Tag Archives: porn

Bankers Never Sleep Well. Tao Lin Interview. Cocaine.

I have a 5 day rule about any epic event, say AWP Chicago. I stop recording. I think nostalgia creeps in, colors things wrong. I just park the event in my memory vault (of course, to bring up later and view–while huddled in some rainy tent in Colorado, some hospital bed in Arkansas while my broken bones heal, some platinum/dried manure rocking chair years from now in Bangkok). I left Chicago 5 days ago, and so this will be my last photo or post posted (post posted? Redundant?) about those lost (the good lost–where you stumble into Shangri-La, free cold, cold beer, devout Buddhists who also do Indy Lit readings and want to play you in disc golf, or sushi tossing, etc.) shredded days of broad shoulders, the shrugs.

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John Wang offers a refreshing LIT. I say, No, I will not accept your refreshing LIT. I will take 3.

A truly cool guy. Good heart all the way, I felt. Good vibe. Hope to meet him down the road and we drink for freedom, or for Amphibians, or for that space right before the both (true conversation).

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The Urban Elitist interviews Tao Lin about how to make money as a writer. With so many writers giving books away at AWP, I think some of you need to realize you should make money with your writing. There is no shame. Why do people feel shame? This from a guy who writes book reviews for NewPages where they pay you in the very book you review.

My next mortgage payment I am going to send the bank a book. I am going to send them a book with a note that reads, “Here. Here is my payment. Read this. Maybe you will grow, alongside your throbbing gallbladder, a dollop of integrity, or a soul.”

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I was about to read at Quickies and I glance up and there is Robert Olen Butler, at a table….

Do you have any celebrity stories? I remember once years ago in Memphis Andre Agassi bought me a glass of wine. At the Peabody Hotel. He said, “Man, you look like you need a glass of wine.” Then he walked away. That was a good day. Later, on the taxi ride home, the cabbie insisted he take me to a strip club. I guess he was getting kickbacks from the clubs or something. I detest strip clubs. But he kept insisting and insisting, like I was a chump, like I was going to let a cabbie destinize me, mind-jack me of my free will, my existential birthright. I forget the rest of the evening.

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This photo is for Emma.

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From the Chicago Literary Scene Examiner, concerning the off-site AWP RUI reading: “Sean Lovelace (who’s RUI quickie last night on guns, cocaine and action figures won the crowd)…”

Word on that.

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Here’s more AWP photos, notes. To follow the rules you have yourself made is an illness.

The final Chi-town AWP 2009 photo I will release to the public. This is me with two big-time short-list Pulitzer writers (one is vomiting into the garbage can, so I cropped her PhotoShop  in the interest of discretion, but that’s cool–the writing life is torture, all that paperwork, adoring fans, etc.). We went to the Joyce Carol Oates after party and they wanted to return to my hotel for drinks. Fine with me, ladies.

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“Never play poker with a tattooed lady.”         –My dad.

(why dad?)

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“Sean, why do you have to use that F word in your blog?”       –My mom.

(Fuck, I don’t know why, mom)

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I drink oily coffee and write words at the kitchen table and look outside, at my boccie balls buried in the snow, an odd juxtaposition. When I think of boccie I see sunshine, green and golden hues, and sweet, sweating 16 ounce gas station beers; Tuscaloosa, Alabama and my friends heaving the boccie balls around a sprawling grassy field, a city park, a jagged stone ruin of a Civil War era courthouse. We called this “modified boccie,” or as we would tell others, “We don’t really play the game like you’re sposed to.” Stuart (an athletic madman/freak [in the good way of freak]) hurling the heavy clay balls into the sky, moon-shots rising, rising, then arching down with ferocious intent, into mortar walls, brick stair steps, ricocheting off crumbling cornice edges. Stuart actually split boccie balls in half while playing; we all did, I shit you not. Maybe except for Will, who preferred to open his hand and drop the ball nearby, plunk. Will and his titanic gin and tonics (this was a man who would order triple straight gins at restaurants, served in a tall water glass, to the rim). Myself, the others–Charlie, Mark, T.J., Don–our little demented clique, sipping beers, sprawling on the grass, talking shit and tossing boccie balls. Metallic taste of canned beer. Rustling breeze. Silk-blue sky. A crystallized moment, Georgian idyll. Fuck. I do miss it. I do. You turn your head one day, look back, and find your friends scattered, your boccie balls scattered, your mind, well…I guess some things are obvious, and here:

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Nachos. Blake Butler. Quest. Salvia, Morphine. Skywalker.

I hate when I don’t know what to eat for dinner. I feel confused, like the time I bought oregano from a small man in a big town. Brought it home. Used it. Yep, oregano.

I went with this thing, some recipe apparently invented by a Mexican man in 1943:

Nacho Rating: Home made, a 6 of 10 (always an excellent score). I went with El Yucateco as the tertiary, so, obviously, this was smoking, about a 100, 000 on God’s Rating of Hotness.

I am addicted to hot sauce. Not so surprising since it releases endorphins, like other of my addictions. Disc golf releases opiates. So does shooting a bow, or almonds crushed with Adderall. Sometimes there is a downside to my years as a psychiatric nurse–I know the core of my own undoing.

I play roulette, like Dostoevsky.

I write like him too. Never.

As you can most likely visualize, the nacho alignment is an arcading prism structure, pretty much standard anywhere in regions with the Pacific ocean on the west. Peru, etc. I don’t mean to bore you here. BUT, the refried black beans (top, right quadrant) I thought were a bit mischievous, and a homage, from me, to Nacho Duran.

Dude loves black beans, fried once, then fried. And tequila. Trust me.

I adore Scoville, and, honestly, wish I had married the man.

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Teaching the Quest lately, in my fiction 2 class. To write the quest you must have:

1.) A down and out protagonist.

Why? Most folks are lazy. Most folks won’t even go on a quest. They’d rather smoke Salvia and lay garments on a counter and slip their arms through pineapples (not made of pine, not apples) and eat the exact place the sea and the sky meet.

Etc.

So your narrator needs to be FUCKED UP.

Like maybe their foster parents were evaporated by stormtroopers? (Luke Skywalker, in one of the more graphic “Star Wars” scenes, before Lucas got soft and weirdly juvenile)

Like maybe a storm destroys your farm. (Dorothy, Oz)

Or maybe you’re drunk and dancing all Zen with a Colt .45 and burning cigarette holes through the forehead of your ex-wife’s photo (Captain Willard, Apoc Now)

Blah, blah.

Trust me, have a destroyed protagonist at the beginning of your quest narrative, please. Like mortgage loans, or sky diving, please pay attention to the beginning.

2.) Sidekicks.

But why? Have them, and have them for a reason: bouncing conversation off, killing them off (drama–see Star Trek myth [if you wear a red shirt you will die in the episode]), fucking them, throwing them, setting them afire, whatever. Have your sidekicks follow the rules of dialogue: Do they a.) provide plot information? b.) develop character? c.) make my spleen throb like silver-tuffted clouds?

3.) Obstacles…

Holy shit have bad things happen. Please. Please. I am going to put your story down unless bad things happen. I want dance posture to collapse. I want the quilt to unravel. I want a boy’s voice to become manly, right then, and he can’t handle it. I want green smoke. Bad drugs done in the library stacks. Broken Aztec speech. Resinous New York muggings. Loud deaths, quiet deaths, deaths. Fucking, in a chemist’s office. Also puckered red and ugly Ebaying. Also maggots, with tongues of un-luck. A bunch of people awakening, for the first time, unto themselves, and FREAKING OUT ABOUT IT. Photos of prime ministers and flagrant red canoes–in bed. Also Christmas dinners involving heroin. And sorghum, spelt, wheat lubricants.

Etc

I have 14 other things I want to say about the Quest but I am getting bored now.

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Blake Butler wrote some thing about rejection then tried to un-write it. I thought this was funny, then kind, then I don’t know.

I don’t know Blake (like had a beer know). But I know this:

Blake doesn’t give a shit about rejection.

Please…Rejection is the petroleum donut to his dime store. Yawn.

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I feel like this today:

Shotguns. Erika Lopez is not Porn. Sub-Lit. People Getting Drunk at Cemeteries.

I am about to go all Heart of Darkness on your ass…deep, deep into the TN woods.

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A while back one of my students opined that Erika Lopez’s novel, Flaming Iguanas, “was porn.”

It is not porn. I do not teach porn. I don’t find that porn really even has much theme, or is so much interesting, except for the irony and incongruity of two (or more!) people having sex while they clearly detest each other.

But Flaming Iguanas has a ton of theme!

Today my CW class had a lively conversation about the book, and I thank them for that. They talked about similes and voice and sympathetic character and tone and verisimilitude and point of view and had all kinds of quality questions. Here are six:

1.) Why a novel and not nonfiction (Lopez actually did buy a motorcycle and ride it cross country)?

2.) Why does the American “Road” novel let men say obscene things and treat women like some new drug, but when Lopez does the same she’s “vulgar”?

3.) Why is a motorcycle a better vehicle for a quest narrative than a car?

4.) Why aren’t more women riding motorcycles with men on the back?

5.) How many times can one author use the word vagina?

6.) Doesn’t Erika Lopez seem like she could kick your ass?

yes, she do.

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I entered the Rose Metal Press flash fiction contest today. You should, too. Please stop slicing your life into pieces small enough to feed a crow and just enter this contest. Stop gift wrapping on Dwayne’s bed. Stop drinking in the afternoons like a Smiths song.

Here’s are my favorite Smiths lyrics:

What she said :
“I smoke ‘cos I’m hoping for an
Early death
AND I NEED TO CLING TO SOMETHING !”

Now that makes me want to paint my nails black and hang out at the local psychiatric hospital where they fry everything and last time I gained seven pounds.

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This zombie poem by Jesse Dunstan is very good, and almost great. It does use the word mellifluous, so obviousy this hurt any chances of true greatness. Still, I do admire.

Sub-Lit is nasty. One time I sent them a poem and they responded by firebombing every Christmas guest I have ever had, or will ever have.

Hell, let’s just have a Jesse Dunstan day, ok? This one at Juked is better. None of that mellifluous bullshit. This one makes me crucify my marriage counselor.

Why don’t you read Repair Man by Kathy Fish?

It takes as long as an average person to smoke an average cigarette to read this piece, thus the name of the magazine, folks.

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Here is a photo of my friend getting drunk at a cemetery. Why does he do that?

poor guy.

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Here is Kendra Grant Malone’s 8th best poem. She thought of it in March while in a taxi and wrote it in August on a napkin at Vini E Ollii Locanda, so that might explain why it is stellar like mirrored guts/pomegranate whatevers.

My Father’s Friends

my father has many
interesting friends
i met this one who
survived for many months
on a life raft
he wrote a book about it
but doesn’t like to
discuss it much
once he was a bit
drunk
and he told me
some strange things
one of them being
that while adrift
he developed romantic feelings
about spaghetti and meatballs

another person
my father is friends with
is a woman who drowned
and was legally dead
before she was resuscitated
at dinner she once
told me that
if you can avoid dying
she would recommend
drowning to anyone
she said the pain and
fear were unbearable
until the moment her body
took water into her lungs
she said she stayed like
that for a while before
she died
and that it was
the calmest, greatest moment
of her life
honestly, i look forward to dying again

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