The new Web Site Thingy Stuff

Nate’s Vault has a functioning web site now. You should check us out at


and at

We like to be liked


Radio Silence

I’m in the process of moving. I have many family issues. Work is insane. Thus the relative quiet these days. Not to worry. I will be back and full crazy force soon.

In the “Mean” time HTML Giant is taking swipes at Trick With a Knife. I find it fun. I find many things fun.

How I repeat the things I repeat

I posted this at, but feel that more people will see it here. So, in the act of repeating myself:

Below is the opening paragraph of Tom Waits and Charles Bukowski Fistfight in Hell. I’m posting it to give the world (by ‘world’ I mean the eight people who read this blog) a taste of what the book will be.

If someone with a ‘zine of any sort wants to publish this excerpt they should email nathanctyree [AT] gmail [DOT] com. They can have the entire first chapter if they want.

So, here it is:

“There is only one really serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide.”
-Albert Camus

I’ve got a bad liver and a broken heart

Kelli stands center stage. She grips the metal pole with her left hand and pauses for an instant. This is a caesura; a blank spot, designed to create tension. Her top has just come off, been tossed aside. Her firm, round breasts are on display, but she knows that those aren’t what the men want most. She scans them. The men. The outer tables are mostly frat boys, and young guys nursing over-priced drinks. Up close, in the perv seats, are older men; many with John Deere caps pulled down low on their heads. These men, their eyes speak loneliness, want, need. She is the object of that need and she knows it. At five feet ten inches she towers above the other girls that take the stage. She is thin, some willow’s erotic fantasy of what a willow should be, but with short spiky brown hair and deep eyes. The pause is enough. She swings one leg back and arches her back, then reaches with her hands to wrap them around the pole. Momentum does the rest and moves into a little swing, circling the pole. This is tease. This is her working the crowd. A few dollar bills are being tossed on the stage, but they are meaningless. She is just working the warm up; the opening act. In a minute she will take control. The music changes. A rap song with a deep, hard, driving beat stops and in the instant before the next starts she trusts her self upward and grabs the pole with both hands. In a motion that any gymnast would be proud of she tosses her legs above her head and slides slowly down the shiny pole, circling as she descends. When she takes her feet, balanced on clear heels, she sees that her supplicants are primed. Ready. She drops to her back on the stage and slides off her g-string in a move that seems to require no effort at all. He legs spread wide, showing her pussy to the front row, then she rolls herself over onto her stomach. Her body undulates ending with her ass in the air, her weight propped up on her knees with her legs spread wide enough to reveal her shaved pussy again. She can’t see them, but she knows that the men in the front row are staring hard and imagining touching it, licking it, fucking it. This is where she excels. Kelli stands, turns to face the men, makes eye contact with each one and sends the signal. Her eyes scream I want you. I want to fuck you. I want your dick deep inside me, pounding me, hammering me. I want your cum sprayed on my face. The bills: ones and fives, begin to fly. She moves to the edge of the stage to work the audience. She uses her tits to take a dollar from one guy’s mouth, which inflames the rest. Another man finds himself tugged by the shoulders until he is on his back on the stage with a five gripped in his teeth. Kelli mounts him, letting her tits rub against him, pushing until her flat stomach is against his face, then sliding back to take his money. She can see his little erection pressing against his dirty jeans and she knows that she owns these men. She is the first Cosmonaut surveying a dead kingdom from a thousand miles above. She is a weightless god ready to devour the souls of the mighty. She sees me at an outer table, and her eyes tell me that she disapproves. It’s not that I’m here watching her dance. I’ve done that a lot. It’s the glass of Maker’s Mark in my hand that bothers her. Of all the men in this smoke infested room, I am the only one that knows her true name. They all see her as Kelli. On stage she is Kelli. To a lot of friends she is Madge. She is Margaret on the dotted line. But in my heart she is always Maggie. I’m sorry Mr. Nabokov, but that’s how it is.

Hearts and Livers

Blake Butler has some interesting things to say about “heart in writing” at HTML Giant. It’s worth a read and a thought.

Madam xTX keeps blowing my mind.

I don’t know why Sam Pink is insane.

Then there is this:

Her Own Lagoon

by Nathan Tyree

Her shoulders are hunched in a way that suggests some sort of psychological pain beyond imagination. The plate of spaghetti in front of her is untouched and she fails completely to look at me as she speaks. Her eyes have the look of someone starring out across a large body of water, but there is no water near our table. She picked this restaurant. I don’t care for it at all. My lasagna sucks.

She tells me that Luke has been cheating on her with her fat friend Stella. Stella’s main draw is that she will fuck anyone at any time. I’ve done her once or twice, but there’s no way I’m going to tell Anna that right now. Mostly I nod and make comforting noises. I’m wondering how nice I have to be for this to end up with us having meaningless sex.

Anna shakes too much parmesan cheese onto her spaghetti and takes the first furtive bite. She chews for about ten years and swallows in a manner that makes me think of sheep. Her eyes suggest a lagoon where mysterious birds come to feed on fish that no man has ever tasted. She’s leaving Luke. I take this as a good sign.

Toward the end of the meal I ask if she wants to come to my apartment for a while. She doesn’t seem to hear, but just stares past me into the distance. I can see the reflection of water in her eyes, but there is no water nearby.

Moby Dick

I am the Moby Dick of my living room
I guess that makes my wife Ishmael
That fucking cat is Captain Ahab


In other, more annoying news:

For some reason my email account is fucked. I cannot log in. For the moment, if you are trying to contact me, please send emails to: as that address seems to still work.

If you read this, please pass it along to anyone who might want it. Since I cannot get in the account, I can’t get my my contacts to email them from the alternate address.

I have all of these subs out and now I fear I wont get to read the rejections.

UPDATE: I now have a gmail account:

Yet another pointless post

Yet another useless update on the search terms that lead people to this pointless blog of mine (these are from the last three months)

nathan tyree 131
tyree weblog 22
vulva 16
nathan tyree wordpress 13
nathan tyree weblog 11
“tao lin” 8 7
\”sam pink\” 6
\”nathan tyree\” 4
stygiophilia 3
teo treloar 3
htmlgiant 3
\”j.h. stotts\” 2
“sam pink” 2
\”6 sentences volume 2\” 2
brandi wells review 2
\”chris killen\” \”the bird room\” 2 2
recaptioned family circus 2
tao lin 2
“carlton mellick” 2
six sentences 2
\”bradley sands\” 2
huge vulva sex 2
open wound cigarette burn 2
jon catron magazine 2
recaptioned \”family circus\” 2
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review “six sentences volume 2 ” 2
cigarette burns on skin 2
“j.h. stotts” 2
\”kitty snacks\” magazine 1
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nathan tyree ebook 1
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rick moody six sentences 1
burning own arm with cigarette 1
what is stygiophilia 1
carlton mellick 1
“nate tyree” 1
nate tyree weblog 1
tyree webblog 1
\”social disease press\” 1
\”i am going to clone myself then kill t

For some reason there are cum stains on my copy of War and Peace

There was a slouching lobster out on the street. It kept looking at me sideways and I worried that it would beg for change. I can’t change anything, so I turned up my collar and hurried past.

I beat up a Wal-Mart greeter for saying hello with a fake smile.

For some reason there are cum stains on my copy of War and Peace. This makes me wonder what people do in my house when I am out. Maybe it was the cat.

A friend of mine claims that he is building what he calls a sodomy machine. Apparently it involves a sandpaper shaft and retractable barbs. I don’t know about this.

Miller High Life IS the champagne of beers.

I am writing every single day. Waits and Bukowski is moving along. I feel good about this. I also feel good about cheese.

The Zombie Research Blog is fun.