Monday, July 5, 2010
Issue 200
Eric Jones has been with us since Isssue 1.
George Sparling has been with us since Issue 10
Joel Van Noord has been with us since Issue 81
Kenneth Mulvey has been with us since Issue 85
Randy Dalzell has been with us since Issue 104
Josh Olsen has been with us since Issue 124.
Thanks for reading all this time.
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21 comments:
First!!!
i saw Patrick Bateman's face in that commercial.
what's up these days? no one has any thoughts or ideas about these stories. lazy editors and readers.
Olsen's two stories: Made me feel sick like when you get too drunk and wake up with no recollection of what went down the night before but you've got this gut feeling that you don't ever want to find out...this is like reading about it.
Sparling's dirty old man: A spank bank, in writing, with a tinge of paranoia. Liked the ending.
Redemption Center - reading JVN nowadays is like catching up with an old friend, except when you ask 'hey, how's it goin? whatchoo been up to?' the friend is excessively honest, as it should be. Always a pleasure.
E. Jones TDC: Remarkable restraint on the information provided. At first, I felt I needed more flesh, but thinking on the story it gives the perfect amount.
Dalzell's Monsters: Fucking hilarious. Fuck lists, aliens, music obsession, drugs, hooker = pretty awesome.
good pace on the mulvey poems.
I think Rodriquez really dropped the ball with Predators. I mean did anyone ever think that the Predator and Arnold just had awesome chemistry? The only way to recapture the magic is to bring them back together again.
Adrien Brody and Topher Grace had some good chemistry though.
Yeah Topher Grace was awesome. The only good thing about the movie in my opinion. Similar to Spiderman 3. He was the only part about that that wasn't horrible and Bryce Dallas Howard's boobs.
losing steam. no longer the lively place I used to check daily. maybe s.mather did kill it.
I'd been working in the emergency room for about three weeks, I guess. This was in 1973, before the summer ended. With nothing to do on the overnight shift but batch the insurance reports from the daytime shifts, I just started wandering around, over to the coronary-care unit, down to the cafeteria, et cetera, looking for Georgie, the orderly, a pretty good friend of mine. He often stole pills from the cabinets.
Fuckhead.
I'm glad he's dead. He was the one that started to call me that.
We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.
A screaming comes across the sky.
nevermind you. You'll see them soon enough.
Never give a inch, mofos!
Context is everything. Dress me up and see. I'm a carnival barker, and auctioneer, a downtown performance artist, a speaker in tongues, a senator drunk on filibuster. I've got Tourette's. My mouth won't quit, though mostly I whisper or subvocalize like I'm reading aloud, my Adam's apple bobbing, jaw muscle beating like a miniature heart under my cheek, the noise suppressed, the words escaping silently, mere ghosts of themselves, husks of empty breath and tone. (If I were a Dick Tracy villain, I'd have to be Mumbles.) In this diminished form the words rush out of the cornucopia of my brain to course over the surface of the world, tickling reality like fingers on piano keys. Caressing, nudging. They're an invisible army on a peacekeeping mission, a peacable hoard. They mean no harm. They placate, interpret, massage. Everywhere they're smoothing down imperfections, putting hairs in place, putting ducks in a row, replacing divots. Counting and polishing the silver. Patting old ladies gently on the behind, eliciting a giggle. Only -- here's the rub -- when they find too much perfection, when the surface is already buffed smooth, the ducks already orderly, the old ladies complacent, then my little army rebels, breaks into the stores. Reality needs a prick here and there, the carpet needs a flaw. My words begin plucking at threads nervously, seeking purchase, a weak point, a vulnerable ear. That's when it comes, the urge to shout in the church, the nursery, the crowded movie house. It's an itch at first. Inconsequential. But that itch is soon a torrent behind a straining dam. Noah's flood. That itch is my whole life. Here it comes now. Cover your ears. Build an ark.
"Eat me!" I scream.
He wanted to leave but these guys were about to smoke a marijuana cigar with white powder sprinkled on it. He checked his watch and it was an hour later and he pressed his thumbs into his eyelids until he saw lights.
I love him who wants to create over and beyond himself and thus perishes.
Something about Andy Riverbed:
http://stuffcatslikes.blogspot.com/2010/07/theodore-puertoriquez-on-gustavo.html
theodore puertorriqueñez is actually the mexican lady mather writes all those poems about. more details upcoming in the next manual update.
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