Security Job

I was writing a screenplay, and then my mother told me about this movie:



It is VERY similar to my screenplay. I think if I completed my screenplay and it was filmed, this would be the worst possible version of it.

So I guess I have lost interest in writing this screenplay. I was writing it as an exercise, but I was still hoping that it might end up being good and it might end up being sold. My mother has crushed my dreams. I sort of wish she didn't tell me about this awful movie until I had finished the screenplay. Then I wouldn't have lost the inspiration to complete it. And although I couldn't sell it, at least it would still exist. I have wasted a lot of time. Fuck Hollywood for creating the shittiest version of what could have been a great movie.

Now I have another idea for a movie. It is a secret. The zeitgeist cannot steal it from me. Fuck the zeitgeist. Happy birthday. All of your ideas have been devoured by giant worm retards.

Don't Trust Anyone Over Thirty

I think I lost the urge to write in this thing nearly every day like I used to. Tomorrow night, I'm celebrating not knowing what the hell I did with my life during the last ten years by going out drinking with TTB and other people that the people who read this blog probably don't know.

I wrote a review of Sam Pink's Yum Yum I Can't Wait to Die. It was for Noo Journal: www.noojournal.com/view.php?mode=1&issue=nine&id=173

I thought I knew what I was talking about while I was writing about it. But then I tried to find examples to prove what I was saying, it felt like I was talking out of my ass. Mike Young said it was ok.

reese's feces

I like to drive behind raisin plows while shouting the words to Danzig's "Mother" and watching the plow hit mailboxes with a wave of raisins. This is even better when the raisin plow hits a cemetery mailbox with a wave of raisins. I like to watch cemetery mailboxes sway back and forth after getting hit by a wave of raisins. Cemetery mailboxes are my favorite mailboxes ever. I will put a raisin in an envelope and mail it to a dead person.

Go read Carlton Mellick III's story, "Candy-Coated." It is in the new issue of Vice. It is online. It is a very good story. I saw Carlton Mellik III read this story. He is a better reader than you are.

Madelyn Burgess, who is supposed to be "the girl who tells you which register to use at Whole Foods over the PA," also reads it online. I don't think I've ever heard her voice before. I usually go to Whole Foods in the morning. It is not busy in the morning. I like the way Madelyn Burgess says, "laydaaays." Madelyn Burgess's voice is more calming than Carlton Mellick III's. Carlton Mellick III also has a story in the upcoming Bradley Sands is a Dick anthology, as do many others who are not named Ryan Call.

storm warning

It is raining cherry slushy. Driving to my Whatchamacallit stand where I sell the delicious candy to incredibly wealthy men was highly disturbing.

The electricity on my cart just went out.

It just went back on.

I am reading a book called The Art of Seduction. I am embarrassed that I am reading it. I am reading it because I LOVED the author's first book: The 48 Laws of Power. I am reading it because my hymen has grown back.

Someone needs to write a book called How to Get Beautiful Women into Bed if You Are a Recluse and Only Leave the House to Go to Work and You Are Afraid of Women Who Use the Internet for the Purpose of Meeting Men Because That Shit Is Highly Suspect. I would buy it. I once wrote a flash story called "How To Get Beautiful Women into Bed" (and a zine called Olympus Found published it), but I would be breaking a lot of laws if I followed my own advice.

The next issue of Bust is filling up fast. Maybe one or two slots left. This NEVER happens. Maybe I will have a few months to "chill." Maybe I would make Bust quarterly instead of bi-annually if I could spare the cash. But I cannot. Although I am a very wealthy man, there is a limit to the amount of money that I'm willing to spend on publishing literature that excites me.

I'm flying back to the states on February 2 to do a reading in Cambridge, Massachusetts at the Dire Reading Series.

(Don't read this unless you're Mike Young: It is on a Monday instead of a Saturday as I had originally thought. My housemate does not know if he can drive. I hate driving in the city, so I will not. It is not during AWP.)

I am going to start working on my novella (TV Snorted My Brain) again. It has been too long since I worked on it. I have not worked on a proper book since June. I am no longer waiting to work on it. I am excited. I think it might result in a short novel rather than a long novella.

I will probably wait until I have a day off from selling Whatchamacallits to incredibly wealthy men. It's sort of a ritual/excuse to be lazy of mine to wait until I have a day off before I start on anything major. In the meantime, I will reread what I've written so far to get back into the voice of the protagonist. I also need to edit a synopsis for a comic book submission.

I am writing the novel for a specific company. I hope they like it. If they don't...

I wish there were more options for me as far as submitting my books for publication.

What I write is not literary fiction. It is not genre fiction. It is not experimental fiction.

It will probably be too short for a glitzy NYC publisher because glitzy NYC publishers rarely publish novels under 300 pages.

The small press is an ideal place for short books. The small press tends to specialize in literary fiction and genre fiction and experimental fiction.

Lately, I have been writing entertaining, humorous, absurdist, surrealist stuff. I guess "fucked up commercial fiction" would be a good description of it. Or Bizarro Fiction.

I guess it is a little similar to the works of Christopher Moore or Jasper Fforde. But not really. And those guys write long-ish stuff. I think I would like their books better if they were short-ish. I think I would like most books better if they were short-ish. Most novels published by ritzy NYC publishers seem to have dull filler so they can meet the ritzy publisher's 300 page requirement. Take a page count from a novel and subtract 200 from it. This is often how many pages need to be cut before the book is a decent read.

On second thought, I've gone a little overboard. I blame my tendency to write books that are 200 pages or less. I think 300 page books are usually ok. Anything more=too long.

i forgot that i made sam pink a character in the shitty novel that i was working on and am not working on anymore

Grover woke up. He was outside. He was on the ground. A member of Truth and Consequences High's security was looking down at him. The security guard's name was Sam Pink. He was mentally retarded. Truth and Consequences High was an equal opportunity employer. Sam Pink wanted to become a police officer, but he failed the stupidity test. He was too intelligent. Sam Pink wrote poetry. His poetry put him on the FBI watch list. It was very violent and all dealt with his plot to assassinate the president.

"Hi, Grover," said Sam Pink. "I am going to knock out your teeth and then pile them on top of each other. Then I am going to climb up your teeth and sodomize the man in the moon. He will finally have something to smirk about. His anus blood will rain down upon the Earth. Crops will grow at a rapid rate. They will all be shaped like my bowel movements. When people eat vegetables, they will be eating bowel movement shaped-vegetables. The bowel movement-shaped vegetables will explode out of their stomachs and do snazzy dances. The shape of my bowel movements in the form of vegetables shall inherit the Earth." He made a retarded face. "Did you like my poem? If you didn't, I will cum on your pet armadillo."

Grover said, "No, Sam Pink. I didn't like your poem. I hate you, Sam Pink.

Sam Pink said, "Why aren't you in school, Grover? Want to watch cartoons?"

Grover didn't answer him. Instead he knocked out Sam Pink's teeth, piled them on top of each other, climbed up them and sodomized the man in the moon. Then the man in the moon's anus blood rained down upon the Earth, causing crops to grow at a rapid rate, shaped like Sam Pink's bowel movements. People at the vegetables and the bowel movement-shaped vegetables exploded out of their stomachs and did snazzy dances. But the bowel movement-shaped vegetables did not inherit the Earth because the U.S. Army took their asses down before their dying uncle could bequeath the Earth to them in their will. And Grover walked home.

New issue of Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens

It is out.

Info things:

Issue #8 demonstrates why this journal has been hailed as the figurehead publication for absurd and surreal literature. Throughout these pages readers will find a man with an endless supply of money in his pockets, a nun who finds teeth in her ice cream cone, and a giant mechanized Michael Ironside stalking the streets of Galveston, Texas. Readers will also find the apocalypse as experienced by the cast of Friends and a race of chickens that enslaves a man and forces him to eat the last egg ever to be eaten. No one theme or tone dominates this issue. Some stories feature mindless violence or irreal nonsense. Others display sharp cultural satire or brain-tingling wordplay. At a time when most fiction serves up the standard fare of realism and common sense, issue #8 offers a zany feast for the ravenous imagination.

Includes stories by Sam Pink, Blake Butler, D. Harlan Wilson, Rhys Hughes, Ofelia Hunt, Cameron Pierce, Mike Young, Matthew Simmons, Darby Larson, Aaron Sitze, and Adam Breckenridge. Contains book reviews of Duncan Barlow''s Super Cell Anemia and Jeremy C. Shipp's Sheep and Wolves .

It costs five bucks plus shipping. Do it. Do it. Do it.


There's a few story excerpts that you can check out on the webpage.

Submissions are open again. Do it. Do it. Do it.

Now I need to do some hardcore internet promotion. I have not done any hardcore internet promotion since last year. I do not look forward to it. I hate hardcore internet promotion.