May 2, 2011
Last week I found out via Facebook that one of my oldest and closest friends had died. Then last night I found out (again, via Facebook) that Osama bin Laden had been killed. So there go all my friends on Facebook.
Here is the thing that it is important about my friend who passed away (not Osama bin Laden). He was my introduction to porn. Every single type of porn. Magazine porn. Video porn. Internet porn. Imaginary porn. Dirty joke porn. Every single type of porn. Now, I realize that this may seem like a disgusting and awful way to remember someone, as the gilded Urshanabi, ferryman to the lusty heavens, but for a confused adolescent with fire in his groin, there was no better person to know. He had a 20-year-old step-brother who shared everything, a secret compartment in his closet, and a giving heart of gold, and he shared with me the most bizarre, unimaginable, and gorgeous images of coitus humanity has ever imagined , and for this my ten-year-old self thanks him. And so do I.
Lord I Just Can’t Keep From Crying Sometimes by Colin Stetson
March 25, 2011
February 21, 2011
On a cozier note, my Papa and I have been talking about his old meat packing business back in the glory days of Jews, meat, and Pittsburgh. My Papa is a temper in New Balance shoes, a pale castle of a man with gravel in his blood and lightly salted with racism. The son of a Russian immigrant, he and his cousin put together a lucrative business powered only by personal connections, good product, and know-how. He is my one-man example of the Greatest Generation, and in this way he is everyone’s Papa. By the early 70s, my Papa stood at the helm of the meat industry—slaughtering, boning, packing, and shipping pigs, lamb, and cattle to nearly anyone with a tooth and a fork—and one day some gentlemen representing an African-American organization in the area came into his office to inquire about how many Black people he had working in the factory. “I told them, ‘Gee, I wish someone would come around asking how I was doing every once in a while, but I guess as a Caucasian I don’t count.’ Anyway, I already had about 10 Chicanos working on the floor, and besides that at that time there was only one good Black boner in the whole city of Pittsburgh.” They say every time an elderly racist man says ‘good black boner’ an angel gets her wings. So congrats, Nana. I hope they fit.
P.S. Jews, Meat, and Pittsburgh is the name of the book I’m writing about my Papa. Now, I know what you’re thinking and yes: It will be a pop-up book.
P.P.S. I would call it a “Papa-p Book” because I am clever.
pound your town to hell by Cloudy Busey
“I treat the cash the way the government treats AIDS/ I won’t be satisfied til all my n-ggas get it.”
November 23, 2010
Just wanted to let you all know that a human being wrote that.
Which one? This one.
Happy Thanksgiving, dolphin shoppers.
November 2, 2010
Jenny Invert is the newly formed reincarnation of Grand Canyon, previously covered here, on this blog. I feel as though you will enjoy the new sound, as well as the sickeningly deep and swirling purple tones that now paint them wherever they go. Have a look and listen, why not:
Also, I am writing a novel the month of November as a part of this. So posts will be scant, sure, but you’ll be rewarded with a full humping novel at the end of it all. Hope that strokes everyone alright.
Now get out there and vote. Happy Election Day, you democratic mammals.
October 1, 2010
I was making my way home tonight when a middle-aged woman with a puffy silver vest and a walker asked me how to get to the nearest lake. I hesitated, then pointed downhill. She thanked me, paused, and said, “You know it’s funny how things work out. I used to walk up and down these streets all the time when I was younger. My parents were deans at the college. And I’ve had a subscription to the Progressive for forever, and I just realized tonight that its main office is right over there.” She pointed a few blocks up the street, and heaved out a laugh. Her voice was a mix of cigarettes and Slim-Fast. I laughed, too—a forced, breathy hiccup—and then wished her goodnight. She took a few labored steps, and continued, “So it’s right down here, huh? I seem to remember a major intersection down around here. But it’s been so long since I drove.” She gestured at her walker, piled high with two bags and gleaming like water under the street lamps. I told her she was right, and that if she took a right turn at that intersection she would have no problem finding her way to the lake. “Cool,” she said, “I just want a clear view. I’m going to see Orion’s Belt. Okay, goodnight.” I crossed the street and froze. I whipped around. “May I ask why?” I half-shouted, frightened by my own curiosity. The woman turned to me and leaned on her walker, ‘Yeah, sure. It’s not like you can see any of its nebulas or anything tonight, but I’ve been through enough at this point that I should be dead twice. So I’m not afraid anymore of anything. People think it’s bad to wander alone at night like this, but I say, “Hell, I’ve still got my black belt, right?” I guess you shouldn’t tell your weaknesses to a stranger. But stars are a reminder that I’m here. It’s God smack.” “Oh. Okay,” I said. We wished each other goodnight, one final time. Then I walked home.
There are moments when a human mouth produces words far heavier and more direct than is necessary, and it is difficult at these times to not imagine a greater force at work, some anxiously scribbling author transcribing the gift upon tongues. It is even more difficult to not imagine this when the person you’re speaking to looks like the 1990’s ideal of a futuristic angel, swinging low with a foot-powered chariot, come to take me home to Orion.
“Ain’t No Sunshine” (by Bill Withers) as sung by Idiot Glee