Category Archives: sex

My breasts on your lathe

That’d be funny if the guy who said to you “that’d be funny if” in the cafe naked next to your workshirt in San Francisco, the dairy caffeine cafe with the watercolor timestamp art on sale for the wall next to the Green Giant, the jolly fellow near the bathrooms at Ritual Coffee Roasters had a handbill in his pocket that said Remember That Time? And his smile would resemble (in the poems by the coffeeshop poets of the neighborhood) a Trademark Symbol, and in his pocket a kangaroo-shaped playbill would reveal an idea like wouldn’t it be funny you know how when you work from home you invariably inhale sheets of graham crackers (apologies to Kevin Moffett, and or baby carrots,) over the sink, fuck it there’s nothing left in the fridge boiling veggie dogs just because you’re at home and the only stress outlet is to turn your face into a compostable sink disposal, well the funny wouldn’t it be if watch there’s a hip coffee shop like Roasters, but it’s got a fridge and a microwave and a bunch of free food that when you get stressed out you just go up and eat? Plus a separate normal pastry display with normal pastries for sale that all the people with dignity still pay money for and get on ceramic plates, but in a separate part of the cafe there’s a dirty fridge with leftover Thai food and frozen veggie pups and cantaloupe beans and whatever else that people who get a terrifying work-email at 4 p.m. just go hose-happy on blasting the babka till it’s gone.

Trundling up the path, snowy silence, bullshit poems alight on branches like proper ravens. Fatman lost in the zendo can’t even feel the stringcheese in his fleece’s breast pocket. An elipsis travels up and down the length of your cock, why the fuck are your daughters reating my erotc poetry blog… scratch that… nyc pastries + flowers

feeling free in the zendo a professional lifeguard reads the blurbs on the back of your self-published book at the self-funded book release party craftily, hilariously putting his empty plastic wine glass in his breast pocket. Mallarme reference TK, he reads aloud, having flipped to a page at random. “Oh fuck,” you say, “is that actually in there?” Taking the book to look, you see that your placeholder text has accidentally made it into print, you’d meant to insert a Mallarme reference here but I guess you never got around to it… “Fuck,” you say again, handing the book back to the guest, who wears an eyepatch and has a fake parrot sewn to his shoulder and teeters as if wearing a pegleg though looking down it’s true he has two sturdy legs overhung with slate chinos. “Pity the placeholder,” no-one says. The next song comes on shuffle and it begins with an accellerated secular church bell, the kind that bongs the time in stately patient bongs but the clever electronic musician has accellerated the bongs so it seems to be chiming 4,000 o’clock and it’s driving you wild with pleasure, to hear this now, and the embarrassing Mallarme TK gaffe feels decades old and already celebrated as a hilarious and ultimately instructive gaffe. A mewling toddler does not say, “Gaffe Giraffe,” but she does do something specific revealing that there are toddlers at the book event TK TK. A breast presses against the window, begging to be let inside the gallery. A red-breasted titmouse flutters its paws next to the tiny DVD console. A duste mote reveals itself to be hilariously in tune with the matter at hand, I mean with the Remains of the Day, I mean with the Remains of the DVD, I mean with the reina, the queen, my darling. Hate and hope in equal measure suffuse the air above the plate of sandwiches, sandwiches which have tried so hard to be here and succeed, mostly, except looking again at them they seem mostly gone, where do sandwiches go at parties like this? I saw people eating sandwiches but that seems unconnected to the absent, devastated, crumb-strewn plaza near the greasy checkboard mom flannel plane that is what some once called That Table. My nephew is here, his name is Aristotle said an obese cartoon calico cat. I got string cheese in my pockets, Aristotle said. He moved his elbows and knees like he was composing a filigree’d poem for his aunts. He had spent most of the party in the basement behind a piano participating in a jam session with Needles, the drummer, who performed using eggbeaters instead of drumsticks; Palimpsest, on bass, who didn’t know what any of the knobs on the amp were for beyond the main volume control, but still managed to fiddle with them between every song, giving him a different sound each time, playing literally hundreds of different notes throughout the course of the evening, but in which order he played the notes I’m sure you had to be there to know, and of course P. Raichport, tenure-track professor of fiction at Lathe University at Kansas City, who is so clearly based on a real person that even the dimples in her cellulite seem to spell a constellation of ciphers that you can rearrange and glyph and  wait what who is that based on no one actually OK nevermind

Afternoon Insomnia

(It’s 4:52 p.m.) I have the feeling of panicky middle of the night why can’t I get back to sleep insomnia even though it’s working (and not sleeping) that I should be doing and seemingly cannot do. I blame: Facebook. Facebook is a Crisco-covered pig always ready to run; you just open the gate and it tears out squealing and skronking and it’s at least 45 minutes until it’s back in the pen again. Another persistent feeling I have is that sitting in this chair clicking on you guys over and over again is fine as long as I’m quiet, but the moment I open up this WordPress text editor (Barbara, this just refers to the thing I use to write blogs [who is Barbara?] [She’s my fictional grandmother; all of my nonfictional grandmothers died before I was born;] [my wife has an email subscription to this blog so that even though posts aren’t technically “letters written to her,” in effect they all are, because I post them and then maybe six to twenty seconds later I hear the chime that indicates she’s got new mail (cf, Barbara, the Nora Ephron [not related to Zzac Efron — who is Zac Efron? I just Googled him, he’s something called High School Musical; I’m pretending not to know what that is, and that I didn’t notice the initially accidental second z in his name] (I realize you realize this is an absurd number of nested brackets [which is fun to write because “brackets” is the word the English use to refer to our “parentheses,” so I can maybe elegantly or pseudo-economically refer to both the brackets AND the braces (the English word for brackets) in one simultaneously ambiguous and unambiguous word] and I am simultaneously proud and embarrassed to admit that by about line twenty of all this I pasted us out of the WordPress text editor (Barbara) and into TextMate, a piece of software designed for writing code (HTML; PHP; C++; what have you) I optimistically purchased earlier this year when I was more unemployed than I am now that has the useful-to-programmers feature of making it easy to see which left-facing bracket goes with which right-facing one. So when you type a parenthesis, TextMate automatically (“automagically,” my CS TA said last semester about some dumb feature of Visual Basic, the language we used to learn the basics of Computer Science) prints two facing parens or brackets (it does the same thing with single quotation marks [and all this bracket/parenthesis/brace alternation makes me think of the way the English invert our nested quotation mark conventions, starting with the single quote and then nesting a double within that and then if you’re going double-nested reverting back to a single (to say nothing of which side of the law their commas fall on)] (I imagine if I ever did find myself in an MFA program this is the sort of “piece” that would lose me friends and create long and hateful afternoons of people deriding  and condescending and deploring me in a workshop, when really all I want to do is post this on my blog for my own sake, jazzing around having fun, high fives cool see you later, knowing that my wife will have a nicely formatted version emailed to her for her to read at her leisure only if she wants as a hopefully diverting distraction while she’s on a break from William James or Facebook or some fresh piece of health-care legislation), and sets your cursor in between the two, and if you run your cursor over one bracket it highlights its spouse, sort of the typographical equivalent of the device on many contemporary car keys that makes your car chirp when you’ve lost it in a garage) (though since I have such poor peripheral vision it can be tough to find the tiny flashing brace in this sea of type, and sometimes I can’t tell if running my cursor back and forth over a brace doesn’t result in a spousal highlight because its flashing counterpart is in one of my eyes’ degenerating “dead zones” or because I messed up and it’s a stray bracket whose spouse has been deleted (or it never had a spouse to begin with; it, like you, unmarried reader, was typed into this world as a horrible extra, a soul without a mate, cursed to wander the internet reading the self-satisfied blogs of happily married gradually blinkered midwestern acid casualties until you die, happily, well-sexed and alone, in your loft apartment surrounded by paperbacks), enclosing nothing, adding an unnecessary and syntactically confusing (though to be honest how could things get more syntactically confusing than this, which almost immediately abandoned any attempt at readerly syntactical amnesty) layer of padding, like a package wrapped with an excessive amount of tape and very irritating to open (right about here the student in my MFA workshop, in reference to the “email to my wife” line, might say, with a tea-tree-oil toothpick turning to pulp in her mouth, “I mean, is this how you treat your wife? She likes getting this sort of email from you?” and I try too strenuously (it’s no longer 4:52, we’re now post-dinner and I’ve had a beer, I no longer care about getting work done or the perils of Facebook [though I’m still happy to be here; I’m settling in]) to explain that I’m writing this for me, not for our professor or my wife but it doesn’t matter) [even with the aid of TextMate I’ve now totally lost track of the nests, and can’t bring myself to untangle this right now… Maybe I will start a Kickstarter campaign to hire a freelance copyeditor to iron this out for me, or perhaps announce a reader-contest where I send my almost entirely unread hardcover copy of Steven Moore’s 2010 alternative history of the novel (Continuum) to the third person to offer their professional services to make the syntax of this blog post perfect])) writing it down on the internet brings my thoughts into the realm of “politics,” because, I don’t know. Maybe it only makes me nervous about angry strangers reading this, and my nervousness comes from insecurity, and I’m insecure about “politics.” The ensuing paranoid fantasy usually manifests itself as this text appearing on the screen of some politically “active” sad young literary type who has recently Occupied something and then zestily coupled with another politically active and attractive young person, even though in my experience this sort of person despite their “fearsome” (to me, a Jewish American princess who tries hard to leverage compassion and thoughtful engagement into his life but constantly fails, as I imagine the zesty couplers succeed) political intelligence and engagement still tends to harbor tastes and pleasures that are totally unpolitical. Like what? Like food that’s more delicious than it needs to be (truffle oil), or jokes that don’t strike a fatal blow to the ruling elite, or literature that doesn’t do — and doesn’t try to do — same. Smoking pot, getting drunk? Indie rock. And so saying anything about my aimless click-diverted workless afternoon of privilege and leisure “reifies” (Barbara, meaning it makes real, into an object) the spoiled fermenty gas that is my consciousness and creates a permanent (though many these days argue that the internet and the servers it lives on is impermanence reified, that “digital” is synonymous with “virtual” with “evanescent,” though our [my] experience of it is that something I write on a piece of paper gets seen by no one, not even my deeply beautiful wife in the other room, or if I publish a poem (“How many / little dickless / little sparrows / swallow cocks, / swallowcocks // May I scat for u”) in Pleuperfections, a well-respected university press’s literary journal, then NO ONE WILL SEE IT, whereas this is at least going to end up in my wife’s inbox (which is of course what most Facebook activity is, messages ostensibly sent to one person that are really messages sent to everyone [which is more or less what all writing is, unless you’re really writing something private, under the kind of shadowy dangerous exigent privacy that only politics or illicit sex can create]), and will at least be read by Max Tabackman Fenton, who is my internet guru, who I hope by posting his full name here I’m ensuring that he’ll read this, since I imagine him to be the sort of person who Googles himself at least once a year (or more likely has a Google Alert for himself, or has subscribed to this blog in one of the many ingenious ways he has devised for keeping abreast of everything at once), (which is not to say he’s egotistical, because he’s not, only that he’s savvy) maybe right around the end of the year, which is tomorrow, and so might see this then.) object.

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: No.

[Julie’s uncle murders Derrick.]

DERRICK’S DANISH COUSIN, JAMIE MEEPENSTONE: Hey

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:

CHAMPAGNE

CHOWDER

CHERRIES

PRAETORIA

PRAETORIA

]

[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?

Homer

Homer

Homer

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

SARAH: I do think its that way [EDITOR STET MISSING APOSTROPHE]

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:

SARAH:

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

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

JIM: OK, OK, OK, OK

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.

Black Francis, alive and well

I finally came into possession of an old guitar someone had given me at a nightclub in San Francisco awhile back; Eric Drew Feldman had been holding it for me there on Haight Street.  He convinced me that it looked cool (it was black) and had been given in the spirit of benevolence.  Every time I picked it up a nice chord came out and so I lovingly cleaned it with red wine in the dressing room the following night and began to write.  I told the tour manager that we would drive in my Cadillac directly to a recording studio in Los Angeles (and could he book one, oh, and a rhythm section, too?) from the gig in San Luis Obispo which would put us at the studio at about 4am.  It all happened according to plan and we cut the initial tracks there in the wee hours over a few days, and then moved on to an equally haunted studio in London and Eric Drew Feldman joined us there and we finished the record in St. John’s Wood.  Like I said the studio was haunted and I wrote many a couplet by candlelight in the studio accommodation, slept very little, and only felt the need to get the fuck out of there fast on the last night.  The spirits had not ever bothered me, other than low drama moral support, but I was informed that they had heard enough and it was time to move on; plus I had a gig in Ireland.

When I was a boy the plant we boys called a fern was code for vagina, and to this day I love fern plants.  In my heart the vagina is almost everything, and almost everything else could be summed up in what cock and seed have to offer; and everything else?  The love of the father, dead or alive, the pain of too much pleasure, till death do us part, the voice of another song man from the other side, with or without God, Teri and the Possibilities, where ever you may be, the smell of sex in the air, seduced, slain, on my knees in prayer, sucking at the only thing that matters, my own personal Meret Oppenheim, I am Man Ray and I want you and to be all the way inside you, the cameras whirring as we put some elbow grease into the scene, the audience watching us in the dark.

Black Francis
January 2010, Central Oregon

(via the internet)

Clarissa Explains Most of It

Horsey is champing at the bit! He is a professor of Spanglish at Domenicka Girl University of Barbados County, which is a hot little sub-county within Marin, in Northern California. Horsey teaches:

  • poetry
  • indie-rock criticism
  • short story
  • table mannahzzzz
  • peacock
  • shootin’
  • jewish studies
  • ovary sciences
  • a river runs through it (fly fishing)
  • ENGL204: “John Fante and the Beats”
  • Java
  • NATTYSCI003: “VeggieTales from the CryptCyde”
  • Gymn
  • Gyne
  • Avatar Studies
  • CRWRI404: Politically Correct, Pseudoexperimental Erotica (practicum)
  • tabla (indian classical music)

A student walks up to Horsey on one of the campus’s windy paths. “Hey I’m trying to square Marx Freud and Darwin but it’s hard. These thinkers only really make sense to me when I’m having sex with another person. When I’m in the library or in my dorm room trying to write a paper it doesn’t make sense. But, you know, when I’m having sexual intercourse, during the duration of the intercourse it all makes sense. I feel like I get marx darwin and freud.” Horsey winks. “In that order?” The student frowns. “No.”

HORSEY: Well, come by my office hours, we’ll talk about this problem.

STUDENT: Professors are like therapists in this way, non? [She lights a cigarette]

HORSEY: “Oui.” [He does not speak French]

T.R.A.N.S.M.I.S.S.I.O.N.

I.N.T.E.R.R.U.P.T.E.D.

Link to an Interesting Article About Twitter

SHOUTING INTERNET GUY: I CAN’T WAIT UNTIL EVERYONE LEAVES AND IT’S JUST ME IN THE OFFICE BLASTING STREAMING WEIRD INSTRUMENTAL HIP HOP AND MY TINY BOWL OF HONEY ROASTED CASHEWS RUNNETH OVER, WEARING A CRAZY WIG OF PAD THAI THAT FALLS INTO MY EYES, GCHATTING WITH MC PAUL BARMAN, GCHATTING with self-loathing people in New York who are not sad that JD Salinger is dead, who are not sad that Twitter wrongfully terminated a Jewish woman last night, who are not sad that a robotic cat raped a drawing of a mouse in plein air on 32nd St and Harrison in San Francisco that same night; these fuckers are unmoved by the outrageous story of all the caffeine in an unsteeped Earl Grey teabag deciding to GET HIGH USING A GRAVITY BONG, and then go back into the teabag, and then a toddler, only 3 years of old, ordered the tea from his Russian nanny, demanded tea, NANNY FETCH ME TEA, and so the Russian nanny dutifully steeped it, and served it, and the kid died, 86 years later, of natural causes. Nobody  is concerned that I’m not friends with Harmony Korine? That I have Dutch gentials with the brain of a Dane? That I sometimes dip articles from Harper’s into boiled water and watch them steep and then drink the tea while I read the leaves?

I’m glad Jessica Hopper was outraged by the new Vampire Weekend record. I think she’s a smart and funny writer. Martin Amis is, too, but that doesn’t mean JM Coetzee denies his readers the pleasure principle. I’m not fluent in Italian, French, German, or Swiss French. I’ve never brought a Swiss woman to climax. I’ve never denied the pleasure principle to JM Coetzee. He asks, and I tell. Every time. @moodygroovin is the darkest, dankest 140-character assassin on twitter. Every author who’s ever published a novel as a paperback original with FSG or Picador has at one point in print claimed that one needs to be a coffee-drinker in order to be a successful novelist, and each and every one of them is wrong. My fictional female alter ego, Beth Pails, drinks nothing but hot tea in greens and Grays and wrote a novel that Amis and Coetzee agreed could “only have been produced by the Internet and its attendant depravities.” It sold several, several copies. If I were a woman, I would have the body of a woman. Do you remember that time I paraphrased Steve Martin’s line from L.A. Story about how he would spend all day feeling himself up if he were a woman when we (you, the reader, and me, Bethany) were in seventh grade and Mrs. White was scandalized and I got in “pretty big” trouble?

One more paragraph: “I still like hip hop.” Of all your favorite living novelists under the age of 40, which do you think likes hip hop least? This is among the questions I’ll be asking tonight on a panel I’m moderating at the Garricks’ Library, 800 Valencia St, just kidding, 5:15 p.m. Appearing on the panel will be Cameron Stipené, Shellie Coup, and (I’m just kidding, 800 Valencia is the increasingly gourmet bodega on the corner) Lydia Brousserrie. $5 suggested donation. Enter through Rhea’s Deli.

grumpus

BLOGGING IS A POINTLESS ACTIVITY/////////////

HERE ARE MY POINTLESS THOUGHTS ON BLOGS//////////////////

A GIANT SANS-SERIF WHO CARES DESCENDS UPON THE CITY, CRUSHING EVERYTHING THAT IS NOT AN ADORABLE ANIMAL OR AN ATTRACTIVE WOMAN

M.A. ORTHOFER’s UNSWERVING GROUCHINESS ABOUT BOOKS AND BOOK COVERAGE ALWAYS MAKES ME HAPPY. I’M NOT SURE WHY. PLEASE “STAY TUNED” FOR A 400,000-WORD “BOOK-LENGTH ESSAY” WRITTEN BY ME AND MY ANTHROPOMORPHIZED SPIRAL-BOUND NOTEBOOK (WITH AN ANTHROPOMORPHIZED ALL-CAPS “ANTHROPOMORPHIZED” SCRAWLED ON THE COVER) INVESTIGATING WHY M.A.O.’S UNSWERVING GROUCHINESS ALWAYS MAKES ME HAPPY.

I LOVE THE PHRASE “AFTER THE JUMP”

[EILEEN MYLES IS SEMI-LOVABLY GROUCHY IN THE COMMENTS SECTION HERE (thanks to Gerhard Richter’s Daughters for the link)]

is it true that reading all-caps text makes you, the reader, feel assaulted/exhausted?

(have you read the new Padgett Powell novel-in-questions yet?)

do u find all-craps (“craps” being just-invented slang for kute-lee miz-zpell’d all-lwrcse) equally exhausting, but in a different way?

WHEN SHE IS IN COLLEGE WILL YOUR DAUGHTER STUDY THE WAY “THE INTERNET” HAD LOTS OF GOOD SEX WITH “LANGUAGE” IN THE EARLY 21ST CENTURY?

WILL YOU NAME HER BETHANY???????????????

I’m going to mention this blog on stage at the makeout room a week from today, on behalf of the Rumpus dot net, I am “mediumnervous”

Oh, fuck!!!

I will attempt to perform an erotical, dialogic jam session in the style you may be familiar with from this website. So if you’re in town, and you like dialogic jam-sessions, do come along! I am a chubby, affable acid casualty! I have severe night blindness!!!

[Leave a comment on this blog post for half-price tickets!]

[Why hasn’t this dog emailed me back yet??]

Lingua Citadel

I work for a small nonprofit theater company; a theater festival in the Hague (Den Haag), Netherlands, inexplicably invited members of our company to a festival they are putting on but all the senior members of my small theater company got lockjaw syndrome and painful-butt disease so by the luck of the draw I got to travel to the festival with my colleagues and coworkers Breadstixxxxx and Quintiple-Deez, I’ve changed their names to protect their names, I haven’t slept in 20 hours, these last three clauses are true.

Over the next five or six days I will be “liveblogging,” that is to say “breathlessly typing up my pointless notes” on my time here at the pointlessly occluded roman a clef literary music festival that I am simultaneously at and not at in the Hague. War crimes joke.

We landed two hours ago. I tried for fifteen minutes to sleep but sleep never came. I won’t tell you if I went to the bathroom or not. (I did.) I have abandoned sleep, I’m going to just power through the evening and sleep with the Dutch. When they’re sleeping. I don’t mean have sex with them. I mean sleep when they sleep. I did sleep with fourteen or fifteen people on the plane, not in the bathroom but in the little aisle  between my row of seats and the cabin separator wall behind it, men and women, a few consenting children, I also made love to a couple handicap devices, like blind-person canes and arm braces.

HALF-ELF: [exhausted] No apologies for heavy/gross/fake-occluded-personal blog, right?

OTHER, FIERCER HALF-ELF: [hale] Right!

Breadstixxxxxx came over to say hi to me at my seat and had written on his hand in ink Dat kinkt geweldig which he thought from watching Flight of the Conchords with Dutch subtitles meant “That would be great.” He had a draught of drambuie after dinner. I drank nothing but water on the plane. The flight passed quickly as I read the entire New York Times and then an entire (complimentary) UK Guardian cover to cover in the first must have been four or five hours of the flight. Intensive newspaper reading on long flights is good: the aridity dries the paper as you read so by the time you land the newspaper has turned to a delicate, sloughed-off epidermal crinklesheet.

Guilt about air travel’s deletirious effects on the environment. Guilt about my going on such a fun-sounding junket-seeming trip despite the fact that I self-lobotomized at age 14 and have done nothing to deserve this hotel room and will do nothing but think about myself the entire time I’m here. Guilt about guilt, guilt about self-consciousness, guilt.

Ethical dilemma when obese Dutch woman and husband wanted me to trade seats with their son so he could sit next them in my aisle seat. “Is he sitting in a middle seat?” He was. “How old is he?” Thirty-three. I rejected their offer. I spent the rest of the flight in intimate contact with the giant woman’s elbow, other aspects of her right side. She ate everything that was put in front of her. I am also overweight, but not as much as she is. I also don’t have a 33-year-old Dutch son. I felt bad when, at the end of the flight, the flight attendant confirmed that she’d want a wheelchair to get out of the terminal. She could walk, nevermind, what

At baggage claim there was a stoner delegation from CA clearly engaging in marijuana tourism. They were gentle, fine. Four of them plus a guitar.

Juice bar in airport called Juggle Juice.

Sleep = Slaap

Het is half elf’s morgen = it’s 10:30 a.m.

Arts = doctor

two = twee

Lunch = Lunch!!!!