Tag Archives: clinical sex

Murakami Birthday Velveeta Fictionaut to the Brain!

* I refuse to believe the Golden Globes are truly Golden.

* I refuse to believe in any god who can one day part a sea and the next cannot stop a tsunami.

* I refuse to believe in the Irish Channel section of New Orleans. That didn’t happen to your aquarium, Sarah, and if it did, I wasn’t there! Stop calling me!

* I refuse to believe in all-Velveeta weekends. Or that clothes make the man. Or that anyone who drinks Zima can be taken seriously in a game of bocce.


* I refuse to believe people regulate themselves very well (or want to, really).

* I refuse to believe bottled water isn’t from some tap, somewhere.

* I refuse to believe anything can happen to anyone at anytime. But I certainly understand the hope for.

* I refuse to believe in collecting butterflies (sorry Nabokov).

That’s about it for now. I think. My head goes whoosh-whoosh. My sinuses are stuffed with snow, and misgivings. Look outside, gray sky flattened out like antique watches in a case. I saw opossum tracks in the snow this morning. Right on my front porch. A dead thing skulking.


I really like this new Jimmy Chen work at Diagram. I am getting into the straight forward statements kind of work, the juxtapositions. This might be the influence of Ken Sparling. After I devoured his book in December, I wrote three Ken Sparling type pieces. (I usually write new ideas in series of three. This works, for me; and often does not work, for me.)

I write like a cow standing in the sleet.

Here is a great article about Ken. Check out how he produces his books:

“Consider his second book, Hush Up and Listen Stinky Poo Butt, which he began self-publishing on a made-to-order basis in 2000. Sparling printed the pages at home, had his wife sew the signatures, and then duct-taped it all together inside of the bindings of retired library books whose pages he’d removed. For a cover, he used pictures his two children had drawn. So far, he’s sold about 70 copies at $30 each. It’s been a while since he’s received an order, but Sparling says he’s ready to go at any time if one should come in.”

I love that last line, BTW, a little dry humor by the journalist. I miss dry humor. I’ve pretty much had enough of wet humor. Wet humor is loud. Wet humor is looking to see if we “got it.” Wet humor hangs pictures of itself all over its own apartment. Wet humor thinks Michelob is a microbrew.

One time I was out running on a Sunday and I passed an abortion clinic and sitting in the empty lot was an old green pickup dented truck, and Wet Humor at the wheel, all crazy-eyed and revving the engine–WHIREIRRIRI!!–all loud and blue coiling smoke and just sitting there in neutral and revving, revving, screaming engine; and I glanced over before crossing the road and made eye contact (stupid!) with Wet Humor and he busted open his door, jumped out toward me, stumbled through some landscaped bushes, his arms all grabby-clutch and face red, redder, twisted with spittle, some freak-o monster; and I ran like hell!

That was scary, people. My gods.

Ok, my heart is trippin’ down now…


I think my next literary match might involve Jimmy Chen. I have to think on the challenger. Might be Sexton, Yeats, or Mattie Stepanak.



1.) This guy killed an author to steal his identity. He wanted to steal a writer’s identity. A writer. He wanted to “be” a writer. Um, ok.

2.) This man writes about loneliness. Do you know why we are all lonely (person reading this who wants to make really, really clear they are in fact not lonely, go comment on some other blog)? Because we do not “connect with our true selves.” I think I’ve read a few French novels on this subject…

3.) Writers still have no idea what to call the toilet.



An AWP POKER GAME IS BREWING! Come to Chicago. Bring canned beer, a round table, some shiny Euros.


Fictionaut is getting tighter.

Some wicked stuff dropping in now. All kinds of fine reads. If you want an invite for the Beta version, gimme a yell.


Folks, today is Jack London’s birthday. That man told us not wait for inspiration but rather to club it, like a seal (his words).

Folks, today is Haruki Murakami’s birthday. I want you to stop by a coffee shop on the way home and order a beer.

Listen to the jazz.

Pick up a young girl who has the most perfect ankles in the world. She has to wear long, long pants–if anyone sees these ankles, they go into a swoon, then a seizure, then they leave their loved ones, their job, and all adult responsibilities forever for the young girl.

Once home, make clinical love. Do pushups. Drink another beer. Have miso soup.

Discover a tunnel below your washing machine. Grab the girl’s hand and enter the tunnel. Listen to the humming of the walls. The flex of machinery.

Insert talking cat.



Feel like this today…