“Music By Walt Disney But Played By Yuri Gagarin”

Sorry Matt Roberts turned me into publicity director for this show, but seriously, guys–it’s gonna be good!!!


(Silkscreen poster by Anthony Atlas)

My beer becomes blood, my tears become beer, I’m psyched!

My anglophilia will flow like wine

(Is it still anglophilia if they’re Scottish?)

(My love for the Londoners’ love of the Yummy Fur in the above video counts as anglophilia, anyway)

Cy Preclops

—I haven’t had a drink since Saturday.

—It’s Wednesday.

—I know

—You sound like an alcoholic.

—I know. It still feels good not to drink. I’m going to keep going with it.

—Good! That’s good.

—Every time I make a proclamation like this I immediately undermine myself, but I sort of want to become totally straight-edge: no booze, no drugs, no meat, no stimulants, no sex——

—you should allow yourself coffee. And sex.

—Maybe sex but no coffee. I am going to be 100 percent clean and talk like a stoner. I’m going increase acid and pot jokes by 112 percent.


—I think they’re funny.

—What’s an acid joke? Or a pot joke? Pretending to be high?

—More like pretending to be the kind of guy who thinks the current situation would be “so crazy” if we were high. Which, actually—

—isn’t an imagined scenario at all. That’s actually what you’re thinking.

—Kind of. But I exaggerate it for the joke. [Paws. Pause. Prawns. Pornography under a tree in a State Park. Soft chili. Your knees. Ad nauseum. Ad mauseum. Bistro BlackBerry. My bad.] It will be hard to go to rock shows without hoisting beers.

—No way, dude. That’s the best place. There are always buttoned-up punk-rock weirdos who don’t consume anything except unrefined spelt kujaxx they dumpstered out of satan’s halo or whatever

—Right! Awesome. Then I’m all set.

[The camera zooms slowly, inexorably (“steadily”) (“nervously”) in on dude’s breast pocket. Using “special effects,” the camera penetrates the fibres of dude’s flannel breast pocket, revealing a small composition notebook and a pen. Scrawled on the front of the notebook in black ink: DIARY. We don’t notice that the scene has switched to animation, or that the background has fallen away, so now a cartoon composition notebook floats on a perfect black background. Awesome music. The word DIARY starts to jiggle and shiver in the way that animated but static text does (cf text in title sequences of The Simpsons, Dr. Katz). The I in DIARY tumesces like a cock or a flower, it’s ambiguous. It grows up and then bends over like a stamen, dude, slowly planting itself down on the other side of the A. For a hot moment, the A is covered in an arc. An arch. Maybe it flash-embellishes itself into an arc d’triomphe. Then the original base of the I lifts off the ground, wiggles, falters, and starts detumescing back over to the right side of the I, until it’s returned to its original size, and the word reads: DAIRY. The phrase should begin in black ink on a reddish background, but by the end of the metamorphosis the word is milky white, on the same reddish background. Awesome music. The notebook’s cover opens of its own accord. The page is blank, but as the rich basso profundo voiceover begins, his words appear in blue ballpoint upon the lined pages. His pace is measured, if not ponderous. What the fuck!!!]

PROFUNDO NARRATOR: I read the news. Every week. It enriches me. I love to be informed.  But I read it [to be continued…]

Eyeball Soup

There is a bowl of chili here.

Steam rises from its beans and meatflecks. It billows politely around a dollop of cold sour cream.

As you gaze into the stew, my face—the face of a young, obese Steven Spielberg, “replete” with undirty baseball cap and full Jewish hair fanning out from beneath the cap’s circumference—appears to you in the chili-steam.

My spirit is evoked by the hot bowl of cooling chili!

Here I am! Who has summoned me?

I have bad news! You are pregnant!

No, that’s not fair. No one’s pregnant. I’m writing this Tale of the Beans for myself, because I feel burnt out.

I’ve more or less finished “Big project number one.” Now I have “time” to finish Big Project Number Two.

But my brain and me bones won’t cooperate.

I feel up against—a figurative wall.

My posture is bad, my breath bad.

I need a full day of Turkish Delight and instructional sex videos and Everything Is Terrible and hash amulets and K-holey sensory deprivation chambers and home fries and Chocolate Labrador Affection-Slaves before I can “restart” and knock BP#2 outta the park.


  • Bloody Marys
  • Black Humor
  • Girls
  • Dogs
  • Feelin healthy


  • Talkin loud about your bullshit weekend on yr cellphone
  • bad communicators I need things from
  • rumor-mongering in flip-flops
  • institutional racism
  • genocide
  • factory farming
  • hate crime
  • the tickle monster (ambivalent)


  • Eating an endless bowl of soup whilst reading something that lays flat by itself (saddle-stitched magazine, broken-spined novel)
  • hugging naked women (sorry just kidding)
  • dead therapists
  • my good personal friend who brought me an awesome gift pak just now containing:
  • Zingerman’s ZZang! candy bar
  • Crystal Geyser carbonated orange water
  • large bag of zen party mix


  • playing drums behind messy, “avant-pop” guitar played by a close  friend
  • reading poetry aloud whilst drunk
  • drunk weeping emotional confessions of platonic love
  • 90s releases on Matador & Drag City
  • indie-rock jukebox
  • friendly non-threatening dj


  • relentless negativity
  • bodily harm
  • ailments
  • internet addiction/fatigue
  • a short-story collection I was excited to read which ended up contrived and annoying
  • the feeling that that well-dressed handsome asshole is going to steal my girlfriend
  • fear of The Road–style apocalypse where I am crippled by night-blindness and urbane cluelessness w/r/t farming and self-defense and so am helpless as zombies/marauders rape my loved ones and disembowel me with improvised weapons


  • Pickles, other pickled vegetables
  • british tv, british fiction, hypothetical british or angolophile or at least anglophone girlfriend
  • england
  • scotland
  • martin amis, david lodge, julian barnes, will self, douglas adams, kingsley amis
  • nabokov
  • DFW, fiction and non, plus all interviews with and articles about and reviews of
  • unexpected sexual encounters with wild animals (gazelles, rhinos)
  • unexpected emails from charming, literate geniuses
  • really smart little kids who are interested in what you have to say and who you are even though they should be repelled by your oafish weird-smelling adult self-consciousness
  • the netherlands
  • stanley crawford, norman rush
  • interactive fiction
  • the way the internet used to look
  • spelling wordz in a funnnn way to express yr feelings


  • Feeling burnt out
  • feeling like I am helpless to be/sound impossibly twee
  • being a fat guy wearing a sweater/cardigan over button-down shirt with corduroys and sneakers standing looking uncomfortable in a record/book store or rock show
  • anything peeing in my face


  • Dropping a $10,000 experimental Army Discman off the chairlift and nearly killing a billionaire’s daughter snowplowing down a green-circle “easy” run
  • imagining i am holding a hatori hanzo sword and disemboweling myself with it
  • beck (sometimes/some songs)
  • duck tales theme song, chip and dale’s rescue rangers theme song
  • making jokes about the vagina monologues that go over well
  • letters from attractive friends
  • a disproportionate number of things published by Picturebox and Buenaventura Press
  • Sam Lipsyte
  • Will Eno
  • “Samuel Beckett”


  • Aggressive, aggressively crazy crazy people
  • languagey prose that’s pointlessly, contrivedly languagey and involuted and pretentious
  • self-consciously flat, plainsong prose is just as bad
  • conservative, lyrical but not too lyrical middle of the road prose that tries to strike a balance between the first two but ends up doing itself no favors, wimp out, wipe out
  • sportslords
  • devilbunnies
  • celiac mousepadz


  • The sound of the words “Doogie Howser”
  • tamari almonds
  • carob
  • I keep stopping myself from saying more about “the female form,” jeez, sorry
  • a secret different christina ricci who no one knows about, only me
  • my own private idaho, gus van sant in general
  • dennis cooper, incl. his poetry
  • denton welch
  • edmund white
  • david sedaris in conversation with dennis cooper, that would be awesome, who could make it happen, get on it


  • I am more or less monolingual
  • I am more or less monomaniacal
  • I am pretentious
  • I have turned my back on They Might Be Giants and MC Paul Barman
  • I am mean to my friends
  • this quote (wells tower via jawbone) annoyed me:

the idea of blogging seems really weird. I don’t know why writers do it. The idea of writing in a way that’s not careful seems kind of insane if you’re a fiction writer, or a long-form nonfiction writer. Maybe there’s something invigorating about it, but for me so much of the process is worrying about every word — just belching a bunch of stuff out there seems strange. Also the web is really weird. I don’t like the idea that stuff you write is just going to be on there, and people will be able to access it whenever, forever. A piece of writing should have its own little half-life and when people are no longer interested in reading or anthologizing, it should be forgotten.

Surely in general the writing that’s on blogs isn’t as careful as the kind of spit-polished prose that goes into journals or collections. But there’s nothing about the medium itself that means the writers using it aren’t being careful, and are just belching. Which is to say: revision is possible on the internet, and there’s PLENTY of belching going on in journals and books published by major publishers. And doesn’t all writing begin with a belch, a burp that then gets refined and revised until it’s distilled into a few vaporized bay leaves, a few million atoms of slow-simmered chili steam?

little vamp

I have known many women who hate the word moist. Sometimes they specify that they also hate the phrase moist panties. At least three ladies I’ve known have independently reported this distaste over the years. I think this is something a lot of American women share. I don’t hate this phrase. I don’t love it, either. I wonder why women hate it. Other phrases I don’t hate: fetid boxer shorts. Duck butter. Spermy Loofah. Shriner. (Actually, I do hate shriner)

I just heard a woman say ex-boyfriend. I think this is a phrase women don’t hate.

Yesterday I tried to talk about race in a jocular fashion. The other things I was saying were getting big laughs, I’m a funny guy, but the record needle, so to speak, came to a skidding halt when I tried to joke around about “race.”

I have made generalizations about American women in this blog post, and I think some people may feel irritated reading them. Another irritating thing about this blog post might be the monotone/deadpan/cute/simple/twee tone I’ve inexplicably adopted. This is a tone men adopt in their writing sometimes. Women too. Is it different when women write tweely? Who is the number one twee woman writer? Funny female writers tend to have a ‘ballsier’ aspect. Funny male writers can stray into neutered Demetri Martin territory more easily. [link] [attribution needed]

My book club read Clarice Lispector’s The Hour of the Star. Everyone else hated it. I liked it until book club met, then I hated it. That book, written by a woman, has a derangedly self-conscious male narrator. This conceit creates some “interesting” “narrative tension” when you remember—as you are occasionally (at least once) urged to do—that the “real” author is a woman.

Please delete this email.

Please water the plants while I’m in Argentina.

I “own” a canister of marijuana right now. It’s been a while since I’ve “owned” marijuana. It was “gifted” to me. (“Fake scare quotes” are a hallmark of the twee/precious/pat male writer. What female writer uses “fake scare quotes” the most? If Tao Lin were a woman, I wouldn’t be writing this sentence.) Owning pot puts me in a real “Enfield Tennis Academy” frame of mind. The pot calls to me from the desk drawer. It it a little Pandora’s box. I know the hip demons and funky rhythm-goblins it contains. They want to be free. They vamp a little, quietly, in the drawer, waiting for me to perform the “spell” (lit lighter brought down to bear) that will “awaken” them. The bass guitar and synth bass play in unison. It’s a cool effect.

This is my personal web page. I use it as a place to waste a bunch of time when in fact the situation at work today is exigent as fuck, what I am doing, holy shit, goodbye

Does Daniel Johnston Get Babes?

Does DJ get babes?
Does DJ get babes?

I’m just curious. What do you think? I think he might. But I don’t know. I haven’t seen the documentary. There is a “new interview” with him here. There is a new song here. I am totally going blind; I love music, art, and erotic mystery.



Brainstorming Session

SHANNON: Maybe we should have called this a barn-storming session!

[General laughter.]

SHANNON: [Cont] No but really, Jacob, you haven’t been updating the admin site, and we’ve all fallen behind because of your laziness. What’s been going on?

JACOB: Well, I stopped being a vegetarian, and it’s really thrown my digestion for a loop. I also started smoking pot again, pretty heavily, so I’m up all night twitching and watching Adult Swim and Hentai instead of sleeping. (Pot, as most of you know, gives me insomnia.) So that cuts into my productivity. Also, I eat so much food, all day every day, that I’m constantly lethargic — I never seem to be able to think. Updating the admin site sounds like a brainless task that even a pot-hungover, obese lethargio  could manage, but it’s tough — you have to gChat with the dB’s—

MARIANNE: The band?

JACOB: I wish. No, that’s my name for the off-site gatekeepers you have to gChat with in order to get anything done on the admin site.

MARI: Hmn! [She’s adorable, she knows it, I hate her?]

JACOB: Yeah.


JACOB: So that’s why.

SHANNON: [Cuts in, is self-conscious 100 percent of the time, I hate her, too, in a different way; do you guys watch that new show “Parks and Recreation”? Aziz Ansari is funny. Will you email me a link to your blog? I’d like to read it!] Well, it’s not an excuse. I’m concerned about you. You need to go to counseling.

JACOB: I have! I’ve been going!

SHANNON: Well, you need to go more.

JACOB: OK. I’ll start going twice a week.

SHANNON: Good. [Shuffles and ruffles little papers and cell-phones and e-books and shit] Last item on our agenda for today is: T-shirt ideas! We need a new round of T-shirts to sell in the store.

B: [That’s his name. “B.”] Today I was walking back to the office from lunch and I had a really intense desire to be wearing a black T-shirt, white lettering, “I hate myself.”


JACOB: Perfect.

SHANNON: In “Plays Well With Others” typewriter font?

B: Nah. Sans-serif, some dumb typeface you’d find out of the box in MS Outlook.

SHANNON: You’re brilliant. B., listen: You smoke weed every day, you eat more food than anyone I’ve ever seen, but your productivity is through the roof! What differentiates you from Jacob?

JACOB: You guys.……..

B: I can sleep when I’m stoned. I can get shit done. Jacob smokes pot to whip himself into a body-conscious frenzy. Dude is incapable of even watching a cartoon when he’s high. All he can do is br—-

JACOB: [Just joking around] Damn, B.!

[General laughter. Laughter subsides, the lights dim, and a film is projected on the meeting-room wall.]

NARRATOR: [Voice-over plays over clips of different whatever I hate you] There are a bunch of reviews out now of The Age of Wonder: How the Romantic Generation Discovered the Beauty and Terror of Science by Richard Holmes (Pantheon, 552 pp., $40.00). This one was probably the clearest. I didn’t read this one yet, though I am “semifascinated” by the author’s blog(s). Benjamin Moser, the new “New Books” guy at Harper’s (taking over for John Leonard, 1940–2009) wrote about it. He also  just published a biography of Clarice Lispector, whose The Hour of the Star I just read because of Sheila Heti.