Tag Archives: Jimmy Chen

Woot Woot Newz and Miles


New micro-fiction/poetry/hybrid/whatever/plop/lovely pancakes/celebrities/corn chips/thing coming out in 2011.

The more I wrote on this the more I understood people offended by the term, genre.

What do I know about this MSS?

Pub Genius Press.

MSS is odd. Not sure what to say about the MSS. I feel it’s a swirling pool below a pipe, a flotsam juxtaposition. We’ll see. I enjoyed writing it, intellectual play, shard-glow, sort of the point of writing for me.

I’ll let the words on the page talk in 2011. That’s how it should be anyway.

Here is a sample but a poor sample since I have radically changed the text by now.

Here is a sample but a poor sample since I have radically changed the text by now.

How do I feel? Like snapdragons and wine made from the drippings of arrows. I wear transparent sandals as I walk the kidneys of my living room. That means happy. Then it settles and I had  a small depression (why? but the same thing happen after a good road race) and then I just settle and move on and try to write something. Been weirded out by Lady Ga Ga recently. Not sure why. But I sense I will write about Lady Ga Ga soon. I feel it stirring and that is usually the beginning of how I work. It’s like an itch.

What should I do to celebrate?

Make nachos. Kiss them. Drink champagne.


Other big news!

The Broken Plate launches on Monday! During the In Print Festival.

In Print has Mary Miller, Matt Bell, Kalia Yang, and Mitchell Douglas.

How kick ass is that?I am always so impressed how this festival gets these people together, reading, conversing, energizing all the BSU community. Makes me proud to work at BSU, to be honest. If you are anywhere near Muncie, Indiana (and I know you are) on Monday or Tuesday, come hear these people read, speak, glee like film-makers and moons.

Wow. It’s been a journey on the magazine.

The Broken Plate is the BSU undergrad-edited literary magazine. I have been Head Editor the last year. It was a new position for me and I had never done such a thing and I went from anxious to OK to we-can-do-this to awed, especially by the students. They really stepped up, from designing to editing to marketing to everything that makes a literary magazine. I am happy and proud of our end product, our words.

This issue crackles like golden larynx bones. Includes Roxane Gay (always strong) and Jimmy Chen (one of the wittiest, most interesting writers, period), many others, and even BSU students. One of the unique aspects of The Broken Plate is the mix of national/international writers and BSU undergrad students.

Someone is going to say, “Hey, Sean, Roxane and Jimmy and you all write for HTML Giant. Is the fix in at the magazine?”


The students edited the magazine. The editing was done blind. I didn’t even get the names of the authors until the very end of the process.

But I am HAPPY to see these two authors and many others.

Get a copy!


New Word Riot out!

Great interviews: Mary Miller, Shya Scanlon, Matthew Simmons.

I thank Riot for these. Excellent.


Ran 17 miles today at Greenways. What is Greenways? This:

Oh, it hurt. I won’t lie, I was a tad hungover. You do NOT want to run your long run in a state of dehydration. That be stooopid. So I drank a metric ton of water (carbonated–I drink all my water with fizz now, and it is annoying) on the way over. Went bad and good, like many long runs. My hams are screaming now. I felt dead-legs early, then got a second wind about mile 10. Grinded 10-14. Then drove it home. I had a tendency to grind anything home, and I hope to never lose than tendency.

I saw dogs, reclining bicycles, dogs, dog shit (who let’s their dog go ON the Greenway?), kids, no comets, no naked people, a few other runners (more joggers–nobody was rolling it), dogs, a man screaming into a cellphone while standing on a bridge (In general, people pacing across bridges, yelling into cellphones, they scare me.), a nice parcel of robins in the shrubbery, a house with a pond and this canoe at such an aesthetic angle, like some small Japanese print, I don’t know, I was jealous of the pond-canoe people but I am sure they have credit card problems and the wife still pays for porn (who does that?) and the teenager just started hardcore into the Furry scene and I saw several rivers (rivers always make me glow and give me energy) and groundhogs and furrows of dirt and someone mowing their yard (a bit early?) and more robins and a few doves and several woodland/swamp areas I would not mind bow hunting (noticed when I think of bow hunting I run faster).

I talked to exactly one person. This older man bicycled up behind me and just stayed there. It weirded for a second. Why is guy drafting off a runner? Then he pedaled alongside and yelled out, “You are running 9 miles-per-hour!”

I said, “Sounds about right.”

Then he pulled away. Well, thanks for than information, kind sir. Your little digital MPH reader.

That was my only conversation of the morning (except when I prayed to my knees).


Been playing a lot of Bioshock (the first one). That game be crazy. I like it.

Xbox is weird. I should not be playing it, yet I find odd moments. Reminds me of running or writing in that way. If you really want to do something, you do it. People sometimes annoy me when they say “I have no time” to do something. You can find time, though it might be pain in the spleen (like running at 6 a.m. or X-boxing at midnight or eating nachos during a faculty meeting). Really they are saying, “I don’t want to do that thing as much as another.”

I think.


Eggs and Bush and Red Lobster.

Look what I got in the mail today! Can you say ken baumann, shane jones, jimmy chen, brandi wells, blake butler, nick antosca, sam pink, james chapman, colin bassett, michael kimball, jac jemc, kim chinquee, kim parko, norman lock, randall brown, brian evenson, michael stewart, peter markus, ken sparling, aaron burch, david ohle, matthew savoca, p. h. madore, johannes göransson, charles lennox, ryan call, elizabeth ellen, molly gaudry, kevin wilson, mary hamilton, craig davis, kendra grant malone, lavie tidhar, lily hoang, mark baumer, ben tanzer, krammer abrahams, joshua cohen, eugene lim, c. l. bledsoe, joanna ruocco, josh maday, & michael martone?

I feel like Rod Stewart or Cher back when she had orange hair and that crazy spandex and the battleship.

This has been out a while and I then forgot and now it arrives and I am about to read until I swoon.


Cynthia Reezer at NewPages does a sweet review of Eggs.

“Lovelace weaves scenes that flow organically (or maybe “morph” is a better word) into the next thing happening by the writerly imagination.”



holy shit


I have decided I have a cooler beer glass than most.

Britney Spears Feet. Jimmy Chen Please.

Got up at 5:30. Made coffee thick like a craft show. It was so nasty it felt alive in me, like a scuttling thing. My limbs did echoes. I entered the woods dark. Spent 3 hours at the office. About 20 feet off the earth. Sun came wheeling up like a circular saw, just spraying chips of glow. Saw two raccoons. One was the size of a diet Dr. Pepper (two liter). Saw a black and white cat. Saw no deer. Wonderful day. Smelled like dirt and pitch and wobble. I took this deep shuddering breath, my lungs full of earth. Hell, I’ll say it–I felt alive.


The office…


I’ve decided Jimmy Chen is a badass. Like I keep reading Jimmy Chen all over and I keep waiting to read something and then go, “Oh yeh, that Jimmy Chen, I’ve read something like that before,” but instead I keep reading Jimmy Chen and every piece I’m going, “Damn, Jimmy Chen just pulled it off again.”

I mean I can’t get my mind around him.

Here he riffs on The Simpsons. (Go to The Simpsons, if it doesn’t take you directly. I should/could stop here. You could read this Simpsons piece and think smart, self-reflexive/critical, sharp mind/pathos/I see why you are trumpeting this writer.)

Here he reviews dad.

He’s got this monologue…

He’s got this Annual Report

He’s got this big-ass bottle of wine.


What do you want? What do you want? I keep reading Jimmy Chen and thinking, WTF? Dude just mixed some HALO with some Ray Carver drama with a Seven-Step Problem Solving Method with some wicked-ass Algebraic railroad of pain. He takes an office space and twists it right into a wry bread sandwich of famous, happy, plastic people. He takes a golf course and shows us the worms, the smell of tears collecting in the plastic cup. Like I think he might crush Chekhov into George Saunders into Ozzy Osbourne into some motivational poster on the wall of a Youth Opportunity Center gymnasium.

I’m saying I think JIMMY CHEN IS BADASS!

You should read him…seriously. I know I’m going to read every word he writes. I like his voice. I like his perspective. He’s letting this new world breath, he’s letting it into his writing, but he’s bringing some old school along, too. He’s creating art, folks. He’s taking this, he’s taking that–and he’s making something new.


Here are the top all time searches for my blog: “britney spears,  britney,  charles bukowski,  britney spears pictures,  britney spears feet”


Man, this world. I’m about to go cry myself a beer then drink it and then go burn down the police stations of my mind.




That’s fraking ridiculous! What, what Sean? What is fraking ridiculous?

How would you like to buy an anthology including ken baumann, shane jones, jimmy chen, brandi wells, blake butler, nick antosca, sam pink, james chapman, colin bassett, michael kimball, jac jemc, kim chinquee, kim parko, norman lock, randall brown, brian evenson, michael stewart, peter markus, ken sparling, aaron burch, david ohle, matthew savoca, p. h. madore, johannes göransson, charles lennox, ryan call, elizabeth ellen, molly gaudry, kevin wilson, mary hamilton, craig davis, kendra grant malone, lavie tidhar, lily hoang, mark baumer, ben tanzer, krammer abrahams, joshua cohen, eugene lim, c. l. bledsoe, joanna ruocco, josh maday, & michael martone?

Double Wisconsin Tourism Foundation!

Or, uh WTF.

Buy it, people. ML Press.


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…