Monthly Archives: February 2010


ITALIAN GENIUS: Use your fucking brain.

DUTCH GENIUS: I don’t feel like it. I’d rather use… my arms [they embrace]

ITALIAN GENIUS: [His face mashed into the DUTCH GENIUS‘s shoulder, not without affection] You’re such … a freaking… murmbrling…

DUTCH GENIUS: Love is painful, no?

ITALIAN GENIUS: Yeah. And music is popular. What’s fer dinner?

DUTCH GENIUS: I made rabbits.

ITALIAN GENIUS: Great! My paunch is as empty as your head, dummy. Let’s eat!

DUTCH GENIUS: They’re still stewing.

ITALIAN GENIUS: God, you’re a dummy. A beautiful dummy. [Pouting. Whole face a droopy vector down. Begins crying. On a screen behind them a film is projected: New York City in the early nineties. Pizzerias, trees, fire hydrants, marijuana cigarettes, tobacco cigarettes, brownstones, sedans, moustaches, skinny jeans, receipts on little plastic dishes, piled under change.]

DUTCH GENIUS: Isn’t it fabulous that the word where contains the word here?


My best friend Andrew Leland, who is a huge supporter of this blog — really, it wouldn’t exist without his encouragement — is participating in something called “National Magazine Day” this Saturday at the Booksmith on Haight — informational link here. He’s on the panel at 6 p.m. I just wanted to post that to support him, because he needs a lot of support — really, he’s like a giant “anthropomorphized”  set of male genitals about to participate in a celestial football game, and we, his friends and allies, need to be his associative jock strap — get it? this is a pun on the word support. Andrew Leland is like a giant sagging woman’s breast, and we, his colleagues and lovers, need to hold him up–like a ladies’ brassierre. That was also a support joke. Maybe you could also make a joke about “tech support.” “What was the robot’s nickname for his jock strap?” or: “What was the sexy female robot’s personal pet nickname for her sports-bra?” If I ever have my own show on ESPN, which I probably will, I’m going to call it Sportsbrah. That’d be funny if in a play you’re reading there was a character called “The Act of Human Cunnilingus” and it was basically a personified sexual act — not the people performing it, but the act itself — and it had its own personality that wasn’t necessarily how you’d expect the act of cunnilingus to behave — mercurial, sanguine, tempestuous, I hate language, just kidding, fuck you, seriously,

Just Kidding,
Matt “Mailer-Daemon

Prevaricated Sun Preference

[Ten hours later]

DERRICK: I hate cats, I like dogs

JELLIE: I know

DERRICK: What if I adopted a cat instead

JELLIE: Call me Julie.

JULIE: Your apartment is too small.

[They get married.]

DERRICK: I want a divorce


[Julie’s uncle murders Derrick.]


JULIE: Hey meeps

DERRICK: [Licking the salt from the fingers of the bird lord again?]

JULIE: [Nope.] Studying.

DERRICK, I MEAN HIS COUSIN, : thasts cool. wanna watch a TV?

JULIE: Ok, which one

DERRICK [opens trenchcoat to reveal horrible red agitated member]: This one! [Awesome heavy metal soundtrack begins.]

[Supertitles over careering hand-held unmodified home VHS footage of an empty living room, fireplace roaring, maybe some stockings taped to the mantle:







[DERRICK returns] What’s the score [i mean his cousin] laziest instructor?? [delete key gets stuck, a generation of talented hacks and prophets falls under the digital knife. your girlfriend and my girlfriend board a small craft. it embarks from sloate pond at 7 fifteen in the morning. it’s a small pond in golden gate park, dimensions exact, but they manage through a miracle of imagination and physics and literature and crying to break the boundary of the ponds [EDITOR STET MISSING APOSTR., EXTRA S, STET ALL TYPOS,] circumference and they blast forth across the sea in early dusk. If you need a referent for the night sea voyage let’s have it be Homer and not Eggers/Sendak/Jonze, OK?




BETH: That’s fine.

[Fade to pink]

[Fade to black]

[text scrolls across the bottom of the black screen:

If a marginal dipweed dimcracks the buzz

[fade back up, matthew broderick is there]

MATTHEW BRODERICK: Dimweed, it’s a clownfoot, I’ll club ’em

AMBITIOUS WOMAN: I’d love to be involved, in whatever possible way.

MB: OK. I’m sure we could find something.

AW: OK, Great. I’d love to see you eat my BlackBerry.

MB: Very well. [He takes her BlackBerry phone and dunks it into a bowl of beaten eggs, then drops it into a bowl of flour. Dash of salt. And then right into the frying pan.]

ANTHROPOMORPHIZED MFA PROGRAM: I’m sleeping with Harper’s.

MB: Anthropomorphized Harper’s?

aMFAp: Yeah.

RUDY GORNIK: We have to go to Russia tomorrow.

AW: The former Soviet Union?

RG: Yeah.

[dissolve to DERRICK in the same hearthy living room, this time stable camera shot through gauze. High production value. Sexy teenagers, Tight turtlenecks. Loafs of loathing warming off-camera in a megascented kitchen with the sunlight you remember.]

DERRICK: I am ready. A cat. Dander’s fine.

POLYMORPHOUS AMORA: Several sheets to the wind

DERRICK: [To someone] No. [To Sarah] Sarah, putting the pain into paint.

SARAH: In my portrait, do you mean?

DERRICK: No… don’t try to strike terror into my

SARAH: I didn’t mean to strike your terror

DERRICK: It’s not my terror that’s struck. The terror ends up inside of me, but it’s not there before it’s struck

SARAH: That’s why it gets struck

DERRICK: right but it’s not like there’s dormant terror there that gets struck and vibrates into real terror. like a cold gong that gets struck with the mallet of emergency


DERRICK: It’s not like a cold gold gong in my heart that gets struck with the hot fearful emergency of your presence, babe

SARAH: I think it is that way

DERRICK: i’m contradicting myself, I think my heart isn’t empty of terror, and then terror gets imported from somewhere else — it’s more like there’s a cold gong, emblazoned with chinese characters, ideograms I cannot translate, not even Pound could pound the meaning out of

SARAH: Crickey

DERRICK: Shammy. Listen:


DERRICK: it’s dormant and silent and cold and then I see your face and a mallet made from your head stuck on the end of a stick, your face covered in a calfskin bag tied together with leather strikes the cold center of the gong hard and it booms and I am thus filled with terror

SARAH: Terror is a cold mercury liquid that surges? A soundless blind thunderstruck rumbling?

DERRICK: Sure. It’s a bad joke on a good tv show. It’s a fucking recourse, jazzman

DAN: What’s for lunch?

DALE: What’s your fucking problem?

DAN: It’s lunch-time.

DALE: Maybe fat pieces of shit like you should skip lunch now and again. Global poverty, ecology, so on.

DAN: I’m allowed to eat lunch.

DALE: You’re also allowed to engage in sodomy.

DAN: You ever seen a fat man cry?

DALE: Ever seen a blind rabbit?

DAN: Ever see a blond rabbi?

DALE: Ever been knifed in the gut by an ostensible friend?

DAN: “These styrofoam peanuts are non-ostensible. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

DALE: Ever fucked a piece of raw chicken while an arctic seabird looked on, holding a video camera?

DAN: Leave me be. I’m driving to L.A. this afternoon. Before I leave, I’m going to bake a seven-layer-bar with marijuana butter. Then I’ll eat the bar and drive to L.A., stopping at In-N-Out and Jack in the Box on the way. When I get to L.A., I’ll sleep in a motel, watch Pay-Per-View pornography, CNN, Adult Swim. The next morning I’ll drive to the Getty Center, and spend all day there, at a café table, writing in my journal, letting seagulls shit into my mouth.

DALE: What car will you use for this? What about your job?

DAN: I’ll be OK. Don’t worry about me. City CarShare.

DALE: You’re such a fucking f——— [Blasts DAN in the privates with a paintball gun at close range]

DAN: [Howls in pain]

Tuesday Roundup

  • Fun Jason Polan project in NYC w/ Esopus
  • I myself have sampled F. “Breadstixxxx” Horrorwicky’s Fish Stew, and can attest to its excellence, and so it’s a great boon that Waffle Songs has posted her interpretation.
  • Sometimes I find myself mentally making epigrammatic observations about the little Nicholson Bakery pleasure-giving tabs that hang off of the good, everyday white nodules of contemporary life. Then, profound web-based solipsist that I am, I think, I’ll write a short, epigrammatic observation about this mental/contemporary phenomenon on my blog. Then I remember the presence of Magic Molly and I stop, because I know she’s taking care of it—she’s got it covered.
  • Don’t be one of those writers who sentence themselves to a lifetime of sucking up to Nabokov.”—Geoff Dyer in the Guardian. (via Juliet.) Is this a crazily brilliant pun on the word “sentence”? I think so. E.g. to emulate or too-slavishly worship Nabokov—on the sentence level of your prose, emulating those rich, sentencey sentences—is to give a prison sentence to your writing?
  • The inimitable A Rockridge Life: “Blanc doesn’t soothe me as hard.” I wonder when her usage of “soothe” is going to catch on  as a national slang trend.
  • Plebiscite returns from hibernation with a generous slice of hilarious fan-fiction based on a “notorious” Bay Area Yelper. Also: Come to MSF this Saturday for Plebiscite’s always classic “Mission Stoned Food.”  Classic!!!!

Progressive Rakes

JIM: Do you think it’s a good idea, wearing that phallic bolo tie?

CEE:  I don’t know. I’m a sexual umbrella.

JIM: Okay. Send me an email later.

CEE: Okay. I think I understand.

JIM: Okay. That’s no problem.

CEE: Fine,

JIM: Okay, that sounds good. You got it, you get it

CEE: Yes, I know, Okay, will do

JIM: That’s right, that’s fine. Be safe, et cetera

CEE: Lick my nave, baby, I’m a cathedral of sound [CEE leaves forever, thank god. BEA enters]

JIM: Did you read the Roger Angell piece in the New Yorker?

BEA: We already talked about this. The part where he calls someone a “New Yorker friend.”

JIM: Yes. That killed me. It’s amazing they’re still publishing that sort of nonsense. It’s so far past self-parody at this point…

BEA: And still they persist. I know.

JIM: I guess there’s some sort of internal obligation there to let the self-consciously old old boys publish self-consciously old-boy pieces twice a year or something. I feel like it’s self-perpetuating, but maybe once the people who were friends with “Bill Shawn” are all dead those pieces won’t be published anymore… Even some of the old-boy Salinger stuff I found noxious. I don’t know. They should just ask themselves, at every turn, is there any reason whatsoever for an avg reader to give half a fuck about whatever elite country-club bullshit we’re talking about

BEA: Lilian Ross is exempt from that. I mean, her piece was genuinely interesting, in light of Salinger’s death. I don’t mind her calling him “Bill Shawn.” And the Angell piece, if you edit out all the pip-pip wing-tip garbage, was pretty fascinating


BEA: I wonder if your reaction to this stuff is so strong because you grew up in the guest-room of a Davos Chalet

JIM: Probably. You look remarkably similar to CEE.

BEA: Nonsense.

[Thirty years later. Two twenty-eight year olds stand before the gates of the university.]

JOMMS: I heard you’re teaching a class on food and sex this semeseter, is that right?

CHAUNA: No, that’s not right. I’m teaching a class, called The Carnality of Cuisine, about the eroticism encoded in the texts of different vegetarian recipes, going back to Brillat-Savarin up through Bittman, Madison, et al

JOMM: Is it—

CHAUNA: Limited enrollment; sorry, Jomms.

Drink the long draught, Dan

Get yr last clean dirty shirt out of the wardrobe, because


Saturday, February 20th

7PM to 10PM

Grace Cathedral

1100 California Street @ Taylor



  • Nodzzzzz, a wonderful band
  • A colossal floral installation by E. Parks Kibbey. (She’s been posting some lovely lookin previews; I am mostly unashamed to admit I think flowers are pretty.)
  • DJ/dancing
  • Brakhagey-lookin film projections
  • hip priests!
  • etc
  • See you there