A totally new blend of apathy,
super-grateful for your support

Click The Heart icon, <3 <3
as it Depresses, it makes uh Eponymous Sound.

Hot gurgling; Money. The beginning

ahh fuck this Are you writing POETRy??

Gray Ranch must be some sort of code.
the hottest female bloggers love Daria

Your lack of ambition doesn’t scan as humble.
It reeks as badly as the strainers’. The effortful b.o. of
Apples and oranges, both reek. Rotten sirloins
v. spoiled honeydew. Daria.

Check out this mountain

The Sleepiness of the Text

I found this passage from The Pleasure of the Text gratifying:

And yet, it is the very rhythm of what is read and what is not read that creates the pleasure of the great narratives: has anyone ever read Proust, Balzac, War and Peace, word for word? (Proust’s good fortune: from one reading to the next, we never skip the same passages.)

This passage, from David Owen’s NYer profile of the inventor Saul Griffith, was less cheering:

The Internet’s energy and carbon footprints now probably exceed those of air travel… perhaps by as much as a factor of two, and they are growing faster than those of almost all other human activities.

Griffith helped implement the electronic ink technology that the Kindle uses, inspired by the reams of paper he saw glutting Australia’s landfills. Now he’s working on wind power, sponsored by Google, to offset the Internet’s damage to the planet.

The iPad uses way more power than the Kindle. I guess that makes the Kindle, or other e-readers that use e-ink, the greenest (and least-pleasurable?) way to read. I guess people have been thinking about this already. I’m sleepy.

(Did anyone else find the photocollage illustration of Griffith—crazy hair, large/athletic/eccentric genius—along with a few superficial details of his life — child sports prodigy, professor-parents, MacArthur grant…—to be reminiscent of David Foster Wallace? I haven’t finished the piece yet (I hate reading reading diaries that obsess over or even mention how much of a work the writer has or hasn’t read, how sleepy the writer was while reading what he’s writing about, or how sleepy he is while writing, or where he was when he read the thing he’s writing about, or at what hour,what he was eating. In other words…) (Griffith lives in the Mission.)

And he also shares with Wallace the ability to extend his considerable what I think of as “formal” intelligence beyond its normal boundaries—to places of deeper feeling and compassion. In Wallace’s case, this meant applying (or maybe combining) a linguistic and philosophical and deductive/(mathematical?/rigor and) intelligence toward (or with) a sensitivity to suffering, sadness, pain, (art); Owen’s thesis in his profile (not that I’ve finished it) is that Griffith is the rare inventor who considers the social, political, cultural, and environmental obstacles to a problem’s solution, rather than focusing exclusively on technology.

Plutarch Was Not a Poet

This is at least 45 percent embarrassing.

fake poem for bena

your comb not blown wise
till shadows crêpe the moontide of 10:58.
Don’t resort to me, this bean, bena
not gullied by the breakers
or blossomed into corn
or cows…

old bar stamp, cower into place
with racist wisdom
and a harpoon grave filled with salt.

Nudity can be bargained for.
Tell us your joke.

The moment you post your poem,
A furious, shivering prostitute
on Twitter
will crawl from her harpoon’s grave straight into Forrest Gander’s glasses, which hang in his
Room illumined only by the laptop’s display. Army of cats from poetry.

The New York Times Book Review
was built on experience.


Follow her jeans to Pitchers, and watch the Camel
Lights educate themselves,

just kidding,
Oberlin College Creative
Writing Department,

just kidding,
O Bena,

seriously, etc,
nightblogging the nineties

And The internet has that song stuck in its head.
Comma-splice smells like penis.
Professor of poetry replies,
“There’s no such thing as a fake poem.
“I’ll timidly beat your face until
LITTLE MARZIPAN: Until it resembles the shovel you’re beating it with

[Now is a good time for a sip of water. ASK SOMEONE FOR A CUP and drink from that. Don’t open your Nalgene during the reading. Unscrewing the top makes that molded-plastic cave-sound, Mac McCaughan’s mouth forcing its way around a crusty Bánh mì—ah, life!]

Lazy violence.

Necklace as breakfast food
or Infancy as crime.

I feel like you’re obliquely recalling jokes from 30 Rock and adding line breaks — right?
I dunno. Not precisely

psychic dancehall




FS: Check out the cover of Artforum

PDX: Cool

FS: Contemporary art like this gets made so that hot lovers can hang out inside of it and feel intelligent. Then they trot off somewhere and do it.

PDX: Really??? Sex?

FS: Yep

PDX: Are those hot lovers on the cover?

FS: Yeah. One of them is Danish, the other one is American

PDX: Wait, you know them?

FS: My college roommate took the photo. He’s beside himself that it’s on the cover of Artforum. He’s playing it cool, though

PDX: I’m stuck at the Portland airport.

FS: Why?

PDX: How should I know? The pilot ate too many Chili Cheese Fritos, won’t get off the can.

FS: Really?

PDX: No. I’m joking.

FS: I liked you better when you were painfully self-conscious and never said anything

PDX: Me too

[They make love.]

[Wait, I thought one of them was in Oregon while the other is in NYC?]

[That’s right]

[So how do they…]

[I’m not sure. Maybe they are in the same room after all.]


FS: I feel like a big slice of garbage cake

PDX: You feel like you are one? Or you feel like having one?

FS: Both, dog. [pause] have you seen druggie moses

PDX: i heard he died… in the video game he was playing

FS: ahh phew i thought you meant died in real life

PDX: no, no, he’s still alive in real life

FS: thank god, i love druggie moses

PDX: so do i. he’s a nice guy. real nice guy. makes an amazing field roast

PDX: say, i thought you were going to liveblog your CSA box

FS: i was, but then i opened it

PDX: disappointed?

FS: no, just not… inspired to write about it on the internet

PDX: what was in it?

FS: some fucking vegetables.

PDX: I see.

FS: do you want to write on the internet some fake-fantasies about quitting your job and studying language and literature in a university setting in a place where it snows for the rest of your life?

PDX: ok

FS: you’re not really cut out for academia, though, so don’t actually do it. just ‘blog’ about it

PDX: ok

FS: also can you start wearing really form-fitting clothes all the time?

PDX: ok

FS: I hope nobody reads this.

PDX: don’t worry, they won’t

FS: how do you know?

PDX: today’s a big news day, they’ll be distracted, “Pope’s Portugal Trip a Bid to Move Beyond Scandal

FS: whoa

PDX: people are going to think we’re gchatting, but we’re not

FS: I know. how do we communicate that all this is happening while i’m sitting in your lap, spooning cottage cheese with balsamic vinegar into your mouth?

PDX: maybe if there is a video, or pictures? more ‘new york observer’

FS: no

PDX: more “frites” on the LES

FS: Nah

PDX: more belgian tacos

FS: stop

PDX: ‘stuff white people like’

FS: i know

PDX: ‘stuff latinos like’

FS: ok

PDX: ‘stuff i’ve been reading’

FS: ha. ok

PDX: ‘stuff that tastes good after you’ve been surfing’

FS: i know.

PDX: ‘stuff me into your mom’s stocking (above the mantle, first movement)’

FS: you lost me

PDX: I hope i stay that way

FS: let’s dance


PDX: I hate the way you use the internet

FS: What, you mean ‘mozilla firefox’?

PDX: i’m actually on chrome now

FS: all part of your major google push, huh?

PDX: there’s no google push

FS: first you’re all google readered out, now chrome?

PDX: that’d be funny to do a remake of The Reader, but call it The Google Reader, and it would be about…

FS: the internet?

PDX: yeah, and, like, the news cycle?

FS: Broadcast News meets Annie

PDX: Against Nature meets Arthur magazine

FS: Erewhon meets Waterworld

PDX: [rueful chucklin, picks up a remote control and starts a previously frozen video that shows a woman masturbating with a snorkel. FS opens a laptop and reads this tremendous collection of ‘blog gifts’]

FS: [munches thoughtfully on some machine-shelled pistachios]

PDX: remember when I ate a hot pocket in the shower to stop you from crying

FS: yeah. i hate remembering myself that way, laughing through the tears despite myself

PDX: was that the night of the Nightmares on Wax concert?

FS: yes

PDX: [youtube=]

FS: classic. stoned volvo. 405 South. there was a period where I was buying bananas every day

PDX: sweet man, talk it through. talk soon, ok? i’m gonna shop my soulcraft a bit, then back to biz. xox

FS: fuck, kay cool, lovies

PDX: munchkin corpse, big love

FS: ok you too

PDX: smack those lips to taste it

FS: I know I know

PDX: bye


When I was a toddler I once witnessed a dancer hold a cocaine-encrusted cigar up to the sunbeams falling through the skylight. I saw it glitter before a background of exposed bricks and pipes.

Just kidding!!

I feel dumb not being more “open” on this blog, with an “about” paragraph floating in the upper-right with something to the effect of “Hello, my name is Quentin Levy. This is my personal website. I’m a freelance librarian living in a mouldy duplex in Pleasanton, Calif., with my girlfriend, Betty Richter, and Jean-Luc Pouncey, our pet ferret. I’m the author of Thesis Mountain, a young-adult novel about an anthropomorphized, learning-disabled copy of the Partisan Review accused of rape in a small Midwestern town. Purchase it on Amazon here.” But I won’t because I want to be able to make off-color “erotica” jokes that don’t reflect the views of anyone at all, including myself. And you can’t do that with your name attached to it…? Even if it’s fiction? Because then you get fired?

I wrote a short story — flash-fiction-style — called “Child Pornography,” which was “accepted” by the Fanzine! Then I freaked out that in ten years I would be applying for a job tutoring toddlers in Language Arts and the administrators would autogoogle me by looking at my hands (that’s how you google people in the future, just look at their hands) and my first hit would be this gem of my juvenalia, the short story “Child Pornography,” and I wouldn’t get the job, which is a volunteer position anyway, and my family would be devastated. So I asked the Fanzine to change the title to “Erotica Without Borders.” That didn’t work so I changed it to “Teen Sex.” They published it as “Teen Porn.” OK. Here is the URL for the story:

That’s all for now! I miss California, even though I’m sitting in a chair in California.

Tuesday Roundup

  • Fun Jason Polan project in NYC w/ Esopus
  • I myself have sampled F. “Breadstixxxx” Horrorwicky’s Fish Stew, and can attest to its excellence, and so it’s a great boon that Waffle Songs has posted her interpretation.
  • Sometimes I find myself mentally making epigrammatic observations about the little Nicholson Bakery pleasure-giving tabs that hang off of the good, everyday white nodules of contemporary life. Then, profound web-based solipsist that I am, I think, I’ll write a short, epigrammatic observation about this mental/contemporary phenomenon on my blog. Then I remember the presence of Magic Molly and I stop, because I know she’s taking care of it—she’s got it covered.
  • Don’t be one of those writers who sentence themselves to a lifetime of sucking up to Nabokov.”—Geoff Dyer in the Guardian. (via Juliet.) Is this a crazily brilliant pun on the word “sentence”? I think so. E.g. to emulate or too-slavishly worship Nabokov—on the sentence level of your prose, emulating those rich, sentencey sentences—is to give a prison sentence to your writing?
  • The inimitable A Rockridge Life: “Blanc doesn’t soothe me as hard.” I wonder when her usage of “soothe” is going to catch on  as a national slang trend.
  • Plebiscite returns from hibernation with a generous slice of hilarious fan-fiction based on a “notorious” Bay Area Yelper. Also: Come to MSF this Saturday for Plebiscite’s always classic “Mission Stoned Food.”  Classic!!!!