December 2008
42 posts
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Chicken pussy
I’m in the one-room apartment located in the basement under the Polish National Church. It used to be a club, and then a mental health outpatient clinic. Now, I call it home. There’s a king-sized mattress in the middle of the room, where me and the big fat lead singer from Canned Heat finish up an afternoon of incredibly hot sex. Boy, does he have a big one.
Joining us for late...
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A radically condensed history of postindustrial...
When they were introduced, he made a witticism, hoping to be liked. She laughed extremely hard, hoping to be liked. Then each drove home alone, staring straight ahead, with the very same twist to their faces.
The man who’d introduced them didn’t much like either of them, though he acted as if he did, anxious as he was to preserve good relations at all times. One never knew, after all,...
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Brief interviews with hideous men
We see these things a dozen times a day in entertainment but imagine we ourselves, our own imaginations, are mad. A different man might have said what he’d seen was her hand moved to her bra and freed her breasts. His legs might slightly tremble when she asks what he thinks. Her expression is from Page 18 of the Victoria’s Secret catalogue. She is, he thinks, the sort of woman who’d...
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Ralph Eugene Meatyard: David Grubbs paraphrasing...
“The waiting room is hung with pictures best described as fiction that owes no allegiance to things as they are. Here’s a photo of a house: an embarrassing semblance of face.”
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What's in an address?
At four in the morning I like to think I live on Harry Dean Stanton street, one door down from Leonard Cohen. And I do.
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And in my dream we're on a train
Why do trains go faster at night than on rails? It is colder outside than in the morning.
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