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Posts published in “Writing”

The Onion: “Dept. Of Evil: ‘All Of You Must Die'”

I feel like The Onion wrote this article just for me. I think this passage will illustrate what I’m mean.

Although the Department of Evil has not yet announced the exact timetable for the death of all, it recommends citizens make their peace with doomed relatives and spouses immediately, as the hour of their ending draws ever nigh and will be upon them as soon as the necessary funding has been authorized by the House Appropriations Committee.

“This budget approval is merely a pitiful, niggling formality, for soon we’ll be free to swarm across the land draining the life-pus out of all you quivering mortal worms,” Reynolds said. “Doubt us not: Come the wintertide, you all shall die, and die you will. Sorry, I meant ‘must.’ Die you must!”

Really though, you should just head on over to The Onion and read the damn article. Then come back and tell me what you think. It’s easily the funniest thing I’ve read on The Onion all day.

A Letter Regarding the Atmosphere of an Altogether Too Sticky and Hot Nature In My Apartment.

Dear mugginess,

You can suck my dick. I mean that. No, that’s wrong because it sounds like I want you to suck my dick. I don’t. Let’s start over, shall we?

Mugginess, you can suck on the boil-covered, blood-stained cock of a slaughtered horse. Better?

There’s nothing I like less than waking up multiple times a night sticky and sweating. It completely fucks up my sleep and then I get real dumb and real pissed. Regular old heat is fine, but this heavy air, moisture everywhere crap drives me god damned bonkers. Bonkers!

Last night I won out, though, mugginess. I have been avoiding turning on the air conditioner because it’s still May and I’ve never been fond of heavy electrical bills. But you know what’s more important than the difference between a 35 dollar and 60 dollar electrical bill? Being able to sleep. Cost/Benefit. ConEd can have the stupid 25 dollars if it means I am telling you to sit on one and spin. I managed my first good night of sleep in nearly a week since Nature decided it was time to crank the thermostat. Oh how I long for the days of Winter and easy sleeping!

So, you vile son of a bitch, I will endure the next months of your torture. You will not win. And then when Autumn rolls around again and I can safely say that you are behind me, I will laugh and dance and sing and you will be history. History! No more will I sweat as soon as I get out of the shower! No more will I have to wash my face when I arrive at the office! No more will my breathing be labored and heavy as you irritate my asthma!

And though I long for days spent relaxing in the park, enjoying the sunshine and its myriad benefits, all this heinous humidity can go straight to hell. Or the South. Whichever. Just stay the hell away from me.

Sincerely and with tremendous enmity,

The Black Laser.

Inspiration, The Impending Summer, and Change.

Here I am on the tail end of some major life changes and I feel like something is missing. I’m settled in my new apartment, my finances have leveled out after the move, I’ve been working regularly, and playing a lot. The transition into this new phase is basically over and I’m starting to feel a little antsy about it. Not antsy about the transition, but antsy about what’s next. That familiar tightness in the chest is back, that feeling that I’m not doing enough, that I’m not creating enough, that I’m wasting such valuable time as I’ll never have again. Hedonism has become dull, a chore, a worn out play-thing destined for the bottom of the toy chest. All the playing is a nice distraction from life when I’m stressed and stupid and trying to avoid my feelings (as I’ve been doing since the beginning of February), but when I’m not really avoiding anything all the hedonism does is inspire feelings of guilt and shame. Loss? I don’t know. Maybe that’s too strong a word. It makes me feel bad and dumb.

After cranking out the piece for Hunter earlier this year and my subsequent rejection, there has been this tiny little whisper in my brain chanting its disheartening mantra of “Fuck it,” which is a terrible attitude to seeping through your subconscious. Astute Black Laserites will notice that I’ve posted nary a single photo all year. It’s May. You’ll also notice that I’ve not posted any other writing besides the Hunter piece. And that I’ve made ZERO progress on the three music videos I’ve assigned myself for this year. Pathetic. This year’s theme is flailing around, begging for attention, and I can’t seem to muster it. What is my deal? I’m trading my work time for play time as a way to rebound, but it’s not having the affect it should. Quite the opposite, I think.

With this warm weather anxiety firmly gripping my chest, I’ve been thinking of a few simple ways to change things up, to put my brain into a different place. Let’s explore, shall we?

  • Buy a bicycle – I really want one. I think it would be nice to have one to ride around on in the summer time. On the other hand, it’s been 15 years since I’ve ridden a bicycle regularly and riding one around NY scares me more than a little. It’s something I need to overcome.
  • Lose a little weight – Nothing drastic. Just a little. I could stand a little definition. It will help me feel better, no doubt. I don’t really know how to do this, but maybe the bike will help.
  • Read more – This is another weird thing. I think I’ve read maybe 2 or 3 books this year? Again, it’s May. That is a surprisingly low number for me. I like reading a lot. It makes my brain function better and helps me write.
  • Work less – I’ve been working nonstop since October and I’m ready not to work for a little. I can afford it. Thankfully, most of June and parts of July and August I’ll not be working. Super.
  • Pick up the guitar again – It’s been a million years since I owned and played a guitar regularly. I’d like to get one again and flex that part of my brain so long dormant.

All in all, not an insurmountable list. With any measure of diligence I should be able to accomplish these things and they will open the flood gates of my brain so that I might be able to get some damned work done when I’m not working. What is this crazy work compulsion I feel about? Weird. Anyway, I’d like to work more.

And lest this come off as some whiny bitch and moan session (it’s not intended to be), here’s something I find inspirational.

The Extraordinary Book Binding of Philip Smith

Speaking of books, I recently stumbled upon (without the help of StumbleUpon) the work of a British artist named Philip Smith who works exclusively in the bindings of books. As you know, a book is really just a stack of loosely connected papers until someone or some machine comes along and binds them all together. Usually a books binding is utilitarian at best, and shoddy at worst. Hard bound books are nice, if expensive, and then you have your mass market paperbacks which fall apart after 5 years because of cheap paper and cheaper glue.

Then you have artists like Mr. Smith here who not only return the craft of bookbinding to the highly-skilled artisanal place it held for centuries but add a surprising new dimension to it.

Here are a few favorites of mine from his site. See if you can guess which book each of these is. I promise there’s nothing esoteric here; these books can be found anywhere. Except maybe on Mars. For now.

Cool, right? I would LOVE to have one of these in my house on display. Talk about amazing art that would fit right in with my weirdo collection of things I like.

Head on over to the site to see if your guesses were correct. They’re all in the galleries.

Looking for something to read?

If you’re anything like me, and chances are you aren’t, then you have a huge stack of books on your shelves waiting for you to stay home more often and actually read them. I feel a little like a bad parent, but what are you going to do? However, having a back log of books doesn’t prevent me from wanting to acquire more books that I might eventually at some point in the future get around to reading. I mean, books are beautiful objects in their own right, and what’s the harm? It’s better to spend the 12.95 or whatever on a book than to spend it on cocaine. It wouldn’t be very MUCH cocaine, but the point still holds.

Once you’ve finished reading my pile of free, wildly captivating fiction, you might find yourself in need of something else to read while patiently waiting for me to update this site. Where might you find suggestions?

How about a surprisingly poorly written list of famous author’s favorite books?

Did you know that JCO’s favorite book is Crime And Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky? Or that David Foster Wallace picked C.S. Lewis’ The Screwtape Letters? Or that Michael Chabon, who I adore, picked Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges? Lots of surprises! Lots of new, fun books to read. The list even features Peter Cary of not-letting-me-into-Hunter fame. What was his favorite book? Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert.

My only disappointment in this list—besides its ham-fisted writing style—is that my favorite author of all time, Cormac McCarthy, was not represented. I wonder what his favorite book is? Mr. McCarthy, if you read this, leave us a comment. Thanks!

“Ode To Spot”, the finest piece of poetry I have ever experienced.

Here it is. For you to enjoy.

Felis catus is your taxonomic nomenclature,
An endothermic quadruped, carnivorous by nature;
Your visual, olfactory, and auditory senses
Contribute to your hunting skills and natural defenses.

I find myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations,
A singular development of cat communications
That obviates your basic hedonistic predilection
For a rhythmic stroking of your fur to demonstrate affection.

A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents;
You would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance.
And when not being utilized to aid in locomotion,
It often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.

O Spot, the complex levels of behavior you display
Connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.
And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend.

Bonus points if you can name the source without Google. Mikey, I’m looking at you.

Dipset Haiku

This is the second of two poetry jokes I am posting right now.

Urban Dictionary has 58 definitions for the term “dipset“. The one I am inclined to take into consideration for this posting is as follows:

dipset

The diplomats, also known as dipset, are a Harlem new york based group who previously signed to Rockefeller records but now are signed to their own label diplomat records. The group was founded by rappers Cameron and Jim Jones. The diplomats first became popular following Cameron’s reemergence in 2002.

Usage: “Dipset…yup…yeh, yeh, yeh”

With that placed firmly in the forefront of our brains, today I happened across Dipset Haiku, a humorous collection of haikus in what I can only assume to be Cam’ron and the remainder of the Dipset’s style.

Here are a few gems.

3G'd Up
The Great Recession
Rehab
Yellow Bellies

But get yourself o’er to the site and read the rest. Perfect for a boring day at the office. I’m also a real big fan of their color palette.

Paul Muldoon Critiques Ke$ha’s “Tik Tok”

This is the first of two poetry jokes I am about to post.

Princeton professor and Pulitzer Prize-winner Paul Muldoon critiques my favorite pop starlet of the moment, Kesha. In my opinion, he accurately describes the majesty of Kesha’s work, the wonderful way she uses word meaning in novel ways to express fresh ideas, and her obvious homage to Yeats.

I feel inspired by her work to create and to continue to create in the face of people not being able to understand the true depths of your work.