World, say hello to Valerie Solanas, my dog.
This is the new Juiceboxxx video, “The Saga Never Ends,” from his upcoming mixtape.
If Valerie just does four more videos, I think she’ll have a larger YouTube presence than me.
P.S. The reason I named her “Valerie Solanas” is that, when I first rescued her from the OC pound, she used to bark at MEN. A LOT. Especially manly men. I found out later that she does this because she LOVES men, but that’s another story…
So, yesterday was A Rrose in a Prose, which was amazing and had wonderful performances by Ian MacKinnon, Drew Denny, Tom Neely, Flannery Lunsford, Justin Maurer, and myself.
But our guest of honor, Allison Anders, couldn’t be there–she had the sniffles and was a little under the weather.
I thought it would be fun to have the audience write her a get well letter, but not a conventional one–rather, we’d write it as an Exquisite Corpse, the dadaist game that if you don’t know by now, you must have had no fun in high school. Basically, you take a poem or story or drawing, one person starts it off, and the next person does the next little bit only getting to see where the connection is but not what the piece as a whole might be, not until it’s finished.
We opted for the prosaic Exquisite Corpse, where one person writes five lines, paragraph-style, and then passes it along to the next person, who only sees the fifth line and has to try and continue the thought. And it started off great, much like a get-well letter should be! But then very very quickly it descended into a place of madness, of darkness, sex, and depravity, so that I’m worried it will be like a Groundhog’s Day of health and scare Allison back into sickville! Truth be told, I think some of the people didn’t listen to my full instructions and thought they were writing a poem, not a get-well letter, which explains all the blood and cum. I still haven’t decided if I’m going to actually show this to Allison. Maybe she’ll stumble across it after she’s feeling a little better.
Here is the final piece we came up with. For the sake of clarity, I’m titling it:
SODA AND THE WOMB
Dear Allison,
My name is Mallison. I know, weird right? I’ve known many women named Allison (or Alison), and our relationships have been passionate and tempestuous. I hope my baby doesn’t wake up. Is that a non-sequitur? Perhaps, but I’m just being honest here.
We’re sitting here, relaxing, enjoying our coffee, and it’s the foremost thing on my mind. XXX. I want you to feel good! You have shared so much joy, inspired such creation. I’m closing my eyes & sending love and picturing you naked.
In the bathtub
drinking Coca-cola
and sending a fax to the
Skype.
A nice medium for virtual sex
will get you better
in body and soul
electric spirit electric sex
Crazy girls make the best nest
Salami bitch and brazen whore
Trickster meets a lackluster boar
La la la baking with flour
Staring down the craven hour
You can see things coming into focus, sharp, clear, bright—then fluffy, cottony, floaty again, but this time it’s totally fun.
And the demons will be on the run. So many hearts need to be won! The world catches up to you. True blue indigo womb.
You fascinate the fascination of my body up against yours. Smashed in blood mixed with sweat.
I reach for you
drawing you in
licking the blood off your stomach
I CHOKE ON YOUR DAD’S CUM
and all your mother’s insecurities
-Ryan Fuller, Drew Denny, Flannery Lunsford, Charles Mallison, Greg Saunders, et al.
After taking a hiatus in February due to Zine Fest and utter exhaustion, we’re back with a vengeance for March.
March 24, we’re bringing a huge crew of awesome authors, poets, essays, and artists of the printed page, including graphic novelist/comic book genius Tom Neely, of The Blot, The Wolf, and of course, the famed fan-fiction erotica Henry & Glenn Forever.
We’re also having a poem/performance from Ian MacKinnon! If you haven’t heard him or heard of him (e.g. from Ian MacKinnon’s Gay Hist-Orgy), then you must not have eyes or ears.
And don’t forget Allison Anders, who will be reading from her tumblr blog about owning Greta Garbo’s record collection.
And we’ve got Flannery Lunsford from Allison and Kurt Voss’ film Strutter, and a return visit from Justin Maurer, author of Seventeen Television (and, oh, like about a thousand awesome bands including Maniac, Clorox Girls, and L.A. Drugz). Don’t miss this one!
Somehow I was pulled into interviewing Tim Heidecker at the last minute for L.A. RECORD. I’m not saying I was unprepared, but I had only about 24 hours to get this together. He and I didn’t have my famous chemistry, and he had no interest in talking about the sexual inappropriateness of David Liebe Hart, but I still got some great answers out of him, largely about his recent album. Read it here.
… and a new name!
Someone (not our group, that’s for sure) put some posters on some light poles downtown a couple months ago–at least FOUR of them! That’s completely illegal, and I say that anyone who does it should be punished to the fullest extent of the law, far more than a mere $312.
Yet the name in the city officials’ misspelled documents was so wonderful, I had to steal it. Serves those vandals right!
So, compelled by the spirit of Dadaism, our literature/poetry/memoir/erotica/essay/rant event is now called:
The next one is September 23. Please come.
Banjo picker and bluegrass pioneer Earl Scruggs passed away today in Nashville.
Scruggs’ son Gary said his father passed away Wednesday morning at a Nashville, Tenn., hospital. Gary Scruggs said his father died of natural causes.
He was a titan in his field, an innovator, and it was a supreme pleasure to interview Mr. Scruggs and his son Gary many years ago, as one of my first assignments for L.A. RECORD. He will be missed.
I love old-school L.L. Cool J, but man, this has to be the opposite of a love song. Who could possibly be wooed by these words?
But where you at? You’re neither here or there.
I swear I can’t find you anywhere.
Damn sure you ain’t in my closet, or under my rug.
This love search is really making me bug!
I wonder if L.L. actually ever told a girl he wanted something “clean and unsoiled, yet sweaty and wet?”
Okay, so this is a personal request, done late late late in the day. But can I ask why one of my personal heroes is a right-wing fuck, and has been for years?
Well, let me say this, I read the National Review cover to cover. Check in at Townhall.com every day. Check the Washington Times daily. Listen to Dennis Prager and Michael Medved on a regular basis. Read Mark Steyn with regularity. Read the Weekly Standard. So, yes, I do vote Republican. As the pundit Hugh Hewitt has observed, there are indeed two Americas: Serious America and Silly America. The Democrats seem bent on turning this into Silly America, so I stick with those who wish this to remain Serious America.
So, now that it’s six or so years since you said those flippant words, and Bush has proven to be the most wasteful, unconstitutional, and deceitful president we’ve ever had, can I get a retraction from the man whose comedy I love so dearly? I can understand that as the writer and actor on an underdog show, Mike Nelson might have sympathy for Bush, a president whose lack of popularity surely puts him in the “cult following” category of presidents such as Fillmore or Taft. But jeezuz, Nelson, your show is so much better than your politics. Maybe your inability to see the continuity between Republican pro-rich policies and the current economic fiasco we’re in stems from watching all those plotless Coleman Francis movies?
The best thing I can say about Nelson is that because he never wore his politics on his sleeve, he was able to make me laugh, and poke fun at movies without revealing how truly enthused he was about some of their saccharine religious plot-points. But jeezuz, your people destroyed our country. I hope Joel Hodgson rips your heart out of your chest with his teeth and videotapes it, so he can make fun of it later.
I know, I know, the Beatles were better at the music, the Beach Boys were better at major sevenths, Chuck Berry was better at the lyrics, and Little Richard was better at falsetto. Carl Perkins was better at being down-home, Billy Lee Riley was better at crazed-cat rockabilly, Buddy Holly was better at bringing pop into his rock, and Bo Diddley had a better beat. Even among the Sun Records cats, Johnny Cash did more drugs, and Jerry Lee Lewis was more dangerous.
But Elvis was an amazing performer–the biggest shining personality of the fifties–with all the moves, lots of style, great looks, and a wild personality. The fact that he had bad management, mental problems, and an addiction to food and drugs shouldn’t tarnish that amongst modern myth-makers who tend to prefer the Bolans and Joneses to this man.
I mean, fuck, Elvis sang better than Frank Sinatra. Last night, to celebrate Elvis’ 74th birthday, my gal TiVo’d Fun in Acapulco. Goddam, could that boy sing! Listen to this shit!
Fuck all contenders! This man is the KING! F U C K !!!
Arg! This makes me so mad! What good does it to do Blagojevich to appoint Roland Burris now, at a time when the corruption charges leveled agaisnt Blagojevich ensures his nomination will never see a seat in the Senate honored?
Former State Attorney General Burris isn’t a terrible choice, and he’s a choice that Governor Blagojevich could have totally fucking made with impunity, if only he’d been content to stay in politics as a man of dignity. ARRG! I don’t fucking get it! Why did he need to be so corrupt, especially now at this historic time of still tentative liberal gains?
It’s greed for greed’s sake, because we know Blagojevich ain’t starvin’. And once you reach the level of governor, there’s no way you’ll ever be stuck in the poor house again. After your term as Governor is over, you can join a left-leaning think tank, or get a snazzy job in the private sector heading some bitchin’ company, or run for another elected office, or fuck it, you can go make speeches at colleges, all of which pay more than I’m making, and I didn’t start off already fucking rich!
Instead, Blagojevich has tainted his own name and the names of everyone who’s ever donated money to his campaigns, including the name of Roland Burris. Maybe Burris should have been chosen–though there are probably fifty veterans of Illinois politics who could say they have more experience–and it’s a choice that Blagojevich should have made honestly when he was still a revered statesman. He fucked it up, and the Democrats are fucking it up, and this scandal will haunt us for the duration of Obama’s presidency, and we’re all just in a royal clusterfuck that we don’t yet have the political capital to withstand.
In a weird way, a choice like the one made in New York with Caroline Kennedy would actually make better sense in Illinois now. A system as tainted with scandal as Illinois’ almost would do better to choose an outsider to conventional politics such as Kennedy, if only because we could be relatively sure such a person hadn’t been in cahoots with the Blagojevich political machine. But because Democrats can’t help but be idiotic douchebags with self-afflicted open sores on their faces, we have Burris as our temporary choice in Illinois and Caroline Kennedy as the choice for Hillary’s replacement in New York. Both of these controversies make me question the Democrats’s dedication to actual democracy.
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