Never do a google image search for “aborted fetus”

I have an acoustic bass. It was obtained for free (long story – a friend thought he was trading his Squire Strat for a small acoustic guitar, which he could take camping but when the girl he made the deal with showed up she had this bass it tow and my friend was unable to say no; what with the girl in question having a vagina and all – he didn’t want the bass, it took up space and eventually he gave it to me). I need to learn to play it. So far I’ve just noodled around (I play guitar badly – call it prison blues: behind a few bars and looking for the key) and may have accidentally played the opening to the bass line from Folsom Prison Blues once. Somehow I think that I will end up giving the thing away before it becomes a real part of my life. I look at it every day, though. It wants to make music. Just not with me.

Christopher Newgent (a very cool guy) has “interviewed” my “web presence” via a cut and paste method at The Idiom, his word killing site that I have been digging for some time now. This is, I think, my favorite interview ever. I especially love that I had no knowledge of it until it was complete and on line.

If you are not yet aware of badbadbad, you should be.

Never do a google image search for “aborted fetus”. Trust me on this.


Fat Charlie

Fat Charlie

Fat Charlie dreamed again that he was locked in a room full of old men with bleeding hammers and lamp lit virgins weaving human flesh into cages for spiders. He wanted to scream, but couldn’t remember how. He wanted run, but was afraid that he would float away.

When Fat Charlie woke he found that he was lying next to the railroad tracks again. Icarus was about to crushed by a speeding locomotive and all Charlie could think of was Carlyle and the great dead steam engine tearing through the night. Perhaps, the fat man thought, this is an existential question best left to better minds. He didn’t bother making a move until the train had flattened Daedelus’ boy. Then he began the long trudge back to town.

Somewhere on 35th street Charlie ran into that kid in the newsboy hat. The kid had been bothering Charlie about a job for weeks, and the fat man was really in no mood to deal with his pleadings.

Man, I’d do a bang up job, I swear.

Why the kid talked like that was a mystery that Charlie had no desire to solve.

Kid, I got no work for you. All I can offer you in way of a handout is a helping of angst and maybe a little loathing. Why don’t you get fucked, huh?

Charlie kept walking and the kid slanked away like a lobster on new years eve. Just around the corner Charlie stopped to fall into a bottomless pit of dread and sorrow. He paused there in the sodium arc-light for almost ten minutes, while whores sized him up and wondered if this ratty tweed fellow had enough money for a quick hand job in the alley. Mostly the concluded that, no, he was not worth their time. By the time Charlie collected enough inertia to move again he had decided to give up the numbers business and maybe move south, or to one of the islands.

He figured that he could give the daisies a chance, and maybe sell some Mary Kay to fill in the gaps. He started to whistle and never saw the kid coming. Fat Charlie breathed his last with a homemade shank sticking between his ribs and thoughts of a nut brown beach life floating just beyond his dreams.

Needle Eyes

I decided to get clean. Getting clean was not going to be easy. To be clear about what is being discussed here, my day (every of those days) included four xanax, two valium, 1/2 a liter of whiskey and several beers. Before brushing my teeth I was tossing two shots of bourbon and taking a xanax and a valium. Lunch was liquid. I lived this way for most of a year. Then I decided to get clean.

In retrospect, this was a bad idea. I went cold turkey (ironic when you consider that the morning shot was often Wild Turkey).

I’ve given up on it. All the seams were coming undone one stitch at a time.

Now I am back to my routine.

Mean week has ended at HTML Giant. This makes me sad, as I like an excuse to be an ass.

textured vegetable protein product

I love frozen eggrolls.

I am having the toughest time reviewing Lovesick by Howie Good. The damned thing keeps fucking my brain. I keep typing out the review, then tossing it and starting again.

Having the same problem with Scorch Atlas by Blake Butler.

Have you read the new Thirst for Fire? If not, get off your putty ass and do it!

You know, Paul will not like this.

“Our greatest complaint has to do with the fact that there are those – mistresses and other such acquaintances – who, presuming on their supposed intimacy, choose in moments of endearment to address us as “snorckie” “

-Louis Zukofsky

You know, Paul will not like this. He seems to be an ass

Face Melting Factory

Thirst for Fire has announced nominees for Dzanc’s Best of the Web. Our nominees our:

Greg Williard / Cleaning Lady

Nate Innomi / The Frame Maker

Will Spires / The Wall (on Which She Hangs)

These stories will fuck your brain.  The announcement was made at The Face melting Factory, the new TFF blog. Taylor and I will be doing a lot there to break your orbital process, so check it out.


Do not bother seeing Law Abiding Citizen. It begins well enough (for a revenge flick), but the third act collapses under the weight of lazy writing. You may yell at the stupidity on the screen. Rent Rolling Thunder instead.

I’ve spent much of the evening reading submissions for Thirst for Fire. I love this gig. I really do.