Tag Archives: Hemingway

Punch Yourself in the Face

“I went out and told the woman what a rum punch was and how to make it. In a few minutes a girl brought a stone pitcher, steaming, into the room. Bill came over from the piano and we drank the hot punch and listened to the wind.

“There isn’t too much rum in that.”

I went over to the cupboard and brought the rum bottle and poured a half-tumblerful into the pitcher.

“Direct action,” said Bill. “It beats legislation.”

The Sun Also Rises

  1. Get a big-ass crock pot.
  2. Pour in some apple cider.
  3. Add three cinnamon sticks. Break them up. It’s fun, sort of like knocking a battery off a man’s shoulder.
  4. Shove some cloves into orange. Think about sex with Martha Stewart.
  5. Cut up the orange and fling it in.
  6. Add some lime juice and some pineapple juice.
  7. Heat it all up to make your house smell happy.
  8. Pour two big-ass dollops of rum into Ball jars or that beer glass you stole from Applebees because you are so crazy.
  9. Pour the mix over.
  10. Call your mom.

Pink Elephant Hydrocodone Richard Yates. 5K results.

Before the race I needed a martini, preferably alongside a giant pink scabbed elephant (teenagers tore off his cool sunglasses). Wow, has the Pinkaderm seen better days…


But what about the race, Sean? I finished 7th overall, a holy number. I ran slow. I am out of 5k shape, folks. My lungs felt like big blue plastic vats. Like erotic paintings of farewell. They spleened me.

The highlights from the race for me:

1.) Men and women in running gear. Whenever I get into a crowd of men and women in running gear, my mood elevates. I can sense our pleasurable anxiety, our purpose. There is an aura, a crisp glow of hardened calves and heart-thrum.

2.) I saw a beautiful black horse on mile two. This was the zoo so who knows the geographic or spiritual origins of this horse. It just watched me run by, then nodded. They call that narcissistic thinking when you believe a horse gave you a nonverbal gesture. Ok, it may have nodded to an acorn, or a puddle. Anyway.

3.) Two of my friends from Michigan showed up and yelled, “Go Sean!” at the finish. That’s always a nice feeling. Right after the race, as I stood there gasping in wonderful pain, my pal Nate, who I had not seen in maybe a year, walked up and shouted, “You’re wearing Nikes?!” I still don’t know what he meant.

 MALE AGE GROUP:  35 - 39
             BIB   SEX                            GUN     CHIP
PLACE O'ALL  NO.   PlC  NAME                AGE   TIME    TIME   PACE
===== ===== =====  ==== =================== ===  ======= ======= =====
    1     7   857     7 SEAN LOVELACE       38   18:19    18:17  5:54 

Slow, but it happens. And I now continue my Boston training.


AWP in Chicago is sick. I worked with a patient once who held a hot iron to her stomach. Then one time a guy threw a Coke machine, kicked open a door, and leaped into the Tennessee River outside our hospital. That’s how ill AWP is going to be.

I worked for DuPont, with chemicals that were not combustible–they were explosive. If you brought one match or lighter into the entire plant, they would fire you on the spot. We actually did our work with copper tools. No sparks, get it? Well, me and this old dude named Maxine would crouch below 50 gallon drums and smoke cigarettes on our break. That’s how AWP is going to be.

One time my Uncle wrestled a deer by hand, I want to throw that in here. It’s a long story but he wounded this deer and then it bounded over a tall boundary fence, into land we were not supposed to hunt, and it crumpled there; and my Uncle handed me his gun and said, “Fuck that” and went and climbed the fence, fell right over.

The deer jumped up! And my uncle jumped on the deer (this an 8 point buck) and unsheathed a knife and they rolled on the ground in hand-to-hoof combat. I watched this. Watched my uncle choke and wrestle and stab this buck and then–now this must attest to powers of epinephrine–lift this huge animal and TOSS it over the fence onto our land. He then brushed himself off, climbed back over, and walked up to me–now all disheveled, all covered in dirt and blood and leaves–and casually took his gun from my hand and said, “Well, that was something.”

AWP will be like that, only crispier. Go here, fools!



I think Edward McWhinney’s new work at Juked is how I feel about the economy.

I think you should read it. Yeh, you should. Go read it, now.

I think sitting at a bar is one of the great things. Bars are necessary. You know this.

Hemingway told you. He married 4 times to tell you. He crashed an airplane in the jungle, hiked out, boarded a rescue plane and the rescue plane crashed, fracturing Papa’s skull, setting him aflame, all this to tell you. He bet Dos Passos $100 he could catch a tuna out of the Gulf Stream with no shark bite on the tuna (at the time, this was considered impossible off the tip of Cuba–any line-caught struggling tuna was mauled by sharks [this image the beginnings of Old Man at the Sea]) and Papa won that bet. How? He held a machine gun in one hand, the rod in the other, and raked the sharks with gunfire while battling the fish. Hemingway met Gary Cooper and they shot protected eagles off telephone wires in California, the bastards. That wasn’t nice what Hemingway wrote about Stein in A Moveable Feast, or the way he made Fitzgerald look a fool. They helped him along, and, later, he just cut their literary throats. Well, that’s humans for you, and at least Papa knew the value of sitting in a bar alone.



Author addicted to hydrocodone.

Here is where I interview my brother during his struggles with Lorcet addiction. Lorcet is a patriotic industrialist, so watch the fuck out, I say.

Author updates The Joy of Sex

Kick ass article about Richard Yates. I like the part where he stores his novel in the freezer. I am going to start storing my novels in the freezer. What novels? Shut up.

A story made the rounds that Woody Allen purchased and continued to renew, year after year, an option on Yates’ “The Easter Parade,” despite having no plans to make the movie, simply because he liked Yates’ work. In Allen’s 1986 film, “Hannah and Her Sisters,” Barbara Hershey’s character thanks Michael Caine’s character for lending her a copy of “The Easter Parade,” and Mia Farrow’s character is seen reading the book in one scene.


Today I was standing in the shower and eating a corn dog. I had a porcelain bowl in my left hand, with spicy mustard. In my right hand I held the corn dog. I would dip the corn dog into the bowl and then eat the corn dog. I thought, Is this disgusting? Is this disgusting to eat in the shower? Or is it some type of brilliant multitasking? Maybe I stumbled upon some evolutionary leap here, some cosmic link in the megaversal chain of being. I mean people read in the bathtub; people watch the news while running on treadmills; people have sex while thinking, Damn, I forgot to roll out the garbage and now it won’t get picked up at all this week. That makes me so mad, dealing with all this garbage. Why do I use up everything, all the cheapness of this life, of my life, and then just throw it away? My existence is useless, basically. Etc. So maybe it isn’t disgusting? I’m not sure. It didn’t feel disgusting. Hmm. I’m going to think on it. Well, after I showered I took the bowl into the kitchen and cleaned the bowl in the sink and drank a can of Sprite Zero and drove to work, drove to work rather well.


Taco and Burrito House:

The flying monkey staggered inside drunk, with a kilt, and no one blinked an eye. A possibility for Chicago AWP nacho night, folks.



Death Rain Nitro Writing Tips.


When cooking, I grab whatever spices. I like to reach into the back of the cabinet, to see what smidgen I might cling. Last night I found this: Death Rain Nitro.

A friend gave me this years ago. It is a powdered form, like anthrax or cocaine.

HOLY + SHIT. This was easily the hottest thing I have eaten since that lost weekend in Chile. My tongue did the pain Amy scissors dance. It swoll up. It had a supper of gasoline with the poor. He Hate Me.



I sent an editor a writing tips essay. It should be “out there” soon, unless the editor decides to not place it “out there.” I have over 559 writing tips, but only included tips #2, 14, 119, 9, 5, 16, and maybe a few others. Here is an example.

TIP FIVE: Don’t Try.

Charles Bukowski has these words on his tombstone: DON’T TRY. That’s either very sad or very Zen, I’m not sure which. My favorite tombstone engraving can be found in Round Rock, Texas: I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK. But I digress. Was Bukowski’s soul destroyed by all the cheap beer and ugly women? No, those two things restore a soul. What about his years working at the United States Post Office? Now you’re talking sense. Either way, his epitaph seems the best philosophy for a writer. For some ungodly reason, a lot of people want to be writers. They are seeking something, some miasmic state just over the oily horizon. They need to cease. To cease trying. They should instead lock themselves into a deep cave and write. Then write some more. Like a clam. A microwave cloud gathering. A Muzak, or a mural. And so on.



Come down to Memphis and try to drink like that and you’ll get your ass kicked, Papa.

Orwell’s Diary as a Blog! Hipster Essay. Fence Editor Tells Contributor to Eat Shit. Six Ways to Get Published.

Here it is. Orwell’s diary–propelled to the NOW.


Ever since PBR sales spiked  in 2002 and the brewery had no idea why (they found out why–and slyly started marketing to the super-cool youth), I’ve been interested in Hipster Culture.

My bro sent me this Hipster Essay. Others have maybe seen this already, but I am old so it takes me longer. It started strong, but maybe could have gone more in-depth? The best part is the 2000-to-3000 comments. Man, people do have opinions on the hipster.

Essay begins:

I‘m sipping a scummy pint of cloudy beer in the back of a trendy dive bar turned nightclub in the heart of the city’s heroin district. In front of me stand a gang of hippiesh grunge-punk types, who crowd around each other and collectively scoff at the smoking laws by sneaking puffs of “fuck-you,” reveling in their perceived rebellion as the haggard, staggering staff look on without the slightest concern.

The “DJ” is keystroking a selection of MP3s off his MacBook, making a mix that sounds like he took a hatchet to a collection of yesteryear billboard hits, from DMX to Dolly Parton, but mashed up with a jittery techno backbeat.

So… this is a hipster party?” I ask the girl sitting next to me. She’s wearing big dangling earrings, an American Apparel V-neck tee, non-prescription eyeglasses and an inappropriately warm wool coat.

Yeah, just look around you, 99 percent of the people here are total hipsters!”

Are you a hipster?”

Fuck no,” she says, laughing back the last of her glass before she hops off to the dance floor.


I wish I know what to eat today. I have a few chips, some sour cream. I wonder if I could…Place this, uh, there. Cover with…Melt…uh. Maybe if…

Taste like a movie that doesn’t start until six-fifteen. Like Huntington, West Virginia. Blar. Blar me. Blar me of the universe. Now.


Here is where Fence editor, Rebecca Wolff, tells a contributor to “eat shit and die.”

Make of it what you will…


Adam Peterson has good poems about death at La Petite Zine.


Danger + Desire = Tension.


I made a chart today and this blog screwed up the formatting.

code desire express radically                    vivid y




liver throb

eaten by a cloud



the moon!

panty triangle,




so-called querulous

cooling towels






fuzzy pink




Mr. O



by Valery Oisteanu


I am wanting to read Blake Butler‘s novella.

I am thinking his blog made me want to blog, but maybe I don’t know.

I am wanting to eat cold oysters and white wine. With Hemingway. On the moon of a demoted planet. Why did he hate Fitzgerald for laziness and alcoholism and other isms?

My first oyster this guy in Florida gave to me covered in Tabasco sauce and mustard and on a saltine.

What is the point? (life metaphor)

Turning 30 is a demoted planet.

I am wanting to eat rotel.

Stoppage for days.

Feeling your pulse sludge.

I am wanting to bludgeon those who blog about Sarah Palin.

I am wanting to run away from home (again).

I am wanting to drink and Ebay.

I am wanting to drink a meaningless beer.

Have meaningless sex.

Dance to meaningless Depeche Mode.


I want my president to not be regular. Not a regular person. In no way regular. Sorry.

I am wanting a shamrock.

I wish I knew more about my genealogy.

I am shallow now.

I am linking to a kick ass Tao Lin interview. All his answers are spot on. Why do they ask why he writes about energy drinks and IM chat? Why did Van Gogh paint crows? He looked out the window, saw crows.

Tao Lin grows on me…

Time grows on me.

Regret grows on me.

Lorcet grows on me.

Sports radio grows on me.

I am wanting to link to an NBA star who has a new memoir.

I am wanting to mine Yoda’s roots.

I am wanting to quote Sarah Palin when asked about the $700 billion bailout:

“That’s why I say I, like every American I’m speaking with, were ill about this position that we have been put in where it is the taxpayers looking to bail out. But ultimately, what the bailout does is help those who are concerned about the health-care reform that is needed to help shore up our economy, helping the—it’s got to be all about job creation, too, shoring up our economy and putting it back on the right track. So health-care reform and reducing taxes and reining in spending has got to accompany tax reductions and tax relief for Americans. And trade, we’ve got to see trade as opportunity, not as a competitive, scary thing. But one in five jobs being created in the trade sector today, we’ve got to look at that as more opportunity. All those things under the umbrella of job creation. This bailout is a part of that.”


1.) Send in short stuff. Editors only have so many pages. You are not a “name.” That’s ok. The role of lit mags is to publish the edge of literature, the new, the voice, the cream puffs and hosiery of our time. They’ll take a flyer on you but not for 30 pages, freak-o.
Cormac McCarthy’s first pub was in a lit mag.
Ditto Hemingway.
Ditto Roth.
Ditto Elizabeth Bishop.
2.) Send in September, or January. You send in the end of their submission window and they are tired, drunk, bloated with good work, limited with room, feeling like twenty drops of tincture of hemlock, or weight loss drug, up all night not eating, circle and cycle, what do I do last night? If you do stimulants (don’t–at least not every day), be sure to have a “downer” to help you come off the back-side, on like Sunday. Even a Funny Car has a parachute near the end of its run.
3.) Get to personally know some editors. Have a beer with them, walk their dog. Loan them one of your 84 Joyce Carol Oates novels. Then send them stuff. They might not publish it, but it will be awkward to say no. Most humans don’t like to ever feel awkward. This is a BAD FAITH way to get published so might lead to night thoughts and generalized depression. I mean you can fake out about anyone but yourself, especially in that weird light before you fall asleep. Still, I’m trying to be helpful.
4.) Don’t use silly fonts.
5.) Don’t write about two people in an apartment drunk. Do not have your narrator commit suicide.
Here’s a great story: This young woman wants to run away from home. She’s a teen; she doesn’t recognize the value of family, when the shit hits the fan. A tornado hits, and carries her off to a mystical world of midgets and witches and bad-ass flying monkeys. Her house lands with a thud, atop a witch! The young lady brushes off the dust, gathers herself, looks around, says, “Well, this isn’t Kansas anymore,” pulls out a gun and shoots herself in the ear-hole.
The end.
Get my point?
6.) 300 bucks in the envelope might work.