A fairly uneventful shift on the door until an attractive young lady with bangs dyed fire-engine red comes outside to smoke, accosts me and apropos of nothing tells me that she doesn't have any American girlfriends (she arrived with 3 French friends) because American women are spoiled and conditioned -- partly because of their male counterparts and partly because of technology/"the media" -- to be less independent and to "get whatever they want handed to them" even though most of them have no idea what they want (another symptom of technological dependence); that she could survive alone on an island for five days if provided a lighter; that she was born in Israel and because of this is automatically more independent, something she has been since age 16 even though her mother and father are akin to Israeli celebrities in the fields of medicine and science, respectively; that she wants to pull aside label-conscious women in the subway and tell them that if they shopped at "lower-end" places like Zara and focused more on color coordination and what looks good on them instead of "unfortunate Louis Vuitton bags" they might attain a greater state of happiness; that she makes "nice money" and owns a vintage Chanel bag because it's vintage and therefore acceptable; that she has lived in NYC for seven years and had an abortion the first year; that minorities are inherently bad parents; that she works in the "diamond industry" and if i mention her name (which she has not offered) to any respectable person affiliated with said industry they will attest to her success and "people skills"; that she is dyslexic and suffers from ADD which made college difficult and resulted in a short-term inferiority complex; that she knows I might not be enjoying listening to her but that she is confident that through her banter she has made me think about things I never would have otherwise considered and in this way she feels fulfilled; that her parents disinherited her when she started dating her non-Jewish French boyfriend. At this point her boyfriend and the two other French people they came into the bar with come outside and her boyfriend gleefully shouts that he's won a bet because she is talking to the doorman, then turns to his friends and jokingly says something that includes the word "salope" which if you know French is a pretty naughty word for a lady. As they light cigarettes and continue talking she bends over and whispers "Thanks for listening" before sticking her tongue deep into my ear and briefly wriggles it around in a manner that can best be compared to the burrowing eel of planet Ceti Alpha V that burrows into Mr. Chekov's brain in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. At this point, I haven't said a word longer than "Uh."

ear to the street

New review of Monkeytown is at The Small Press Book Review. Thanks Ben and Mel.

The opening of lips, the disappearing.

"C-Bomb" is a short story and it is up at The Fat City Review.

tuesday com(mute)

Truth: French bulldog ownership increases the likelihood of eventual intercourse for the average American male. Smoothes the road, so to speak. 

You pass an average American male/French bulldog owner who is being accosted by two much younger, college-aged products of healthy Midwestern upbringings and Urban Outfitters’ tank top section and acknowledge that he is breathing proof of this truth. He is a late-20s finance bro in athletic shorts featuring the logo of a small, northern college and loafers/nautical shoes because it is his day off and he wants you to know he is ready for his day off. He is ready to traverse a variety of terrains because in his day exists the possibility for adventure.

And it is not your day off. It will never be your day off. Sheeeeit.

He is aw-shucksing and saying to the slightly-less-attractive-but-still-desirable girl, “I was looking into getting a rescue but come on loo-ook at this little guy,” while not casually staring at her more attractive counterpart (who is bent over petting the slobbering item of interest) in a way that suggests he never considered a rescue dog and that most or all of his canine research was aimed at orchestrating this exact experience.

He has maximized his investment.

He knows the over/under.

Through his iPhone research he knows that the present-day Frenchie stud, due to years of inbreeding, cannot reproduce naturally, his narrow hips unable to properly mount the bitch, who in turn (because of those same hips) is virtually incapable of natural birthing and almost always requires a caesarian section to extract her litter.

It’s possible he sees the irony in procuring sex with the help of what is in essence the living, shitting product of a centuries-long laboratory experiment, sexless in all but its ill-aligned anatomy. A sterile accessory.  It’s possible he knows that his dog exudes this sterility, this pheromone of safety and hints of platonic beginnings, and that it is his greatest weapon. He’s a standup individual! He gets tested regularly!

The finance bro’s dog sniffs the oversized bag the bent-over girl has slung over her shoulder and starts to lift his leg. Ready to mark. She squeals cutely and stands up. 

Her friend laughs. 

His grin spreads like melanoma. 

Congratulations, brother.

gore porn

Very nice review of Monkeytown in the new issue of Prick of the Spindle. Much thanks to Matthew Miranda for his kind words.

 

He couldn't risk looking at himself

New flash piece "Marked" is up at Pure Slush.

thursday com(mute)

As I get older I’ve been finding myself increasingly ambivalent about thorough ass-wipings. 

It’s like listen, everyone has an asshole and most people shit out of them, so why do the two (assholes and shit) have to always be mutually exclusive?

I’m walking slower than usual to the train, burdened by the weight of cleanliness and visualizing tightly wound tubes of toothpaste being wound tighter against the knowledge that it’s impossible to squeeze everything out and anticipating someone wrapping his/her arm around my shoulder and whispering something like “hey sphincter-face, why so glum?” thereby allowing me to strangle him/her with my iPod earbud cord in an attempt to force out the remnants of what used to be colloquially known as a soul and rub them in his/her dying face like someone berating their French bulldog for rug-pissing while muttering "look at what you did, look at what you did..."

As usual, no one makes eye contact except for children. I want to wink and smile/grimace at them, but not in a way that suggests imminent molestation. More like, ah, wistful acceptance. Like, "No worries little man, Time will rape all of us soon enough."

monday com(mute)

In rapid succession: a bike delivery guy with an obvious but not clearly definable impairment (jaundice?) audibly smacking his jowls and grin-drooling at a fellow pedestrian in the shortest of shorts (under-cleavage); a ~15 year old chocolate Lab with terminal arthritis being coaxed forward in painful increments by a middle aged man holding what appears to be a hunk of processed meat product while two women flanking the dog laugh and one of them says "you'd get her to run if it was a steak!" and the dog briefly but meaningfully stares at the oncoming adjacent traffic and for a second you understand the only place she really wants to hobble; a robust woman in rhinestone-encrusted MC Hammer pants and ~10 inch heels stopping every other step and doing a wobbly 360-degree spin move and shouting "OHHHH GIRLLL!" until an equally robust woman (presumably an acquaintance) in sweatpants and clutching a small child approaches and says "day-um, where you get those, they look GOOO-OD on you child!" with undertones so venomous as can only be produced by a robust, out-dressed, MC-Hammer-pants-less woman.

the lingering synthetic waft

A new story, "How to Find a Flock," is up at Monkeybicycle.

short mention of monkeytown on the toad suck review website

"Vola creates a dystopia born from our culture’s voyeuristic fascination with violence and death. Conspiracy theories and charismatic thugs thrive in a world where the manipulation of public opinion is more valuable than human life. The only available escape seems to be an immersion into the mind-altering consciousness of pharmaceutical cocktails. Monkeytown is a frightening vision of what we might become."

i wasn't angry i just didn't want no more whiskey

posted on facebook, lost 24 friends lol :(

Hopefully you de-friend me as there will be less things I couldn’t give a crap about clogging up Zuckerberg’s almighty feed but here is how I feel: yes, the bombing was horrible, any loss of human life is shitty no matter how it’s been lost, especially when that loss is precipitated by a cowardly act of terror at an event that should have been anything but terrible. And maybe all the moments of silences at pro sporting events and things like the “NY for B” logo that have been popping up are soothing (?) for some people and I guess help people find some solidarity amidst the wreckage. But instead of spending your time designing and/or posting images of the Statue of Liberty wearing a Red Sox cap looking sad and writing statuses bemoaning how much it sucks that there is hatred in the world, that we have to live in an era of unprecedented domestic fear, etc. maybe you should instead try to put the bombing in context. Was it worse than the 551 civilian deaths in 2012 in Afghanistan that were directly attributed to Coalition soldiers? Worse than the daily GENOCIDE Israel has been committing for more than half a century with mucho help from the US (to the tune of $8.6 MILLION in aid per day)? Henry Miller is looking more and more like a prophet – “Nothing will avail to offset this virus which is poisoning the whole world. America is the very incarnation of doom. She will drag the whole world down to the bottomless pit.” Maybe instead of changing your profile pictures and bitching about how many crazies there are running around you should band together and overthrow the proponents of the cheap (and often deadly) idealism that has made the climate in which we live possible. Otherwise this is just another (not so big, in the scheme of things) taste of our own ignorant medicine.

what I bought at AWP part 1

Billie The Bull by xTx // a Nephew of Mud Luscious Press (2012)

One of the (many) things I love about xTx is her knack for making small things so big. In perfect (67-page) Nephew form, she scalds continents, history, and embarks on a gruesome, anti-Hemingway dissection of bull fighting while recounting the absurd and beautifully rendered tragedy of an ever-expanding heroine. This one sinks roots, whether you want it to or not. Also xTx signed my book at the Dzanc/MLP table which was uplifting.

How Music Works by David Byrne // McSweeney’s (2012)

Some of the best stuff in this sometimes rambling and textbook-y ode to the musical process – recording it, making it, embellishing its history, looking good playing it – are the dozens of photographs both general and Talking-Heads related (puffy suit from Stop Making Sense). The cover feels like a Wendy’s booth, sadly minus the honey mustard residue. Byrne can write, but I’d rather listen to My Life in the Bush of Ghosts than know what drum machine Brian Eno used in the fifth minute of the third track. Maybe I’m selfish.

The Rumpus ‘Write Like A Motherfucker’ mug

At $10 this was a great purchase, a vessel equally suited for Emergen-C and Templeton Rye, both of which are in moderate-to-more-than-moderate rotation while stressing about not writing like a motherfucker or after the desire to write like a motherfucker has passed for the evening (or noon-ish). Thanks Rumpus!

Render / An Apocalypse by Rebecca Gayle Howell // Cleveland State University Poetry Center (2013)

If you’re going to go bleak, you’d better go all out and this book wants to stab you not just to see what it feels like but until you’re drained. Some of the most tense and stripped verse I can remember. I’m not sure what “truth” means but as I read these pastoral nightmares that inevitably involve animal slaughter the word scrolls through my brain again and again like a stock ticker on meth while I try not to flinch. “Let the black hard rock of want / tear the skin of your prized intestines / Squeal Squeal for more.”

This Semi-Perfect Universe by William Todd Seabrook // A Nephew of Mud Luscious Press (2012)

Not really into numerology but I’m into Nephews and this one is a good one. The number 100 is the culprit here and boy does it get messy. Quirk-laden factoids (“100 is a figment of our imaginations. It exists as much as a 100-key piano or a Buddhist dog.”; “In 1384 the number 100 disappeared for a month.”) transcend, tweak, rejoice, and obliterate, and make us want to throw another round of TP on the trees in front of that snarky 7^th grade algebra teacher with all his x and y and whatnot and hop on the next 100-car bus to one of the 243 as-yet-undiscovered universes – because after all, we can only perceive 100 of them. 27 pages I don’t want to take back.

Italian sausage-and-pepper sandwich and soggy ass fries by Jose the “chef”

The pleasant irony of eating something that tastes like tailgating amidst thousands of people in unisex jeans who used to skip gym class to cut themselves was great. Until I had to sprint out of the Don DeLillo reading two hours later in utter fear for my undergarments. Plus it was like 9 bucks.

something you won't like

McDonald's Grilled Onion Cheddar at McSweeney's Internet Tendency. 

Summary: get a McGangbang instead.

some things you might like

Reviews of Sam Pink and Scott McClanahan are up at Carbon-Based Lifeform Blues and The Lit Pub.

thanks, steve jobs

A story, Last Girlfriend, that originally appeared in Vol. 1 Brooklyn last year (and is part of my collection-in-progress, RETREAT), is in this week's issue of Paragraph Shorts, which is as far as I can tell is sort of a literary compiler of new and older stories from across the internet that pairs them with images and videos and is only available as an iPad app. I'm in this week's issue with people like Miranda July, Sam Lipsyte and Kurt Vonnegut. I don't have an iPad but if I did I would look at it.

are you down with the zest?

Living the LUNA Life at The Mugwump Corporation

I've never been to Coney Island

This is who I am. Someone scared. Afraid to fail. But at what? What have I done besides sit in my room feeling sorry and sick for no reason other than I like the comfort in sadness. This is stupid. I am 28. I have done some things but not enough. I am afraid of female inquiry. Why? Because I am not proud of myself, of what I have become in my twenties, what I haven’t become. And because I am unable to lie about this, in every question asked of me, I reflect the dirt I am too weak to scrub. I push away anyone and everyone who shows the smallest bit of interest. I am out of shape and unhealthy. Drinking would be a happy possibility if I was only able to have confidence around people and emote without fear of whiplash. To not care about their ‘successes,’ their ability to adapt to a world that in many cases seems horrific and gilded, but to care about them in a deeper way. To see if they are real enough to reciprocate this realness back. Marijuana is a crutch and the great amplifier. I have a novel with 5-star reviews on Amazon, which is nice, but I still find ways to tear down any accomplishment. Nothing is enough. I have done nothing else substantially writing-wise and need to start now. But I feel like I need to have ‘moments,’ too. I need to get out of my apartment. I have lived in New York for 5.5 years and done the same shit 99.5 percent of the time. I need to howl in the night of new neighborhoods and new possibilities. I need to see live music. I’ve never been to Coney Island. I make to-do lists for the sake of making to-do lists. My tweets are the most interesting things about me. I can’t remember the last time I ate at a nice restaurant when it wasn’t with my parents. I can’t remember the last time I felt real sexual intimacy. I long for what I despise in others. I should have been a bartender years ago, and that’s a whole other set of fears that are too disgusting to mention right now. I need to focus, focus, focus. What do I want? I want to finish the two books I’ve started this year and publish essays and things in the journals I’ve posted to my wall of my room. Next year, I want to read ~150 books and have articles published in bigger journals. That is the bare minimum. At 30 I will reconvene and take note of the situation. Maybe I’ll teach. Maybe I’ll help people. I want to help people. I need to save money. I need to find some way to make money that doesn’t involve me working at night. Or I need to fully immerse myself in the service industry and its colorful brand of chicanery. Either way, I need to have $--,--- in the bank by 2014 to make me feel like I have at least a little cushion. I need to stop taking cabs. I need to stop eating shitty food, especially the after-work binges. McDonald’s once a month is OK. Softball training starts now because who doesn’t want the Mel’s Burger Bashers to be champions? I need to take pictures of used condoms in natural settings with my 8-megapixel phone camera and write prose poems from those condoms’ perspectives. I need to find a better font than Perpetua. I need to make new friends and get in touch with old friends who can still be good friends. I need people. Everything is only as hard as I make it, which is stupid hard. That goes for writing, especially. I need to meet writers. To hang out with writers, to break apart my conception of being a worthless piece of shit to see if I really am a worthless piece of shit. I need to try. But I need to want to try, and wanting requires a desired direction, a sense of purpose. My apartment and especially my room needs a little more pimping out for it to really not suck. I need conducive workplace environments. I need to say hi to my neighbors. I need to relax and smile at children. I need to enjoy the subway. More immediately I need to get in the gym because my life does depend on it and sticking to a workout regimen for more than ~2 weeks is the most sure-fire way to curb self-hatred. I’m going to do a triathlon this summer whether I’m ready or not, and I hope I am. I need to do a reading of a story I wrote that I actually like. I need to find out what I actually like. Where do I want to travel? San Francisco, Iceland, and Miami all seem like short-term, viable options. I’m on pace to read 120 books this year which is probably what I’m most excited about. Paying loans sucks but is another reason not to take cabs. I am not dying. I want to be your friend. I want to find out about good music I’ve been missing. I want to find someone I can feel warm with and watch Game of Thrones and seriously discuss ancient alien theory, which doesn’t sound so hard to find but the catch is I’d like it if she read the Sam Pink and Joe Wenderoth books I’d let her borrow and report back to me and let me know that they or I or we are full of crap. I want to hold someone who pronounces the ‘d’ in ‘vodka’ but doesn’t drink it. If she does, it has nothing to do with calories. I need to step up my OkCupid game. Labyrinthitis has killed my ‘social life’ but maybe saved my actual ‘life.’ Panic attacks are stupid. Scandinavians are the blonde veneer of desperation. Not writing 500 words in a day should be punished by fingernail removal. Summer isn’t over. Summer is now. This is who I will be. I will struggle with words and struggle with running 3.2 miles and that struggle will unhollow me. I will buy a bike and a longboard. I will go to literary events in Brooklyn. I will go to Brooklyn and maybe even Queens for no other reason than public transportation makes it feasible. I will read so much. I will eat broccoli and fruit smoothies the way I want to eat McDonald’s: ravenously. I will use the awesome popcorn maker I got for Christmas. I will focus. I will not be afraid. I will focus on not being afraid. Possible outcomes of losing fear will include having ‘moments’ with people previously unknown and more interesting than those who are currently known, making out with someone whose tongue shares a mutual interest, having non-self-conscious good times. 30 means nothing but 30. I will figure out Instagram. I will fight for something. I will tweet. I will find balance. The rest of my life will be spent finding that balance. I will help one person find that balance. I will spin on the point of that balance until the shards of light created by that spinning glisten with the love I want everything to feel for me. The love I want to feel for everything. Today, I am spinning. I will go to Coney Island in the spring. The rest of my life will be spent.