This is for everyone I've ever sold drugs to....

(With thanks to G, as apparently every post I do from now on will be...)

Ask Barrelhouse

Welcome back to our newish, semi-regular feature, in which we help you fix your life by responding to your actual letters.*


Dear Barrelhouse,

My sister, "Lois," has been living in my house for the past six weeks. She just went through a nasty divorce and is trying to get back on her feet, and I'm happy to help. I've been so blessed in my own life, that I feel it's my Christian duty to minister to her in her time of need.

And for the most part she's a joy to have around. We kind of grew apart as adults -- she's more into the "rock an roll" lifestyle, while the closest I ever come to "rocking" or "rolling" is when I shake my hips a little -- in a nonsexual way, of course! -- during the opening hymn on Sundays (sometimes that new organist gets a bit jazzy for my taste, but I guess that's what the young generation likes).

Anywhoo, like I said, "Lois" is mostly a good houseguest, there's just one problem: the way she dresses. I'm no "prude," but I think some things (i.e. breasts and bottoms) are best left to the imagination. Sis doesn't seem to think so. She parades around the house in her sleeping garments some days until noon, and don't even get me started on what she wears when she goes "out on the town." I know she's an adult, and she can dress how she wants, but I've got two teenaged sons who are suddenly a lot more interested in family time. Come to think of it, my husband's been eating dinner at home a lot more often. What should I do?

Thanks,
Not a Prude


Listen, NOP, we hate to break this to you -- actually that's a lie, because we love breaking this shit to you -- but your sister is totally fucking your husband. Probably at least one of your teenaged kids, too, if not the both of them. What should you do about it? Short of hooking up a flux capacitator to a Delorean, the only option left is to beat ol' sis at her own game.

That's right, NOP: time to slut it up. You know that one thing your husband brings up sorta frequently, then laughs about and declares "gross" or "weird"? Here's a hint Heloise won't give you: he's dying to do it, and it's time to let him. You know that one place where you suspect your man wants to put his you-know-what? Time to let him put it there. It's the only way to save your marriage. Heck, you may even like it.

As for your kids, look at it this way: would you rather have little Johnnie and Jason banging the homecoming queen without protection, then having to marry her instead of living out their (your) dreams of becoming doctors or lawyers or pompadour'd preachers, or would you rather than rodger the holy hell out of their skeevy, barren-wombed aunt?

Yeah, we guess maybe you have a point about that one. But hey: boys will be boys!




*letters may not be actual

Books that Make You Stupider

Cracked Magazine -- yes, it still exists -- examines five books that will immediately make you dumber: tips for playing the lottery, Klingon Hamlet (seriously), masturbation and Soduko:

"Tips include sage advice on topics such as "scanning the rows" and "filling in the gaps." Based on title alone, it's pretty clear that the author personally infiltrated the invisible floating MENSA fortress and wrestled secret Sudoku strategies out of the cold hands of dead Nobel Prize winners. The intellectual level of the average reader? Well, "scanning the rows" is split up over three separate tips. But it's not until you get to the part where two separate tips are given over to "taking a break" that you realize that the book you're reading was written after this phone conversation:

Publisher: We need a Sudoku book right now before the idiots lose interest!

Maths guy: How long have I got?

Publisher: The courier's on his way!"

Q: How can you avoid such hilarity?

A: You can't.

Plus, if you fold the page over itself, it'll reveal an incriminating photo of Gary Hart.

Anyone Else Not Like the Simpsons Movie?

Like every critic said, it was just an extended television episode, but the real disappointment for me is that, after umpteen years of creating many amazingly hilarious characters, this 87 minute movie had no significant subplots involving Seymour Skinner, Monty Burns, Otto, Quimby, Cleetus, Lovejoy, Apu, Wiggum, etc. They were just there to push the main plot along and throw out one-liners. And celebrity voices? Green Day and Philip Baker Hall don't count.

I was hoping the movie would be a last hurrah, going out in a blaze of glory, rather than a reminder of why I haven't watched the show regularly--in syndication or new episodes--for a few years now.

*That silly man and his silly cookies...

Aaron has posted his enjoyment of The Wire-- a show which I haven't seen (haven't gotten around to stealing--er, I mean bittorrenting-- it yet and it ain't on the air here in Switzerland). But today I am enjoying the fruit of David Simon's earlier labors, Homicide: Life on the Street.

Some thoughts.

I like this show a lot. It's smart, it's bleak, it's more than occasionally funny. And it's got Yaphet Kotto (who is, I believe, is the son of a Cameroon prince or something wild like that as well as being an observant Jew which is kinda cool just on its own). Ned Beatty, too. And Richard Belzer. It's an impeccable ensemble (well, until you get to the Jon Seda and Michael Michele years which, admittedly, suck ass).

Fantasy: I want to be the meat in a Kyle Secor as Tim Bayliss and Clark Johnson (tee hee, I said "Johnson") as Meldrick Lewis sandwich. Or maybe just the butter on Tim Bayliss' bread.

It's not a particularly sexy show. I'm quite afraid that me blogging here is betraying all my inclinations and kinks. I DO think John Munch is hot in a sarcastic "my face got weed whacked" way.  I totally WOULD get down with Stanley "Big Man" Bolander, old and squeal-like-a-piggy-in-Deliverance as he is.

Um, is that wrong?

I would do Yaphet Kotto as well.

THAT is indubitably wrong.

Really, up until the very last season, it was all good. Very, very good. Andre Braugher as the unswerving Frank Pembleton.  Hot damn.  He could work a suspect over in The Box like no one else.  Max Perlich as JH Brodie, the little scruffy wannabe-documentarian.  Did you know that in real life Daniel Baldwin (er, when he's not on Celebrity Fit Club or dodging rehab) and Isabel Hoffman (Beau Felton and Meghan Russert, respectively) are together?  

The post begins with a photo of me (yes, that's me before I evolved into the hot-as-homicide-itself uber-babe you all know and wet dream of) in front of the Homicide building on the Waterfront in Baltimore.

Now THAT's fandom.

JAE

* The title is a quote from the 3rd season episode "Crosetti."  Bayliss says it when he and Frank go to buy the special and expensive cookies that were Steve Crosetti's favorite.  For his funeral.

Out of Light

Barrelhouse Issue 5 contributor Joe Massey has a new chapbook out from Kitchen Press, Out of Light. If you're familiar with any of Massey's other chaps, you know this one will be well worth picking up. In case you're not convinced, here are some blurbs from prominent, decorated poets you should trust more than me.

I read Out of Light straight through (rare for a book of poems) when it arrived late yesterday: and again (rarer still) this morning; focusing different facets of the prisms. The echo I felt was a memory of the pleasure of beginning Merrill Gilfillan's Magpie Rising -- dispassionate language that shares a passionate view. That I was driven to learn more of the history, geography and politics of Humboldt Country is a bonus. With this collection Massey has removed the last traces of clutter and lets emotion dance to nature.

--Tom Raworth


Don’t call it a comeback! Because Massey’s been here for years! And he’s close to my age! He was writing to Ginsberg when I was copying Nirvana lyrics down. So the poems are already well-seasoned poetically and experientially.What makes these poems stay with the reader? They don’t quite let you relax. And they don’t simply exhibit skilled craft, tho they are skilled craft. If a poem is a little machine made out of words, like William Carlos Williams said, Massey’s poems are among the most reliable nerve stimulators. Starkly cut images sometimes as scary as the opening cuts in Texas Chainsaw Massacre. And it all has to work on the level of nerves, otherwise we’re just weaving pleasantries together. The emotion is facilitated not through sentiment but in the actual athletic feat of making a poem out of words. And making it so that it sticks to the brain. And there’s paradox, as in the dude’s professed predilection for an after-human world, or what could be misinterpreted as misanthropy, that is always undercut by what is really the raw stuff of human (mammalian) experience. Perception is always the most effective sharpening tool, and the poems in Out of Light expose the reader to true hugeness and intimacy. Poems condensed on the expressway to your skull.

--Mike Hauser


"Your poetry is like brambles in my anus. And not in a good way."

--Anonymous


For those familiar with Joe Massey’s work, Out of Light should continue to impress with a particular eye, and an equally particular ear, for the sensual or sensate. If it is true that the observer always alters the observed through the very act of measure, then Massey has certainly made an art of such alterations through the singular event of the poem. “No ideas / but in things,” Williams might say, but this no longer suffices. “A thrust of // things— / a world— / words—// crush / against / the margin of you” says Massey, and throughout this collection of exacting poems one is apt to experience a tension between how the poet’s world acts upon him, and how the poet acts upon his world, wherein the consequence of every act is measure itself. In Out of Light, there are no ideas but in such interactivity, an interactivity that bespeaks Joe Massey speaking. For those unfamiliar with his work, you will want to listen. And for those familiar with his work, you will want to listen—again. And again.

--Christopher Rizzo


"Your poetry is like a bramble in my anus. And not in a good way."

--Anonymous


"how the light/ makes do." All things contend with the weather, improvise a spar, feint around the canopy. And smudged. Smudged light and things are peripheral, overcast. "what/ sun/ a web/ snags." A next sense is sought and held to augment the washed-out other five -- something like a synaesthesia, underneath a bridge.

--Buck Downs


In Out of Light, Joseph Massey pries open words with his 24 karat ear to expose a startling landscape where, “tree frogs // alliterate the dark,” where the moon is “mistaken for a cloud.” Massey directs light with a masterly precision in order to break open that gorgeous darkness that is our world— isolation, silence— and then a humming bird shows up. And then the red bark of a tree, kelp, sea foam. And then the face, your face, is “turned back by wind,” and you see yourself in the landscape and it is no longer lonely, but as bright as the crystals inside a geode.

--Sandra Simonds

The Oscars: Some Stuff Happened!

Welcome to the worst Oscars recap ever written. Girlfriend and I discussed honeymoon plans and drank very strong chocolate martinis during the show, only half-watching the doings of our Celebrity Overlords. So, there's a good chance most of this is wrong (with all the flashbacks, it was very confusing: Wait, did Cary Grant just win an Oscar? Did Nicholson get plugs?)

• That stripper-blogger lady won for her "Juno" script, and I died a little inside (Girlfriend groaned and said the stripper-blogger lady only became a stripper because no one was reading her blog).

• Some homosexual teenaged kid from Ohio won a trip to the Oscars and showed up in jeans and untucked polo shirt.
  

• Directors and producers are, on the whole, a not-so-attractive group of hirsute white dudes.

• A bunch of movies I haven't seen yet won awards they may or may not have deserved.

• Ratatouille won something! I saw Ratatouille! Yeah!

• Helen Mirren is 62 years old and I would totally hit that shit.

• After the awards, everyone in the theater donned turbans and engaged in a giant Pansexual Democrat Al Qaeda Orgy. Of course they cut the cameras before this happened, but c'mon, we all know this is what they do. It's the one night of the year Michael Moore doesn't have to auto-fellate.

Link of the Week

What I've just realized is that Jill and I have not only started posting to this blog regularly, but have also sort of started taking over in typical woman-like fashion. At first, it's just a post here, an alarmingly offensive comment there. Next, you'll find a toothbrush and a tampon smugly situated in your bathroom cabinet. (Trust me, they're there. Go check.) Lastly, here I come with TWO posts on TWO Sundays in a row called "Link of the Week!"

What does this mean? (Besides the fact that you'll have fresh breath and feminine protection at hand when you need it?) Well, it means that Sunday is now BOTH Shameless Self-Promotion Day and Link of the Week Day. At least if I have anything to do with it.

So here it is, my new committed relationship partners: your Link of the Week.

Stuff White People Like

I felt this site was appropriate since we're already on an "ironically and cheerfully racist" kick this week. (Or, err, I am.) And I realize I may be totally behind on this site, so all of you can feel free to boo, bitch-slap or ninja-chop me if you've already seen it. But if you haven't, be prepared: it is HIGH-LARIOUS!

Because, really, white people are hilarious. Not only do they like raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, they also apparently like Gentrification, Alternative Medicine, the Toyota Prius, Irony, Knowing What's Best for Poor People and Standing Still at Concerts, among many other objects, places and activities.

As a side note, I think one of the best parts of this site is the comments section on the "About Us" page. In this little gem of a bulletin board, people of all races (but mostly white) sound off on how wonderful, terrible, offensive, poorly-written, left-wing, right-wing or just plain hateful the site is. They also wonder openly and often about the race of the person who runs the blog. (My guess is that it's our own Mike Ingram, who recently admitted to playing a regular game of mixed doubles tennis in very short, very white shorts, AND to being called Country Club during his college years due to his excessive whiteness.)

Anyway, from this comment section we learn that among the many ridiculous things White People Like, "getting bent out of shape because they can't take a motherfucking joke, ""commenting heatedly on things they could just as easily ignore" and "flame wars" are way, way up there.

As is blogging.

So, my multi-cultural, multi-political, gay, straight, lesbian, transgendered and transexual sisters and brothers of size (or lack of size) and color (or lack of color)....ENJOY!


...

Knight Rider, Well, It Sucks

Looks like Fox won the 80s Resurrection Award over NBC, because Terminator is much better than Knight Rider.

What are the show's issues? Where to begin?

First, let's highlight the fact that this 2 hour movie premiere was an extended infomercial for Ford. The commercials featured an extended, I guess they would call it "riff" on KITT's jealousy over Michael's date. When Val Kilmer is jealous of your date, BEWARE!! Especially if she drives a Ford Focus.

Second, there was no character development. The main character is this Michael fellow, who only comes into the show 1hr 15min in. Previous to that KITT's inventor and his daughter were the main focus. Michael is literally along for the ride, and remains a cypher throughout the film, until David Hasselhoff shows up in the last 5 mintues to tell him it is his destiny to drive KITT, on account of something or other. (Oh, first assignment: Czech Republic! Where KITT will be the only Ford Mustang around!)

Third, the chase scenes suffer from either complete obvious-ness or an extremely odd lack of urgency. Michael and the daughter drive KITT to a rural motel, where the scientist and Michael's mother are holed up. The bad guys are already there, so they exercise due caution by parking KITT behind a scraggly pine tree 50 feet away, safely unseen from anyone who is not looking in that direction.

Meanwhile, the 4 killers surround the hotel room of choice with automatic weapons. Michael tries to sneak around. Cut to inside the hotel room--Michael's mom cocks her six gun, the knob starts to twist, cut to the killers turning the knob, cut to Michael walking aimlessly, cut to inside tension, outside knob twisting, inside knob twisting, CUT to 8 minute commercial, Killers, knob, Michael, etc. and then the door opens, Michael's mom puts a bullet where the head should be, and Michael pops into the room while the killers bust into an empty room. Totally tense and exciting if you've never seen Silence of the Lambs or 100 other action movies or shows.

Well, they make good their mistake, miraculously, and run the 50 feet to KITT and...just stand around. I guess maybe it occurred to them that KITT was a 2 seater and there's 4 of them. But then an FBI agent shows up, in an SUV! Yeah, they have enough room to escape, but instead, they just...stand around and shoot the shit until the killers exercise their oracular cavities and notice them.

Babies ain't been named yet...

But J-lo done busted a couple of 'em out this morning, yo.

One boy. One girl.

C'mon. With the collective wisdom that is Barrelhouse--

Let's name 'em.

Please Baby Baby, Please Baby Baby, Please...

Since I'm not just here to entertain you hacks--and because it's Thursday: day of literature for all Barrelhouse Bitches and Boys--I'd like to ask you all to help me out with something I'm writing. Um, trying to write, that is. Conceptualizing, let's say.

The details of my childhood (or what exactly I'm writing) are inconsequential. If all goes well, you'll find out specifics soon enough. But for now, all you need to do in order to help me is ask yourself this:

What are the top five most iconic songs, ever?

Now, let's be straight here. I don't want the BEST songs. It's quite possible that the best music ever is not at all iconic, in your opinion. (Natch, there's potentially an obscure Sigur Ros B-Side that could change the world if only anyone understood Hopelandic, but that's not what I'm going for.) Indeed, quality is not the issue, though it may rightfully play a part in your answer. All I really want are the top five songs that everyone knows the words to and thoroughly enjoys (whether guiltily or proudly.)

It would also help if you could point out a few lines that are particularly memorable/iconic. Unless they are obvious, of course. (Which I guess they should be if the song is as iconic as you say, but whatever.)

Thanks in advance for helping a bitch out. If I get what I need, table dances for everybody!

(By the way, all you strangers, lurkers, stalkers and quiet riots out there who read but never comment: now is the time to speak up. Your girl is counting on you!)

...

I for One Accept our New Juno-tastic Overlords

The pending, inevitable Juno backlash was discussed on Barrelhouse here. I imagined I would fall for it, because that kind of happened with Little Miss Sunshine. Not that I didn't like LMS, but it wasn't as awesome as the 5 months of people telling me how awesome it was, um, was.

But I finally saw Juno last week and I enjoyed it. I thought Juno was likeable if a completely unrealistic character, but I was willing to live with that. I imagine she would have made more sense if she was college-age (wonder if she was older in the script's first draft?) or if we actually saw how she came to be hyper-literate in 70s punk or Argento horror flicks (a simple movie night with Bleeker or rocking out to Iggy with her band would have sufficed).

I really liked the yuppie couple subplot, and the movie took some risks there, especially because the rest of the movie seemed like an enjoyable wish fulfillment fantasy inside Jason Bateman's head.

To sum up: Juno, not annoying or grating at all, entertaining, a bit derivative of Wes Anderson perhaps in visual style, but all in all a solid, fun movie.

Continue with your daily lives.

Swayze, Swayze, Swayze

Hey, not to stop the comment-fest on the last post (keep 'em coming! Seriously, much appreciated!) but it dawned on me our newest members -- the loverly Miss JP, and the Singular Sensation that is Jill Alexander Essbaum -- have yet to publicly declare their favorite Patrick Swayze movies.

The rules:

1. Honesty, please.
2. Only one movie (no "I like this one sometimes, but then other times..." That is horseshit and you know it).
3. You're not allowed to pick Donnie Darko, which the Barrelhouse Editorial Squadron has previously determined to not be an official Patrick Swayze movie, despite featuring Patrick Swayze, and also because we're on to your little game and know it's a bullshit pick meant to make you seem cool while avoiding the real question.

Also, you should know we will totally use your answer to judge you.

So, ladies, what say you?

To The Poets

Just now, I was attempting to read some poems in a journal foolish enough to print one of my stories. I figured, Hey, if these guys liked my particular brand of juvenile man-boy rantings, maybe their poetry will be swell! Alas, halfway through the first poem, during an admittedly interesting line about shadowy men holding lanterns like severed heads, the song "Joy and Pain" came on XM's 80s station, and I was driven to distraction.

Possibly there's some sort of metaphor in there, but since I'm not a licensed poet I don't believe I'm allowed to construct it. Union rules and all.

Lame joking aside, there was a time, not so very long ago, when I enjoyed poetry. It was a simpler time, perhaps -- I was younger, less burdened by the world's often-sucky realities. I'd just moved to Washington, D.C., and many of my favorite moments were spent reading poems on the Metro ride to work, something perfect about experiencing these little meditative bursts while all around me a veritable crush of badly dressed humanity headed, grimacing, to their variously acronymed workplaces. Or: reading poems while exploring my new neighborhood, which within a six-or-seven-block radius contained Peruvian chicken and Vietnamese spring rolls and Chinese people playing ping pong in the rec room of the Chinese embassy (seriously! I saw this! It was awesome!) and tiny twenty-something granola-type women walking absurdly large dogs and tweed-suited ambassadors or attaches or dignitaries (oh, to one day be referred to as a dignitary!) disappearing strange models of foreign luxury cars behind the ivied gates of their rock-walled compounds.

Anyway, during this time I often found myself wowed by poetry. Broken apart by poetry. Every now and then, it felt as if my heart had been slurped from out of my chest, seasoned with some sort of Peruvian dry rub, roasted on a spit, and served back to me with salsa verde and a side of fried yucca (delicious!). There are reports from those days of tears, but I maintain it was dusty in those rooms, that I had something in my eye, that I'd just been peeling onions.

I recall reading a particularly moving Philip Levine poem that involved a dream-like image of the narrator's family doing nothing so much as moving around a living room, smoking and talking about money, yet seemed to open the door to a world as rich and mysterious as whatever went on behind those menacing compound gates.

There was a poem by Kim Addonizio with a beautiful extended metaphor involving regrets being born like children, then gathering outside the window and peering in at their mother as she danced with a handsome stranger, feeling already the kick of a newborn forming inside her.

There were some poems by Shirley Kaufman and Carolyn Forche that I read over and over; a couple I liked enough to photocopy and paste to the walls of my dingy studio apartment (though, to be fair, this may have just been a tactic to convince women I was deeper and more interesting than I was).

A year or so later, at perhaps the height of what I think of now as the Poetry Appreciation Era, I was sitting, alone, in a tiny bar in Madrid, still trying to process the bullfight I'd just witnessed, trying to process, too, my job prospects once I returned to D.C. (having quit my most recent miserable employment situation rather abruptly to travel), trying to process, too, why my girlfriend hadn't responded to my last several emails (Later, I would realize there was an inverse relationship between the frequency of her emails and the amount of Other Guys Cock she was putting inside herself) and in this state of strange existence, maybe three beers in while the jukebox played forgotten North American hits of the 80s ("Joy and Pain," for instance, which triggered this whole memory in the first place), the Spanish being spoken all around me bearing only the tiniest passing resemblance to the Spanish I'd been forced to learn in high school ("Donde esta la biblioteca, Gabriella?" is not as great an ice-breaker as one might expect), while all of this was going on I turned the page in a Stephen Dobyns book and read his poem "Quirencia" and experienced that profoundly odd sensation of being equal parts overjoyed and heartbroken at exactly the same moment.

That was then, this is now. What happened? What is it that I've lost?

I have no idea, but I think I'd like to get it back. So, dear poets, now that we've added you to our stable, I'm putting you to work: What should I be reading? How should I be reading? What went wrong? Please help me right this ship before I turn into a completely cynical, cold-hearted bastard.

Factory of Tears

Our good friend Valzhyna Mort's first American collection of poems, Factory of Tears, is now available from Copper Canyon Press. Valzhyna had two poems in Barrelhouse Issue 4, one of which you can also find in this volume. Originally from Belarus, Valzhyna had published a collection over there to rave reviews before moving to the states. This new volume contains poems translated from the Belarusian by Pultizer Prize-winning poet Franz Wright and Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright. Check it out. Valzhyna is one to watch.

Link of the Week

From what I hear, Sunday is "Shameless Self-Promotion Day" up in this piece.  But, because I have nothing especially interesting going on (and because I'm decidedly shame-free every other day of the week), I decided to instead promote someone else.

My friend Kim.  Creator and maintainer of the funniest blog I know:

99 Sense

In this blog, our friend Kim (oh yes, she'll be your friend) goes to 99 cent stores across the Northeast (and occasionally beyond) to spotlight only the most fahncy of offerings.  But she describes it best:

"Discount stores are like brokedown pirate ships sunken at the bottom of the retail sea, waiting to be plundered of their booty; forgotten gems and hilarious treasures.

I literally gets that booty."

People, I give you Kim.  (And Kim gives you the ever-popular "Benign Girl" line of Barbie-esque plastic dolls, "Whisper of Musk" discount douches, and porcelain statues of old people on the crapper.)

Enjoy!

...

Ask Barrelhouse

Welcome to our newest feature, in which we answer actual reader mail* and tell you how to live. Got problems? Let us know. We promise not to sugarcoat things like whoever it is manipulating Ann Landers' cold, dead typing fingers these days. We'll give it to you straight, is what we're saying, like John McCain circa 1998. We're not afraid of anyone. Let's git 'er done!

This week's letter comes from "Concerned in Concord":

Dear Barrelhouse,

I'm worried my son might be involved in that new trend "the game" I keep hearing so much about on Dateline and 20/20. From what I understand, "the game" involves trying to cut off air to the brain while "abusing your body," if you catch my meaning. Why someone would want to do this is beyond me -- in my day we kept our private bits carefully plastic-wrapped until our wedding nights -- but I know the world has changed. Last week I was picking up my son's laundry and found a coupleneckties under the mattress. Then yesterday I came home from the Costco and heard moaning coming from his room, then a thump like he fell off the bed. When I got up there he said everything was fine, but he was red in the face and seemed out of breath. Is there some sort of pamphlet I can give to him that might help?

Thanks,
Concerned in Concord

First of all, times have changed, CIC, in ways that should scare the hell out of all of us. Back when we were kids, the tools for masturbation were limited to our mother's Redbook, tap water, and soap. And not that fancy moisturizing body wash, either -- we're talking a bar of generic grocery-store soap, the kind seemingly made from pumice and pulverized chalk (Completely true "fun fact": When we were in 8th grade, our family moved from a town with "hard water" to a town with "soft water," and our masturbatory lives improved almost as much as they did the next year, when Victoria's Secret got more liberal with its catalogue mailings. But we digress.)

These days, the kids are doing all sorts of weird crap. Here's a test for you, CIC. What would you do with the following items: a box of brown sugar, three eggs, Karo syrup, nougat, a handheld mixer, and an oven pre-heated to 375 degrees:

a) bake a cake
b) bring myself to orgasmic delight.
c) watch morally questionable television, chat with a 40-year-old man online, shoot all the kids in my school, then bring myself to orgasmic delight.

I think we both know how your perv of a son answered that question, don't we, CIC?

So, that's the bad news. The good news is you've taken the first important step by writing to us. Those mainstream media advice columnists -- your Carolyn Haxes, your Amy Dickinsons, your Heloise Bowleseses -- would no doubt tell you to talk the problem over with your child, or take him to a psychiatrist, or blah blah touchy-feely blah blah blah.

But we're not about talk, CIC. We're about action. And action, incidentally, is exactly what your boy needs.

Let us ask you a question: is there perhaps a bosomy brunette living somewhere in your neighborhood? Ideally she's a couple years older than your son and goes to a private school. You'll recognize her by her uniform, which she's altered just enough to render it highly sexual. The trick, of course, will be how to introduce this girl to your son without being too obvious: perhaps some kind of "party," to which -- mysteriously -- the other guests don't show up? Perhaps when she's riding her bike past your house, you send your son out with a tall glass of lemonade? Or if your son is involved in Second Life -- and, well, from the sounds of it, we're guessing he is -- perhaps you can create your own young-person-friendly avatar (our suggestion: M.C. Skat Cat) and get the two of them together in a world where your son's not an awkward, pimply nerd-boy?

If these tactics don't work, don't be afraid to take more drastic action: go directly to the little tartlett's house and pay her off. A sixer of Natty Light and a pack of Newports oughta do the trick. With any luck, your son will soon be interacting with an actual female, and having someone else asphyxiate him, as the Good Lord intended.

Good luck!


*mail might not be actual

The underestimation of Midge

Thanks to the Barrelhouse Boys for inviting me, the singular Jill Alexander Essbaum, to blog. A handful of Barrelhouse Boys plus the singular Jill Alexander Essbaum and the even singularer Jessica Marie Piazza equals a veritable Barrelhouse Brat Pack.

It's 5:26 am in Dietlikon, Switzerland, about 11km outside of Zürich, Switzerland. I'm watching a bittorrrented AVI of King of the Hill and nursing a coffee. In this hemisphere, it's already Valentine's Day.

Waiting for my return flight to Switzerland from AWP at JFK (XYZ, OPP...) I stopped into a Hudson News to get something to read on the flight. I wound up with a bunch of Archie comics digests, configuration thus: two Tales from Riverdale, one Betty and Veronica Double Digest, one Jughead Double Digest, an Archie Pals and Gals, and one plane ole Archie Double Digest.

Did you know they don't call Big Ethel "big" anymore? She's just Ethel. I guess her feelings were starting to get hurt.

Regarding Betty versus Veronica. Betty should just hang it up. Yes, Veronica is spoiled. But she's also really, really hot. And, underneath it all, she usually comes around to being decent. Those black locks! Damn, baby! And who says blonds are more fun? Archie clearly likes it a bit rough, likes to be bossed around. Betty could never do that.

But-- and here's my main point-- Midge. They've never really given Midge her time and place to shine. She's the only gal among the gang to dare wear those curly tresses short. Quelle gamine! Though it would do any potential suitors well to be reminded that her man Moose is a jealous fella. Reggie is perennially trying to get a smidge of Midge and it usually ends in him getting clobbered. What kind of game she playing? Moose is good-hearted enough but dumb as a (this?) post. Something traumatic may have happened to her in her past that she feels safest in the arms of big, protective men? Show us on the dollie, Midge, where he touched you? Ok, that's a stretch. But why if she's in love with Moose, does she allow Reggie to come his ons and make his love? Clearly a hint of the shrew in her. So she, like Veronica, has a calculating side.

And why-- a tangent-- is Josie (of the Pussycats) 's boyfriend always referred to as Alan M, when there are NO OTHER ALANS in the cast?

In any case-- Midge is also really hot. Perhaps not as hot as Veronica, but to be fair, her lack of perceived hotness could simply be due to the fact that her character has never been fully fleshed out.

The heart: it wants what it wants.

So Betty wants Archie and Archie wants Veronica and Reggie wants Midge and Midge wants Moose and Ethel wants Juggie and Juggie wants a hamburger.

And I want YOU to have a Very Riverdale-ey Valentine's Day.

Jilly

And then...

Because it's music Wednesday, and in honor of Valentine's Day tomorrow, I'd like to officially introduce myself to this blog by offering all you dear readers one of my favorite love songs.  Ever.  

Enjoy, and happy VD!  (Both kinds of VD, I mean: the holiday and its aftermath.)

The Wire Season 5 and Its Prequels

I am enjoying Wire Season 5, even though the plot has gone so far afield its characters don't make any sense anymore. I just want to see if McNulty gets away with it, which of course I highly doubt. But still, it's fun. And the newspaper thing, it's okay, but I don't really care about any of the characters, even old newspaper soldier Gus.

Clearly, Season 5 is a didactic rather than storytelling exercise. It's still a fun story, but Simon is pushing hard the notion that in previous seasons all attempts at cleaning up Baltimore have been exhausted/frustrated/defeated, and thus this last gambit is the only option. In doing so, however, Omar must go on a rampage, Marlo/Snoop/Chris must virtually disappear for 2 episodes (leaving a wide character void, at least where Chris is concerned), Cutty has to show up for no other reason than to feed Dukie's despair, and all story elements are driven by the "one big lie" foreshadowed in the first episode. Which is the one thing that makes me wonder if the plan will work.

Comcasts' HBO OnDemand also features 3 "prequels" introducing us to McNulty's first day in homicide, Proposition Joe as a 10 year old, and Omar's first heist. Rather than show a critical point in the character's life that forced a change, they just confirm what we already know about the characters (McNulty: brilliant, arrogant; Prop Joe: Wheeler Dealer; Omar: Thief with a code). They come across as weak attempts to draw in viewers. The dialogue is forced and expository and at 2-3 minutes long, there's not enough time for any character to be revealed through action.

Juno vs. Crash: Which one is more barftastic?

According to Slate's Dana Stevens, there's now officially a Juno backlash.

I'd just like to go on record as saying I disliked this movie before it was cool to dislike it. As reason #1, I'd cite Stevens' own recap of the film's first couple scenes:

The nadir of cuteness is the much-reviled opening, in which Ellen Page's pregnant teenage heroine trades stiff quips with a convenience-store clerk (Rainn Wilson): "Your eggo is preggo"; "Silencio, old man!"; "This is one diddle that can't be un-did, homeskillet." Soon after comes the too-cute early scene in which Juno breaks the news to her best friend, Lea (Olivia Thirlby), on her hamburger-shaped phone, provoking such interjections as "Honest to blog?" and "Phuket, Thailand!"

Is this really how the kids are talking these days? Really?

My main problem with the movie was that its main character was almost wholly unlikeable. Which is a pretty big flaw, in my mind. As Stevens points out, the movie gets somewhat less annoying as it goes one -- it seems to eventually find a less grating tone, for one thing -- but by then I'd already rendered judgment on Juno and didn't care too much what happened to her.

I will say, though, that the film's smaller roles were well-occupied.

Highway to the Danger Zone

The Israeli Defense Force is giving their pilots a new drug:

A recent study conducted by Israeli doctors among mountain climbers in Africa found a link between erectile dysfunction drugs and improved performance in high altitudes, the mass-selling Yediot Aharonot reported.

The active ingredient in the drugs was found to make climbers perform better in an environment with less oxygen, which causes fatigue and dizziness.

Obvious question, I guess, but perform better at what?

Further questions I have:

Do horny pilots fight better?

What do co-pilots think of all this?

What are the chances that the pilot will grab the wrong stick?

P.S. I can't wait to see the next Cialis commercial. "Because sometimes, life, and sneak attacks on Syria, means you have to wait"

Hat Tip: Hit and Run

Famous Authors Predict the Winner of Super Bowl XLII

Okay, so this is a little late, I suppose, but still, pretty goddam funny. McSweeneys, of course.

A sample:

Cormac McCarthy:

Overhead, the sun is a wrathful god. It is made to ravage a dying land.

The boy stands in a dry gulch. He tilts his hat to the sting of the wind.

These men are patriots, says The Coach.

I reckon.

Do you know their soul?

Reckon not.

A hoarse laugh echoes through the heat. It singes the cragged escarpments of the red canyon.

You won't be the first, says The Coach.

I ain't scared of you.

Tengo otros cuerpos. Quiero el tuyo.

The Coach wears a bone around his neck. It is hung from dead sinew. Other bones he has ground by pestle and mortar. In the ancient caves he swallowed white dust.

I am here to erase you.

The boy squints at the arroyo bed. The earth is scorched in jagged lines.

It ain't no kind of life, he says.

Overhead, the sun is a wrathful god. It will bake the world.

Prediction: Patriots 27, Giants 6

READ THE WHOLE THING

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Vanity Fair Presents Alfred Hitchcock's "Miscalculation"

Hat tip: Defamer

The Elephantiger in the room

Not to turn this blog all political, but I think it bodes well for the Democratic party that today I switched on Rush Limbaugh for a solid 20 minutes and laughed and laughed and laughed (rather than my usual reaction, which is to scream or run for cover or ... well, just change the radio station).

Rush spent that entire 20 minutes lambasting a school project some caller's young granddaughter was made to do. The project is "exactly what is wrong with America," he said, "because it teaches your granddaughter that everyone's supposed to get along, that we can all just blend together and be one happy America, and that's just ridiculous."

The project in question? The man's granddaughter was given a picture of an elephant, and a picture of a tiger, and was asked to imagine what they'd look like as one, combined creature!

Rush's problem with the Elephantiger (which the caller first pronounced in a way that sounded a little too much like a certain slur, until Rush told him "we'd better say 'tyger' unless we want certain people gettin' all angry at us) wasn't that it was an ungodly beast the kind of which Darwin might have imagined when he wrote his liberacommifascist tract about evolution. No, Rush's problem with the Elephantiger was that it implied elephants and tigers might one day get along.

"And that's what we're gonna get if we elect a John McCain," he bellowed. "These people want to get rid of the real conservatives. I don't want to reach across the aisle, I don't want to compromise, I don't like those democrat people and no one's gonna make me!" Rush also noted that the elephant was "the symbol of the Republican party" and the tiger was "well, a tiger." Then he seemed to lose his train of thought, and started ranting some more about how McCain is a pussy.

So there you have it, folks: elephants and tigers, the end of civilization as we know it.

Is Nick Lachey Really That Bad?

Linked on Deadspin is a rant by a Boston blog who claimed that Nick Lachey's presence on the Fox pregame ruined the game for him. To be sure, I didn't watch Fox pregame and thus didn't see any Lachey. Instead, I hung out with friends and re-watched Elizabeth (the first/good one with Cate Blanchett) on HD TV and DVD. Amazing picture quality. And what better way to prepare yourself for the Byzantine world of spying and backstabbbing that represents the New England Patriots? Bill Belichick as Norfolk scheming to seize the throne from Eli Manning, a guileless queen infatuated with Joseph Fiennes. Or something like that. And playing Rock Band, which is totally awesome, even though I can only do the Bass on Easy.

Back to Nick Lachey. What's so bad about him? I put celebrities/stars/artists in 3 categories: I hate their work but think they would be fun to hang out with 2) I love their work but think they would be horrible to hang out with--Russell Crowe and probably David Simon, and just about every funny comedian come to mind--and 3) I hate their work and they would be horrible to hang out with--Ryan Seacrest, Carrot Top, Tom Cruise, and just about everyone else. And the odds of "I love their work and they would be fun to hang out with" probably begins and ends with the South Park guys, though they would probably put Ben Gay in your underwear before they accepted you. And I'm willing to consider George Clooney and Matt Damon. And by "fun to hang out with" I mean getting a beer like regular Joes. Sitting enthralled by them for hours while they tell you about all the amazing things they've done or seen or written doesn't count.

I think Nick Lachey falls into the "fun to hang out with category". His music is abosolutely horrible, but he's an Ohio boy from Cincinnati Moeller (an athletic powerhouse that produced Ken Griffey Jr. and dozens of football state championship teams). Of course he married Jessica, but its clear she is under the sway of her creepy father, and what red-blooded American wouldn't want to marry that circa 2003 or so? Until apparently the Fox pregame he's been pretty invisible in terms of grabbing attention in desperate ways.

In the ladies category, I would go with Carrie Underwood and Kelly Clarkson. They seem kinda unpretentious and possibly fun. Can't say I'm too crazy about their music, although I do like country and I haven't listened much to Underwood.

I'm guessing that this Boston guy is in denial over his Cheatriots, so I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Meanwhile, if you have any suggestions for "celebrities whose work you hate but think they would be fun to hang out with", include in the comments.

The Most Awesome Thing That Happened While We Were Away

Since Dr. Phil was not torn apart piece by piece by angry redneck cannibals, and Britney is officially just sad now, and Spencer Pratt's domination of US Weekly's photo editor is so routine as to defy regular blogeration, this was the best thing we missed while we were killing brain cells in the AWP bubble last week:

How Not to Wash Dave Eggers' Balls

Dear Sunday Times' Stephen Ambidon:

I know that you love Dave Eggers. I read your article: DAVE EGGERS IS TOTALLY AWESOME, LIKE THE GREATEST!!!. However, you are making me hate Dave Eggers, and I think that's not right. I think, instead, that I'll just hate you. Also, FYI, your message of love might be undermined by your overexuberance, your rather meager knowledge of These United States, and perhaps a failure to understand the American version of the English language. Or you might just be a douche. But here are some problems with your encomomuimum (sic) that I've identified so far:

The Title: Their master’s voice: the rise and rise of brand McSweeney’s

You might be coming on a little bit strong by using "Master." I know that I only CHOOSE to kneel in Mr. Eggers' presence. He never makes me.

A description of douchebags as the "ideal" McSweeney's Reader:

The ideal McSweeney’s reader (or writer) lives in Brooklyn, wears interesting T-shirts, has a blog he works on in coffee shops, and knows it’s cool to oppose globalisation but uncool to go on too much about it.

A use of corporate marketing language to deify the "anti corporatist" Eggers:

What really sets Eggers’s empire apart, though, is that it possesses that most elusive and valued of modern attributes: a brand.

What I am 99% sure is a grievous misstatement of the actual aims of McSweeney's:

McSweeney’s also strives to be socially relevant. It wants to make the world a better place – or at least more like the cooler parts of Brooklyn.

A rather obvious misunderstanding of what a consumer consumes, and the role that advertising plays:

One thing the consumer immediately notices when entering McSweeney’s is that he is not really a consumer after all: there is no advertising.

Calling out established writers for greed based on absolutely no evidence:

All proceeds from the book go to aiding Sudanese refugees in America and Sudan. It’s hard to imagine Granta superstars such as Richard Ford or Tobias Wolff following suit.

And, most egregiously, after hundreds of words advertising how great Dave Eggers is in a newspaper that already has an advertising section, he reserves his only criticism for that one thing a Barrelhouse editor holds dear:

True, a decade on, McSweeney’s still has a tendency to indulge in cartoonish self-congratulation and wry in-jokes that is more appropriate to a cheeky start-up than the market leader. For instance, Eggers edits, with pop icons such as the musician Beck and Simpsons creator Matt Groening, a yearly volume called The Best American Nonrequired Reading, whose slackerly, aw-shucks title is his way of saying that the book’s contents are actually very required reading.

The Best American Nonrequired Reading IS TOTALLY REQUIRED. PLEASE SEE HERE.

With ball washers like these, does Dave Eggers even need enemies? (hat tip: NY Observer)

Camp 'Point of No Return': AWP 2007, The Naughty Bits

Dave, as usual, did a wonderful, diplomatic job of describing our fun times at Camp AWP (This Year's Theme: "Boy, These Drinks Sure Are Expensive"). But I know what you people really want, even if you won't admit it: the good stuff, the behind-the-scenes look, the dirt, AWP: Uncensored.

So, first of all, let me just get this out of the way upfront: that was my dick. My frank n' beans. The Captain. Ol' Squint Eye. For all you ladies (and gents) out there who'd been wondering what Mike's twig and two berries look like -- well, you should have been at Some Bar Whose Name I Can't Remember at Some Time I'm Not Sure Of on Friday (I think) night. I've been told it was glorious.

Now, before you start asking, no, I'm not gonna get into the whys and hows and onto whoms -- a gentleman doesn't flash and tell -- but I will put this one thought out there into the Universe, and I hope all present will keep it in mind when they relate this story to their friends and loved ones in the future: It was very, very cold that night. Shrinkingly cold. Though, really, the owners of Some Bar Whose Name I Can't Remember should be thankful, because on a balmy night in July, Ye Olde Ramming Log would have blasted half the room's glassware to bits.

Okay, moving on.

Biggest Loser of AWP: John Irving. How many people were at your "keynote address," Mr. Irving? Five? Six? Did they all look like weiners? Well, that is what you get for scheduling your talk opposite The Barrelhouse KGB Bar All-Star Spectacular. Let this be a lesson to you: you go up against The House, you're gonna get Housed!

Second-Biggest Loser of AWP: AWP. Hey, conference organizers, here's an idea -- why not reject a super-fun, super-awesome panel that would have been more popular than an Obama rally, and instead approve one more dull-ass panel with the words 'reification' or 'nano-ontology' in the title? Seriously, did this conference exist in Bizzaro World? There were a couple interesting panels (like the ones featuring Friend of the Barrelhouse Thisbe Nissen) but, on the whole, the weekly schedule was enough to make MLA look like a Monsters of Rock festival.

Awesomest Dirty Mouth of AWP: the aforementioned Jess "Yeah, I'm From Brooklyn, What's It To Ya?" Piazza. Anyone who makes a rape joke before introducing herself gets four gold stars in my book. Bonus points for telling a middle-aged woman who spun our Wheel of Destiny that her death would be from venereal disease. Classy.

On the whole, a good time was had by all. Or so I'm told. Large chunks of my memory have been mysteriously replaced by old Foghorn Leghorn reruns, which I assume means either Jess or Alice Munro slipped something into my drink.

See all you bitches next year in Chicago!

"I thought you were talking about of the things we eat."

This made my fucking day. For a minute. Then I remembered that the transition from half hour sitcom to 90 minute feature film is always fraught with peril. The Simpsons movie had a few moments, but it didn't come close to the greatness of a really great epidose. And the Borat movie was a total let down. Well, except for the naked fight with the fat guy. And the bag of shit. And the placing of Pamela Anderson in a sack. Come to think of it, Borat was pretty funny. At any rate, while the thoughts of more Bluthe family wackiness sets my dangly parts a tingle, I'm just concnered that something so absurd won't work for more than half an hour at time. That said, I'll buy a ticket if this thing gets made. Hell, I'll buy you a ticket, too. It can't be worse than Mad Money.

AWP Summary: Friday, Also Known as the Day the Shit Hit the Fan, or Kooky Poet Day

Friday at AWP started off like a lamb and went out like a drunk editor lurching into a pizza joint at 4 in the morning and then passing out on the counter. In between there, a lot of shit went down.

First, a few things that are semi-significant and happened before, which I forgot to mention earlier.

Thursday Do-Over:
Reb Livingston, one woman poetic empire, poet, founder of No Tell Motel and No Tell Books, Lifetime Owner of Reb Livingston's Breasts, came by to browbeat us into going to the Micropress Poetry Pageant on Thursday night. Apparently attracted by the raw aggression in the air and the smell of Barrelhouse Editor Fear, the singular Jill Alexander Essbaum appeared out of thin air to do the same. We made vague promises, got caught up with our funny poet friends, and went back into booth bunny mode.

Many other cool people in the mix: at random points, we met with up Steve Kistulentz, Aaron Burch and Elizabeth Ellen of Hobart, James Yang of Juked, Dan Wickett of the Emerging Writer's Network, Richard Peabody from Gargoyle and Paycock Press, Susan Muaddi-Darraj from the Baltimore Review, Julie Wakeman-Linn and Leila Emery of Potomac Reveiw, Josh Mandelbaum from Poets and Writers and Ballyhoo Stories, as well as some Barrelhouse contributors, none of whom were wily enough to cadge any of their promised Beer for Life, thank god: Ryan Call, Blake Butler, Gary Fincke, Ada Limon, Jennifer L. Knox, Cathleen Calbert, Lee Klein, Nick Courtwright, Emily Doak, Barbara Duffey, and probably many others that I'm missing.

So anyway, that stuff all happened Thursday, pretty much.

Friday:
We table like crazy all day, speaking to many good folks. We foretell deaths and supply the names of future novels and memoirs, critique people's work without reading it, spin the Wheel of Destiny, and explain to all the Barrelhousey goodness that awaits for a mere $7 or $5 or $Whateveryougot.

And then hit the bar, where we linger for roughly twenty dollars of beer per person, then brave the rain to meet up with Barrelhouse Poetry Impresario Dan Brady and some of his Academy of American Poet pals for a few beers down the road.

There, we hem and haw and apply the What to do in Atlanta formula until it's almost too late to do anything, and then, with a burst of Mike Ingram energy, get swept up in a plan to actually make good on vague promises and hit the Micropress Poetry Pageant.

Cabs are hailed, limos are bailed out of, and finally we arrive at Stain Bar in Brooklyn, just in time to literally hand the shirt off our backs (and now I'm in the royal "We" and loving it, Pease) to the singular Jill Alexander Essbaum, competing as only she can, in beatnik drag.

Here we also meet up with Jessica "Rape Joke Girl" Piazza, immediately bonding over booze and witty tasteless repartee while we cheer on the Singular Jill Alexander Essbaum as she wins in a rather convincing victory over, among others, our own in a manner of speaking Jennifer L. Knox.

It's a truly impressive victory that, for a variety of reasons that mostly have to do with Jill's exhaustive knowledge of 70s African-American sitcoms, may require the launch of a Barrelhouse Books empire, if only to do justice to the Singular Jill Alexander Essbaum.

Hilarity ensues -- really, for real poetry hilarity, it was a really cool event -- and we eventually find ourselves swept up in Hurricane Jessica Piazza, back on the subway, and off to some place where they serve drinks in big giant glasses and pour them liberally.

The rest of Team Barrelhouse is summoned and this is where things get a little, um, out of control, as our own...[EDITOR'S NOTE: THE REMAINDER OF THIS POST HAS BEEN REMOVED BY THE ASSOCIATION OF WRITER'S AND WRITING PROGRAMS, THE FAMILY ENTERTAINMENT ASSOCIATION, AND THE NEW YORK CITY TOURISM BOARD]..., which was then nicknamed The White Shadow, and has caused nightmares for approximately one half of the Barrelhouse Editorial Squadron.

Remarkably, nobody threw beer on it, and nobody was kicked out of the bar, and eventually we decide to head back to the hotel while the heading is good, and before any citations or restraining orders can be issued.

Taxis hailed, we arrive back at the Hilton sometime around 3, scatter for various food options, and quite literally pass out in the rooms.

The book fair opens in 4 hours.

Zoinks!

Maybe I've just been watching too much Scooby Doo lately, but am I the only one who thinks it's a serious possibility that the 1972 Miami Dolphins hijacked the present-day New England Patriots in the tunnel just outside the locker room last night, knocked them all on their heads with anvils and/or toasters, stole their uniforms, then waddled out onto the field where they were just barely bested by Eli Manning and the rest of the New York Football Giants?

Think about it, people. Is it really so crazy?

If only a van full of mystery-solving scamps had made it to the stadium in time, they could have pulled off Tom Brady's mask to reveal the withered, snarling face of Bob Griese.

"And I would've gotten away with it, too -- if it weren't for you meddling kids!"

Barrelhouse at AWP: The Summary (days one and two)

Since I'm still a little buzzed and I'm sitting here at my real job with the fresh glow/stink of summer camp AWP still on me, here's a quick wrap of the Barrelhousey goodness that was AWP New York.

Wednesday:
Set up day. We arrive around three or so, each of us schlepping bags full of books, toys, postcards that nobody will take, and one large spinning wheel.

We are, strangely, the only group super-glueing plastic cowboys and indians onto a Wheel of Destiny. Also the only group whose posters include airbrushed images of Patrick Swayze and Ed Asner. Nobody else even seems to have any plastic army men or candy cane necklaces. Also, nobody is drinking yet.

What's wrong with these people?

Table set up, drinking starts. Beers at the hotel bar prove to be unsustainably priced at somewhere between 9 and 12 dollars per beer, thus making the non-plan plan of "standing around the hotel bar talking about where we'll go until it's too late to go anywhere," which is also known as "what to do in Atlanta," feasible. We walk to the nearest Irish bar and stay there until three. Eat pizza. Pass out. Wait, did we even talk about who will staff the table in the morning? Oh well, fuck it.

Thursday:
Aaron Pease, he of the strong work ethic, and Matt Kirkpatrick of the newly spectacular hair take the early shift at the table. The public is amazed and captivated by the Wheel of Destiny and the chance to win prizes such as "your death foretold" and "free critique of your work (no work required)."

Barrelhouse reading at the KGB on Thursday night. Awesome. Thanks to everybody who came out. The highlights:

• Ada Limon knows how to rock both the page and a mic. The crowd is captivated by her verse, singing, and general mic-rocking skills.
  
• Dave Housley cannot do a Colonel Klink accent to save his life but that does not stop him from reading the same goddam story (Ryan Seacrest is Famous) every goddam chance he gets. The crowd is appreciative that he has, however, added significant amounts of masturbation and Us Weekly magazine.
  
• Barbara Duffey follows with further poet mic rocking and funny/poignant poems and general awesomeness.
  
• Lee Klein sends the crowd away happy and amazed with compelling tales of unicorn porn and even more super mic rocking. Even reading-weary KGB bartender recognizes special moment with free drink for Lee. Seriously, people, you have not lived until you've seen/heard this particular brand of unicorn porn microphone rocking.

Three dollar beers across the street are too captivating to pass up. We drink in the warm afterglow of sweet unicorn porn. Crazy-off ensues between two temporarily crazy drunk writer editor people, sending even non-smokers into the cold night in search of "air" and a temporary respite from crazy and cock talk.

And that's where I leave off. Too much great shit went down on Friday to get into right now. Jill Alexander Essbaum deserves her own post, and so does Jessica "Rape Joke Girl" Piazza, and their own post they shall receive.

Check back soon.