Tuesday, October 6, 2009

THE CHROME-PLATED MACHINE PISTOL

Beside the whirring rooftop air-conditioning machine while the sun sank prettily in a polluted Christmas Day sky, Shannen smoked one light cigarette after another. She beamed when she saw Molly emerge from the stairway exit door. Shannen's beauty almost didn't diminish when she frowned.
For a while Molly and Shannen were quiet, watching lights come on across the city in the early dusk. Then Molly turned to Shannen excitedly: "It's so obvious! We'll be super-heroes!" Shannen: "Oh, yeah! Yes!"
The two girls raced down the five flights of stairs, both ovulating, their swollen breasts adorable, splendid really, under silk (Shannen!) and linen (Molly!) shirts!

Monday, September 21, 2009

Advertising Awards 2009

Lauren found a dream on her laptop.

Friday, July 17, 2009

Wendy's New Sweet & Spicy Asian Chicken

The flight to the mountaintop thwarted by starvation and disease, Pamela Anderson nude and Jennifer Love Hewit nude. A Botticelli nude greeted us with the first bite, and again and again memories persisted. We entered the valley with great trepidation and made our way among the vast and treacherous footholds of wisdom, we ripped the top off of the henhouse and our eyes were met my flightless birds also songless, though bathed in riches, saffron and rubies. Alyssia Milano nude,Pamala Hewit nude, slithering on the East side of the mountain, melted by early summer runoff and fermenting ecstasies Each bite was met with full shock and discovery of contradictions, sweet and sour, hot and not-so-hot, flavorful and tasteless, inexorable and uxorious, limber and lumber, the chimps set sail. Trapped inside a four foot square cell for the winter with Camoran Diaz nude we hibernated like the ducks and geese, mewwing, and purring, dreaming of a past when fangs and claws ripped flesh from the earth and the durian and the christian. David Thomas would not love this, head of the boy scouts of America, head of PereUbu, head of the severed. The Francis Bacon hallucination hanging in the trees at the edge of the park, glowing orange, swallowing up all around it.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

MEET THE BLOGGERS

Staggering into the park at three a.m., destination: overlook, Jim Gladish, drunk on cooking sherry, snubbed by the ugliest girl at the X Spot, Jim Gladish, rightfully the world's most important blogger and everywhere, people laughed if they were paying attention to him at all and over 99% of the time no one knew who the fuck Jim Gladish even was.
So, to the overlook! Jump into the void and into the oblivion of eternity! But first a cigarette ...
No more top thirty most overlooked sitcoms; one, two tears, then a flood. Jim Gladish knew right then he couldn't kill himself; where would that leave his Jim's T.V. Universe readers? So he staggered home. There were plenty of days coming when he could shake the world.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

New Mountain Dew VolTage

I just saw this in the store and immediately bought it because, for one, it's NEW, and also because I was attracted to the light blue color of the liquid itself. I will buy any and all food that is the color blue... at least once. As with all new products, and especially energy drinks, I expected the worst, but I was pleasantly surprised that it has a pleasant flavor for an artificially flavored soft drink. Though the word “soft” is hardly appropriate for highly caffeinated Mountain Dew of any variety, except for Caffeine-Free Mountain Dew. The word for that is: pointless.

Apparently they had a contest to pick the new flavor in a national contest called "Dewmocracy" — claiming that it was created by DEW drinkers, which of course isn't true. But I guess they did offer three possibilities, and had a vote... though I'm skeptical about the fairness of the process, as DEW drinkers are the kind of people who will compulsively vote like a thousand times. Letting DEW drinkers pick anything is a scary idea; if they were the only ones voting for president... I don't want to think about it. Can you picture: President David Allan Coe?

The good news is that this stuff is not only drinkable, it's pretty darn good. No identifiable flavor really: I'd call it blue, or artificial blue flavor. There is a small amount of ginseng, supposedly, but don't count on it being any more than would sit comfortably on the head of a pin. There is brominated vegetable oil, which all the good soft drinks contain. And the best, and most surprising thing, it's not too sweet! I don't know how THAT happened, but it's a welcome "DEW-velopment." Though, for my taste, it could be less sweet still. And don't worry, there is still enough caffeine and sugar to give you a hefty lift, before dropping you about a half hour later like a baby from the greasy fingers of a bad, crack-head boyfriend. But then you buy more, and more, and more. It hasn't been determined yet, at press time, if it makes you pee blue.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

PIXIE AKA NADIA


Heroine,world-class loser, perfect, really.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Open letter from Anthony Franciosa to Moss Problem writers

I had my accountant look over the books for The Moss Problem and he tells me we are in serious financial trouble. As many of you know, it has long been my preference to let people motivate and govern themselves while I simply fulfill my roll as sage, guidance counselor, and small town traffic cop. But with the recent upheavals in the economy, I, and indeed WE, no longer have the luxury to lackadaisically lollygag, loaf, and fuck around, and get paid for it. I realize that your writers’ salary isn’t much, but take a look around you! Many fine, longstanding journalists at publications more formidable and with a greater advertising base than this one have been shown the door and are now working as baristas and bike messengers. Maybe I let you people slide for too long, and you haven’t had the benefit of fear or hunger to motivate you. Well, sorry to say, things are gonna change, baby.

Some of you haven’t written a single article IN THE PAST YEAR. We cannot allow this kind of sloth to continue if we’re going to compete with the big boys. You people are cashing your paychecks—for what? To grace our contributor list? Readers aren’t stupid; when they see no new articles appearing in our pages, it means only one thing to them: no new articles. Soon, they will look elsewhere for news and intellectual stimulation. I really don’t want to have to let any of you go, but if things don’t change I will soon be forced to make cuts. I will be forced to trim, and even, though I hate to say it, perform surgery without anesthetic. And finally, I will be forced, though against my aesthetic judgment and warmer feelings, to separate the wheat from the chaff.

From today on we must have changes. Big changes. If you writers aren’t going to come up with articles, I will have no choice but to cease calling you writers. I will call you deadbeats. Unless one of your brilliant postings is titled: “An open letter to Anthony Franciosa: Why I Should Continue To Get Paid Even Though I Make No Contributions To The Moss Problem." Well, here it is. I will just cease to pay you, that’s all. You can go off and write for Yelp, for all I care. And it has come to my attention that some of you already do. Please explain THAT to me.

From this day forth, writers, don’t even bother coming into the office unless you plan to leave copy on my desk. And you’re going to have to spell-check it yourself, because the first ones to go are our copy editors and fact checkers. That is, after the accountant, who I really didn’t need to tell me we’re in deep financial shit. At any rate, hear me out: If you aren’t coming to the office with an idea and some inspiration, don’t bother to come in at all. If you aren’t coming into the office operating at 110%, don’t bother to come in at all. We must look at every day like it is the Superbowl, but even more than that, the Superbowl of The Future, where the losing team gets euthanized, carved up, and barbequed at post-game tailgate parties. In short, if you are not coming into the office to PERFORM, stay at home and do whatever the hell it is that writers do when they’re at home. Procrastinating is my best guess.

With all due respect and no offense intended,

Anthony Franciosa

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Broadcast Sports and I Won't Last A Day Without You

Little by little, free broadcast sports coverage is being taken away from the poorest segments of the Untied States population, and it looks like by the time we get through these dreadful single digit years, if you don't pay for cable TV sports specific networks, you will be shitouttaluck. I don't even care to look into digital broadcasting implications, as obvious as it is that all technological advancements are mostly about wringing even more money out of the masses of barely-able-to-afford-anything-anymore, especially food. But let's just say you decide to get by without food and want to be a sports fan. If you live in a city you can still go to a baseball game (as long as you're not in Boston), though don't pick that day to resume your diet, because a hotdog is $15 and a bottle of water is $5. You could save all year and maybe afford an NFL game, but pro basketball has long been affordable only to corporations. If you happen to have a TV, and actually LIKE Notre Dame, you can watch college football. By early next decade, however, the bowl games will be on cable only, and the Final Four are sure to follow that trend. If you have no TV, like me, you won't have to deal with all that digital conversion bullshit, but say you want to find some sports on the AM radio, like in the old days? Forget it!—though you may be lucky and find some so-called Christian bullshit that is so far out even Christians can't stomach it. Most of radio is now, however—as is most of broadcast TV—infomercials—and if you happen to be INSANE and enjoy infomercials, you must now endure commercials during your infomercials. There was a brief window where the Internet seemed like nirvana for sports fans, and indeed these days it's the only place I can find anything at all, but the golden age is over, and soon the Internet will be so gummed up with information gathering robots and animated commercials that it won't work at all. It's more or less there already. You can still get a newspaper, of course, if you have the patience to page through advertisements for the Internet to finally find a poorly written, uninspired article. I was thinking—what IS the opiate of the masses anymore? Is there still $1.50 a six pack beer?—because you sure can't afford cigarettes, taxed as they are in order to pay for the sports arenas that only the rich can afford to visit. What if they decide to tax lottery tickets, someone asked me, and they go up in price like cigarettes? Lottery tickets are ALREADY tax, I reassured them, the rich finding yet another way to tax the poor. I'm sitting here on a grimy Saturday wondering exactly how much it will take before The Revolution, or will there be no Revolution? If there is none, does it mean that the powerful have so totally learned how to control the not-powerful, that they have completely enslaved the—with little, malfunctioning electrical devices, to play with, and direct their anger towards—and the terror of the disappearance of all civil rights? Or are the powerless sitting back and waiting, doing the only subversive thing left that costs nearly nothing, reading books? My pessimism answered that question as you might imagine, and I found it necessary to take refuge in the only drug I have left to me, the Carpenters. Or more specifically, the song "I Won't Last A Day Without You." That song is so far beyond "one day at a time"-- it is pretty much a surrender of existence-- the only thing left is a glimmer of something once idealized as love. I mean, it's probably not even about another person-- it sounds like it could be an ode to a magical antidepressant drug, or maybe a commercial for a cheap, canned cocktail. I could dedicate my life to this song; maybe I have. It is the most compelling pop song ever written, and has the perfect verse and chorus combination, like a punch to the gut followed by punch to the face. But then, most weirdly is that horrible bridge, unimaginable, bad, and out of place--you know, "touch me and I end up singing"-- it's so wrong that it always makes me think about "improper" touching, if you know what I'm saying. I guess you could say it's like the thorn on a rose, but still, a thorn is one thing-- you don't see a human turd on a rose. And then there's that line, "When there's no getting over that rainbow," which I know is meant to mean when it's impossible to reach that world “somewhere over the rainbow,” but to me has always had a different meaning. To me, "no getting over that rainbow" means not getting over, as in not dealing with, not coming to terms with. It's like they're singing, “when you can't really find a way to deal with that rainbow, when you can't come to terms with it.” That's what makes this song, to me, magical, and it's exactly the best example I can come up with of how there might be a glimmer of hope in this fucked up, fucked up, fucked up beyond belief, world.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Something I Thought I'd Never See

Here I was in New York City, walking around, and then I see this sign on a corner store that shocked me. It was an advertisement for Marlboro, and it said: "Special Price - $9.00!" Special price? $9.00?!? Okay, so I've been living under a rock. But still... it's shocking.

Has the psychology of the cigarette smoker changed considerably now that his product has doubled, tripled, quadrupled... what do call it when something has elevated TEN times? Is is still possible to "bum" a cigarette? Is anyone at all, under these dire economic conditions, going to START smoking?

I don't love cigarettes, or smoking, or tobacco companies, or even the idea of smoking. I haven't for a long time. But this reminds me of that scene in Soylent Green where the guy has a jar of strawberry preserves and explains that cost $50!

Monday, October 6, 2008

New Postage Stamp: Stumblebums

(no image available) I am excited about the new postage stamps: famous stumblebums in US history. I understand that the series will include five different, famous stumblebums dating from the late 19th century to the present day. The images will be nostalgic, slightly comic renditions depicted by a notable contemporary artist, not yet announced. There are rumors that they are being drawn by Daniel Clowes, but that is not confirmed. If anyone has information about the artist, or those being "honored" by the stamps, please comment here!

Saturday, October 4, 2008

Jonathan Lethem's website

I was looking at the main page of Jonathan Lethem's website,
which reloads every 20 seconds with a new, entertaining image,
when some music came on. It sounded kind of like David Bowie, though I don't think it was.
It was a modern sounding pop song, which I didn't like very much, but it really seemed to work with the images, even though nothing matched up or anything.

I happened to have another tab open to a sports website, and little did I know an ad came up and that was actually where the music was coming from! Not from Jonathan Lethem's website at all. (I don't know why that happens-- how you can have stuff opened in multiple tabs and the music for all of them will play at the same time.) Anyway, Lethem might consider adding some music to the experience. In case you want to try to recreate this phenomenon in your own home, the ad was for the Outback Steakhouse.

Monday, September 1, 2008

Yahoo: From "free email" to EMAIL FREE

Yahoo was my very first email, and I'm still using the first email address I've ever had. But recently they changed to "new" Yahoo, which is, of course, supposed to be better, but, of course, it isn't. This is no surprise, of course, and I realize that they have done this so that they can support ads better. After all it doesn't cost anything. But there is an option to get a pay version which doesn't have the ads. Not merely annoying, the ads slow things down and cause it to crash...

What am I saying here? Am I on drugs? I'm trying to rationalize all this calmly, I sound like some kind of demented, brainwashed Yahoo salesman or something. What it comes down to is that we had a completely reasonable, working, free email, and they made some corporate and technical decision to SCREW US ALL. It no longer works. It's no good. On a scale of one to ten it gets MINUS ONE MILLION. It's a headache and a nightmare. Yahoo is now the worst piece of shit on planet Feces.

But there is a silver lining! As there always is. This entire fiasco has made me see how much I am dependent on my email. When I quit smoking back in the spring of 2008 I thought I was free of drugs and the iron grip of addiction. But no. I was still addicted to this email and didn't know it. But this incredibly lame development has made see how bad off I was, and now I am ready to begin my new life: email free.

Monday, August 25, 2008

OUR ARMY AT WAR, No. 215, Feb. 1970.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

Grape Soda

In times such as these, nothing satisfies me like a grape soda. I was thinking of proposing the Nobel Prize to the chemistry team who invented artificial grape flavor, back in the Twentieth Century. You cannot scoff at a good artificial flavor. Take, for instance, artificial vanilla... please! I cannot deal with it, eat it, or even smell it in a candle or car air freshener. It gives me a migraine! The difference between real vanilla and artificial vanilla is like the difference between diners and McDonalds, between fresh vegetables and bunched up wet toilet paper in a public toilet, between Venice and cheap piece of shit Venetian blinds that fall down whenever you open or close them.

I was going to suggest that the flavor of grape soda somehow captures the essence of real grape, but it is of course nothing like real grape. What it is, artificial grape flavor, and grape soda, is an amazing flavor all of its own, sublime in its own way. Also, it always reminds me of the scene in "The French Connection" where Gene Hackman is trying to follow the guy in the subway and tries to be inconspicuous by stopping at a vendor, where he says, "Get a grape drink?"

Friday, June 6, 2008

SCRAP OF PAPER FOUND ON OHIO STATE ROUTE 3

It's ridiculous to suggest, I realize that, we are digging
repetition, we're in a circle, an enjoyable impulsiveness that
never ever will let us stop.
We are always here together, despite appearances. You guys are
hardcore. --Jerry Wigwam

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Solar Moss

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

9/16 TRUTH

Apparently the anthrax guy and the real D.C. sniper have started a blog. see seanwolfhill911.blogspot.com .

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Northern Toilet Paper

My favorite toilet paper doesn't have perforations. No, my favorite toilet paper is free toilet paper. But I don't need the perforations. Northern toilet paper, which is quite pricey due to its softness, has perforations running lengthwise, down the roll! I mean, like, from beginning to end. Why is this? Because when you try to tear off a piece to use it, it tears lengthwise, which is maddening.

I remember a thing in Mad Magazine when I was kid, a cartoon about "planned obsolescence" which was the first time I'd ever heard of that concept. It's funny-- at the time I thought it something more in the mind of the consumer. It always seems like that malfunction must be built in. I didn't realize or actually want to believe, at that young age, that that is the way things work. Well, I guess they used to hide it. Now they just put obvious perforations right through the roll, for no apparent reason, figuring that people are too cynical, distracted, braindead, and depressed to really care. They're probably right.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

AVRIL LAVIGNE The Best Damn Thing [2007]

Canadian pop/punk song stylist Avril Lavigne is a mystery to me. By rights she should be revolting; instead, she is quite charming. Consider this album's three singles: "Girlfriend" is based on cheerleader calls and beats and is quite stirring; "When You're Gone" is an over-the-top ballad that conveys real emotion; and "Hot" is sexy as hell without any hint of gang-rape.
Gender is never mentioned in the love songs, always welcome and so rare on the radio. And she's funny: on the title song she half-heartedly spells out her name, "Give me an 'A'! Always give me what I want! Give me a 'V'! Be very, very good to me!", etc. The phrase "Psycho-Billy" turns up elsewhere. She cusses throughout the album, always self-censored (the majority of her audience is fourteen year-old girls; the rest are fifteen year-old girls.), actually saying "shh" for "shit" over and over at one point.
So, since I bought this album last year, Avril Lavigne has joined Pink in my now two-woman pantheon of modern pop stars. Avril looks so fed up with superstardom on the cover of the album. She gave us a good record anyway.

Monday, March 31, 2008

BODIES ... THE EXHIBITION

Cincinnati Museum Center 3/08
I was originally going to see this show with two friends but they backed out at the last minute and I was left to see it by myself. Standing in line an hour for the $23 ticket (I forewent the $3 movie) I observed the crowd and it was preternaturally normal: families with strollers, retired people, a few European tourists. The only anomalies were a couple of "Goth" kids who seemed excited about a corpse-fest and a bald chemo-woman with her grown daughter.
A long list of necessary rules were explained at the entrance followed by a giddy old woman ticket-taker who lamented that the high school biology classes that took the tour didn't take full advantage of this "wonderful opportunity", breezing through the exhibit in fifteen minutes. Why do teenagers only respect ghouls in Hollywood Horror Movies? Don't they know that this is a World-Class Haunted House?
So, young Chinese corpses (90% male) abounded, posed playing baseball, basketball, dancing, throwing discus. Body parts in cases, the bodies themselves out in the open, all eviscerated a hundred different ways. I experienced a range of emotion throughout the long tour (1-2 hours), a little overwhelmed by the end. I was cheered by the sight of the last corpse, a prosthetic man with a plastic heart and metal bones, a welcome sight after that endless procession of meat.
In the gift shop I purchased the $20 souvenir photograph book, commenting to the random clerk that the sense of our common mortality was staggering to me at that moment. Incidentally, Little Kids were everywhere you looked and they were all having a blast.