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"David
J. Schow: what can I say? His fiction is bitterly funny, yet a single
story can devastate me for a week. His essays and commentary, best
known through his "Raving and Drooling" segment in Fangoria magazine
(since collected in Wild Hairs from Babbage Press), are as revelatory
as his fiction. His gift is the unveiling of reality: the one in
which you live, but never fully recognized. Yet somehow, no matter
how dizzy a story may make you, you'll still be entertained."
(Skin Graft Records sells AoR stuff. Hie thee hence.) You know that trick, where you tell someone to bite down really hard on their pinkie fingernails and count to sixty (they will drool, but that's part of the fun) while promising them that it's going to be really cool, and then you have them take their fingers out of their mouths really fast and link them together and pull really hard? And they scream in fucking agony? And you say, "The lesson here is, don't chew on your damn fingers just because someone tells you it's cool. It's cool for ME, but not for you. Dumbass." Well. Perhaps you fear my motives now in asking you to steep yourself in Arab on Radar. Perhaps you should. Perhaps you should always be wary and fear all motives. Arab on Radar sounds an awful lot like what happens when you link your bitten fingers together and pull : lots of screams, lots of thudding (like the pound of blood rushing back under your nails), lots of entertaining pain. Deal. [Note: AOR has broken up. Mourn with us.)
"And please don't berate me for being
behind in updating this area. I'm fucking BROKE, kittens."
When
I get my perfect car ('73 AMC AMX Javelin), and when I have faith that
it will run, I intend to drive the bitch. That's why I don't count
as a real Car Enthusiast or collector of anything, I guess - I like to
actually read/drive/use/play with the shit I want. That means that
it gets dirty, broken, and de-valued the instant it gets into my hands.
But it also gets loved hard, and that's the point - no fine car of mine
is going to hide in a garage forever. Anyway, so here's the plan.
I'm going to take a sabbatical one day and hop in my loud, gas-hogging
Hellldozer and drive. I'm going to take my boots, my hat, and a variety
of weapons. And my laptop and a camera that I won't break, and a
notebook. I intend to eat grease until I puke, get sunburned, hallucinate
from driving too long, narrowly avoid at least one brawl, and hopefully
make it the whole way without being called 'freak.' In the mean time,
though, until I get on the road, I hang out at this site. Do the
same. Also, go to Lost America
and check out the beautiful night photography.
I warn you: one reading of this poetry will infect your brain with the word patterns, and nobody will be able to understand you for a while. I spent hours one summer in the Cornell University library, hiding from the heat and the librarians, my mascara running from laughter-induced tears (either that, or from sneezing at the glue-dust floating up from the old bindings in my hands.) On top of being fabulous wordplay, Marquis' social satire is exquisite.
Well, now. This chap flirted
with the eventuality of being Mr. Prizewinning Investigative Journalist
Man, Hardhitting, A Rock, an Island - but car shows, monsters, and flicks
really do give more bone-deep pleasure. Cable didn't reach as far as my childhood
home; no cable in college; post-college spending money went for books,
books, books. Cable and I - well, let's say I've heard of it, but
it ain't heard of me. But I'd heard of Joe Bob because I read
him. Behind the times, that's me. When I discovered "MonsterVision,"
I sprained myself. Then folks at TNT fucked everything up & started
running ridiculous movies. That's not what made Drive-In Theater
and the good presentations of Monstervision interesting: it was,
instead, the enthusiasm our host had for these movies. Who on earth
is going to be enthusiastic about Twins? Ugh, geddit offme.
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