Hundreds of Americans, nicknamed the “Amazon Gypsies,” arrived in Cambellsville, Kentucky, in RVs and campers to fill holiday orders at an Amazon warehouse offering temporary $10-an-hour jobs. “We are among the economic refugees,” said one temporary worker, named April McFail. “We are lucky to earn enough to get our laundry done and eat macaroni and cheese.”
Derelict passive mouse blog on the weekend has several jobs: primarily to make sure she makes sense. The second is bloggier: I make sure any pregnant children get health-care of the highest quality. The best cheeses at the corporate supermarket (Safeway) are fine if they’re already in your fridge, but when it comes time to replace them, the best cheeses, why not go to the worker-owned grocery store (Rainbow) and buy that Leftist cheddar. Once everyone’s sure they make sense — in the sense that the language pour is robust or solid, making sure the iPod is charging, don’t telegraph anything, — break open a Thought Experiment Set Piece: the adult stoner’s choiceless afternoon (multiplex).
If it’s on my blog, you can be sure it’s vegan AND kosher, so sup.
the false choice of the breastless necktie.
Not a snack, precisely,
Lame basalt cup on a hooded truck’s best rodeo gear:
If sense is your master, then this is one holiday potluck
where you won’t have much luck
The horniest llama at the petting zoo,
If it’s important for fiction to advertise itself as socially conscious and that some of the proceeds will go toward buying the author’s daughters farmer’s cheese, please, please, revise, revise. Salad like typos cranberries itself up into a defecit — My deficit. A blinded salad’s cranberries flare out (“like jeans”–Cricket Pete). If a college salad freezes on a plate, it’ll be imperative that your reading end quickly. And begin again just as soon.
I’ll not make a plate of sense for you, Imperativa. And a beautiful name, totally — Imperativa. Your purple Honda conceals many curves — I’d love to ride shotgun and change the CDs for you. Let’s meet back here later; “Continue the Story.” I’ve got a Nintendo DS full of stories for you. Knowing, winking, awful self-conscious stories about children of privilege ruining themselves against backdrops of total suffering.
There, for the first time in weeks I caught a glimpse of my suitcase, as it rolled by on a cargo truck and disappeared into an office. It looked dusty and somehow hung-over.
The Flame Alphabet by Ben Marcus. This will be out in 2011. I don’t want to say that much about it. It’s too soon. But it has all the amazements we expect from Marcus in his construction of sentences and ideas, and then worlds more, all powered by a fantastic narrative. It’s a major book.
Unbelievably fun piece by Ed Park in Bookforum, on the invented sample quotations in the Chicago Manual of Style:
It’s like glimpsing the surviving title cards for some legendary ruined silent movie. The non sequiturs cluster into miniature Ashbery poems (5.70: “One committee member may be from Ohio, another from Pennsylvania, and a third from West Virginia. / Ronald adored her and she him”), and even the terser lists take on a shimmering pillow-book feel, as in this passage from 7.29, “Commonly Accepted Epithets”:
the Great Emancipator
the Wizard of Menlo Park
the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table
To get started with this, I had to call Tony Millionare. I mean, originally when he said something about me writing this he said he wanted it to be as dirty, as obscene and as insane as possible. But when I thought back on it, I realized that we really were dirty and obscene and quite insane, back in the day, and that maybe he’d want to reconsider given some of the more fecund memories, such as the almost endless stream of “fatties” he picked up after long nights of drinking, or due to the many times he drunkenly bonded himself to street signs and cried his eyes out, or such as the night that he went to Bharmacy and seemingly “materialized” at the bar (he had no idea how he’d gotten there) holding a broken camera, just before a green-beret like character tossed him out on hjs ass. Even though I am not writing this purely as a blog about Tony millionaire’s Maakies, I thought I should at least go into how I first met Tony millionaire—since it is at his behest I write ths—but in order to tell that story I must tell the story of how I first got myself strangely freakily surrounded by cartoonists, something I never imagined when I moved to New York City. I even dated Dame Darcy for a while (another story that I will tell about later, and a story well worth listening to). Anyway, Tony said it was OK to talk about anythng I want, except a couple of things, but don’t worry, I’m going to talk about anyway, just a little later –because you need to know.
Kill Yr. Idols [Zensor EP, 1983]
Idolization is for rock stars, even rock stars manqué like these impotent bohos–critics just want a little respect. So if it’s not too hypersensitive of me, I wasn’t flattered to hear my name pronounced right, not on this particular title track–not pleased to note that, though “Brother James” is a dandy Glenn Branca tribute and one of the tracks lifted directly from Confusion Is Sex is a lot niftier than the other track lifted directly from Confusion Is Sex, the title cut’s most likely to appeal to suckers for rock and roll as opposed to suckers for boho posers. Boho posers just shoot off their mouths a lot. With rock-and-rollers you never know. B-