burried some
stuff back there.” We ducked down and walked through
the black bushes. My shoe made a sucking sound in
the turf. “He can afford anything” I said “he’s got
dogs that blow on trumpets.” “Priests!” she cussed.
Thunder cracks over Ben Franklin’s shop. Who wrapped
my dreams in a blanket and led them outside to the black
book in the yard? “Hey what indian tribe occupied
southern california? They were a lucky bunch of fellers!”
Sting Bible, More Sea Bible, Knur & Spell. In moments
downhill, towards sleep in the still water shop. Imagining
places I was almost sure I’d never been & had taken to
assuming were the memories of my grandfather somehow
deposited in my mind. They were there and gone, just before
I could get my bearings, catch any names or find out
where the hotel was. Just a pile of glass shavings that
could never be reassembled into the gone order
of buildings & the shade puring off of them. “WATER!”
*******SPECIAL BONUS*******
I interviewed David Berman for The Brooklyn Rail back in 2005, when Tanglewood Numbers came out.
From the intro (click anywhere on text to get the whole piece): >>Terse and enigmatic, occasionally ignoring questions outright, Berman was nearly impossible to pin down, which was especially frustrating since everyone wants to believe that their musical or literary heroes could easily be their drinking buddies or best friends. But Berman is a man who can say a lot even when he’s not saying much, and his general reticence served to increase the gravity of moments when he actually opened up. Just another part of the Berman package, I suppose.<<
Mud Luscious
Reader, go buy.
I did. I will tell you what I think of them when they arrive. And I read them. I will read them before I tell you what I think of them.
I will probably read them before I tell you what I think of them.
There is a 64% chance I will read them, or maybe at least skim them before I tell you what I think of them.
57% maybe.
Definitely I will probably read, skim, or at least open them before I tell you what I think of them.
Also, I am sorry that this post moved Kendra’s down the page a little. I apologize to you, the reader.
And Kendra.
And to…well, you know. Them.