Sunday, July 16, 2017


>>>>FEELING KIND OF FUNEREAL Me, ordinary axe-murderer.
>>>>I must enjoy a rocknroll atmosphere. I love to love ya baby love to whatever oh baby yeah.
>>>>Leaving Cloud-Cuckoo-Land, destination La-La Land. I see it all.
>>>>As long as it's hallucination, man, I've seen it all. I'm your hip priest.
>>>>Jesus is cool! Smoke dope in church! Maybe a mustache would help.
>>>>Maybe Fu Manchu-style would insure street-level credibility.
>>>>This Mad Dog 20/20 is the Blood of Christ.
>>>>This Little Debbie Snack Cake is the Body of Christ.
>>>>The Sign of the Cross----Our "X" on a Mystery Contract----
>>>>Through a looking-glass, darkly.

Saturday, July 15, 2017


It has long been my mid-July tradition to enjoy two of my favorite activities at once on Wimbledon finals weekend: watching sports on TV and morning drinking. I usually prepare a bowl of fresh strawberries and chill the finest bottle of Champagne $10 will buy and tune into the live coverage of the women's final, mid-morning on Saturday. As the women's final, in recent years, rarely goes beyond two sets, I normally don't consume more than a glass or two, but on Sunday, the traditionally marathon-length men's final allows me to get through the bottle and then conveniently miss church!

I was fortunate enough, through the generosity of a special lady friend, last year, to attend Wimbledon in person, something I'll never forget. SLF has since moved on to deeper-pocketed pastures, so this year's tournament has been bittersweet, and also sad that I haven't been able to see a single match—so how much was I looking forward to this morning's final, featuring my favorite ass-kicker of all time, Venus Williams. Traditionally, regardless of the broadcast of matches throughout the tournament, the men's and women's finals have been network broadcast on this weekend, as they have the universal stature of the Super Bowl, World Series, Indy 500, and Kentucky Derby. So imagine my disappointment to find that the tennis is only available in ESPN—thus, not available.

Believe me, I have looked into what it would cost to have cable TV in my life, and even if it was something I wanted in my life (which I adamantly don't, except for sports broadcasting, as I don't need a thousand channels of garbage) I found that the cost of it would be more than the cost of a second car, which is ridiculous, seeing how I can't afford a first car (I mean one that, like, runs). If you haven't noticed, the money that's being allowed to separate itself from the wealthiest one-tenth or hundredth percent of the fat pigs has drastically reduced in recent years. That means less for us who enjoy baseball, which is also no longer on broadcast TV in my hometown (the Major League team having their own cable channel). When the people finally get around to burning down the government buildings throughout this country, maybe the fat pigs will all gather in a pathetic circle and mutter, “Hmm, maybe we should have kept using TV as the opiate of the masses rather than trying to switch over to the more profitable (for us) opioids as the opiate of the masses.”

As for me, I'm a sports fan, but that means sports on TV. I used to be collage football fan, but then they had to ramp up the greed, with each conference having their own cable network, and broadcasting almost all the bowl games (certainly all the good ones) only on cable. So fuck collage football, I said, and that was the last straw. But there was still collage basketball, and the NCAA Tournament used to be the best sporting event on TV all year, until they switched it to where 75 percent of the games are on cable TV. 25 percent is actually worse than nothing, in this case, so fuck the Final Four, and that was the last straw.

Then there is (was) the NBA, which used to be my favorite. It is now all but unwatchable. No, let me rephrase that, it's unwatchable. I have no interest, and maybe it's not the NBA's fault, because after watching these few great years (Celtics/Lakers, Pistons/Bulls) how can anything match up. But I'd still try to watch the playoffs, until they decided to put all of the playoffs (except for the finals) on cable TV, so I said fuck the NBA, and that was the last straw.

Except, as a (as I said) hopeless, massive sports fan, I still watch nearly anything. Well, I've never been able to get into ice hockey (maybe I should try) and things like bicycle tricks and crashing trucks in the dirt don't count, to me, as sports. But I actually watch NASCAR and golf, though both have gotten increasingly boring (and that means, booooring). And now, half the NASCAR season is on cable TV, so I said fuck NASCAR, and that was the last straw. Which pretty much leaves golf, a sport which currently musters its most excitement from Tiger Woods DUI reports. I have some nostalgia for Monday Night Football, which I'd never miss as a youth, but now since that is on cable (or was, or switched to Thursday Night or Saturday Night football, who can keep up?) and I can pretty much never see the games of teams I want to see anyway, the NFL is just not enough for me. And my favorite two sports, soccer and Formula 1, have never been on TV in this country.

So is that four or five last straws? How many more chances can I give to sports? No more. I'm sad to say it, because I want to be a regular guy, and I like the idea of sports as a live event in which the outcome is not known, but I'm afraid, for me to enjoy sports, it's all about the TV coverage. I must see it happen. I don't even care who wins or loses, I don't give a shit about stats. I like the game, visually (with sound—which is why sports bars playing silent TV with a moronic music soundtrack does not work for me). Sports IS sports on TV, for me. And since it's all now become, like a Lamborghini, a vacation in Hawaii, or dinner at a steakhouse, something I can not afford, it is over. I am officially through with sports, and if ESPN wants to interview me about it, fine, but I don't think they will, because I will say “fuck” on the air.

Thursday, July 6, 2017


We were happy and we were sad. Now I'm an insane man writing in a coffee shop as if I was important, even this, it's not funny or insightful or even coherent. I want to have something to say, I want so bad to get something on paper, to feel justified finally, allowed to be happy and calm, but I am so scared of everything, especially this notebook. I've ripped out every marked page except the addresses of my friends and I've let down all of them. Maybe I could get started by writing a poem or story for each name.

Check it out, another ugly, awkward, useless idea from the workshop of Darius "At Least He Didn't Kill Himself Today" Smith! Heartsick, sad, stuck, and worthless, yes, but I'm happy. Not kidding.

Saturday, May 13, 2017

Cafe Corazon

Cafe Corazon - Riverwest (the distinction must be made because there is a Cafe Corazon in Bay View now) - is at 3129 N. Bremen Street, in a very cool old building that I had some dealings in, in the past - so now, seeing it completely transformed into something else is both pleasant and disturbing. I wonder if there is a word or term for that, when a building you are used to seeing as one thing gets turned into something else? Let me try to think of one: how about Brain Map Renovation. No, that's weird, plus I think that's a band. I'll keep thinking. Anyway, I was saying nearly 20 years ago that if I could start a business I'd open a burrito place in the Riverwest neighborhood, because there wasn't one, and it'd be a sure success, even someplace at Taco Hell level (and I don't even eat burritos). There is just a certain ratio of how many burritos you can sell in relation to how many bars, hipsters, and college students are in the vicinity, and based on that, this neighborhood could support about 1000 burrito places!

The good news is, this place opened, and it has good quality food, is delicious, they renovated the space nicely, the wait staff it great, out back is a bike path and a glimmer of nature, and it's not going away (hopefully). The only downside is, if you come here at certain times (like Taco Tuesday, Thaco Thursday, right before the Brain Map Renovation show, etc.) it's the Philadelphia Zoo. So choose your visiting hours wisely.

As usual, I forgot to photograph my food until I took a breath and was halfway through. I was excited to see Migas on the menu, since I have a particularly warm spot in my heart for that dish ever since I ate migas regularly at this place - oh, was it Kokomo, or Iowa City (you'd think I'd remember) - anyway, which was particularly delicious because it was made with homemade tortillas. This migas wasn't quite as good, but that's not fair, since, you know, nothing can compare to your first kiss, your first beer, your first six figure publishing contract. This was, however, delicious. But this seems like a good place to bring this up: nothing can compare with really tasty homemade tortillas, but they are a pain in the ass to make. Well, maybe not for the experts, but a lot harder than taking them out of a package. But it's worth it! Also, yes, this was from the breakfast menu, and I was thrilled to see that breakfast is served until really late (I think 3pm? Should have wrote that down). Anyway, the best breakfast is Mexican restaurant breakfast, it's great when it's served late. After all, hardly anyone in this neighborhood gets up before noon!

For more Mexican Restaurant reviews, visit Avocado Taco

Monday, April 10, 2017


Thursday, December 1, 2016


Late Fall, 1984. For months a white sky, occasional cold rain, a cold wind from all directions. Nothing to look forward to except Winter. There is no love in this world anymore, but Dash remembers love, I remember love. 

My name is Esther,  I am 19. Dash is 17. He is my day and night and he has no idea how I feel. We are two homeless kids in suburbia. I'm sure that in a hundred years our lives will seem strange, important, and futuristic but today I am only cold and hungry and I miss Dash. 

Through the mist at the corner of Robb and Lora I spy a white utility shed adorned with a bold, beautiful, black Circle-A. I say a prayer to nobody and wait. Neighbors watch from every window. My blouse is spray-painted bright orange, my Levi's are tight and black, my motorcycle boots only heighten my mystery. After a minute of this fashion show, I spin around once and head three blocks over to Zig Zag. Church bells ring on and on so I sit on the sidewalk and smoke. 

Soon I hear Dash yelling my name, I stand, I see him running toward me. I put my arms around him. He's crying and pretends he's not crying. The rain comes down colder and faster. We don't mind. We start out on the long, cold walk to the city. It seems like it's a thousand miles away. Singing helps. I sing "Borderline" by Madonna first. We luck out and get a ride from a punk rocker, leather jacket, spiky hair and all. He drops us off at a run-down hotel. Dash and I share a room for a week. We don't even kiss once. Too sad. 

Later, Dash was elected President of the United States. We both found that fact hilarious.

Tuesday, November 22, 2016


Century 22 Reality, Worthlessville, Ohio.
I wonder if you'll ever know what I'm sure I'll never know, namely Thrill-Killing (Sporty Spice reserves all rights to attempted murder for her beloved Cincinnati Police Division,) Snuff Film Enthusiasm (S.S. has starred in too many "Real Live Murder" films to consider them anything other than a headache and a paycheck,) and lastly S.S. does not get high off of AIDS or Genital Warts or Whatever You Freaks are into Today.

Let Sporty Spice Kill At Will (You Can Trust Her! Really!) or Let Sporty Spice Be Disappeared! Re-Appeared! Our Ghost Queen! Hurrah for Nothing. As Ever.
----Directive One, Shock Squad Sporty Spice Ohio, Winter 2016-17, USA.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Sunday, August 16, 2015


by Randy Russell

EVERYTHING HAD GONE WRONG. I couldn't find a job. And when I did, it was a bad job. My fishing pole broke. The creek filled with sand. My woman run away with another man.

It was a mild winter, though you wouldn't know it by my gas bill, and I didn't freeze to death. I was looking forward to taking the plastic off the windows. The only bad thing, besides everything, was that here it was April already,and there had been no snow. No snow all winter! Snow is what makes winter bearable, and even though this was Columbus, Ohio, and for all nintendo porpoises "The South," still, this was very unusual. And depressing. So when it started snowing that day I stopped what I was doing and jumped up and down at the window like the little kid I hope to be someday.

The next thing I knew I had my full winter gear on, even though it was too warm for it--in the mid-forties (too warm for snow I had thought,) and I was out in it, coming down harder and harder, looking like a damn blizzard even. Where would I go?

To the river, I decided, because water is the important thing, and if there's no ocean or lake, then the river is the thing. I stopped at Andy's Carryout on the way, even though it wasn't on the way, OK, I went out of my way to buy wine. A pint of MD 20/20, even though it was totally unnecessary because I already felt drunk and I already felt high, and what would wine do but make me tired and depressed? But it's habit, maybe, or ritual, better, and maybe important to keep me grounded, at least that person who was me, that year.

Being so warm, the snow was wet as rain, and I was soon soaked, but warm and even sweating, as I was so overdressed. And it was so heavy it stuck to everything and covered everything with ice and slush and actual thick white snow! Including me. I was trudging through snow by the time I got to the river and opened my wine and took a big swig. The wine tasted good even (it was the circumstances) and there was actually steam rising from the river, and it looked unreal, like the river to hell, or in a fairy tale. I started along the trail along the river, exploring, uncovering new territory, land never before seen by the drunken white man.

No one else was out--the world was empty. I would stop now and then and pull out my bottle and take a pull. It would warm me up. I was hot and sweating, and soaked from the snow. At one point I looked across the river, through the heavy mist, and I was lost. There was nothing, no one, no city, and I was rooted in no time period. I screamed across the river. It was silent. I screamed again, as loud as I could. Still no sound except for the snow hitting the trees and the silent power of the river flowing, which I knew.

I started running then, along the trail, going deeper and deeper into the wilderness-- treacherous, dangerous terrain. I slipped andfell--I slid down a snow hill--my foot went in the river. All of that.

Finally it was over. The trail came to an end. The wine ran out. I ran out of gas. The snow lessened, but was still coming down, gently and saner now. I worked my way back to a road. Then through unknown neighborhoods in the direction of home and a hot shower and dry clothes. Back to whatever it was that I was doing. back to where the evening had left off, and all my problems and hardships. But also the project on my desk. The project was the only thing that kept me from suddenly changing into another person day after day.

On my way back I walked past a house where someone was out amazed by the snow like me (and not merely complaining about its unseasonableness like hundreds of thousands more.) This guy had taken advantage of the incredible packing quality of the wet snow and had built an actual six foot high ice arch over the sidewalk leading to his house. I stopped and looked at the arch. It was something--something you walk under, walk through. I knew I could walk under the arch. I could walk through. I knew I could either walk through the arch or I could walk by--continue on and pass it by. I stopped and looked at the arch. I liked it. It made me happy. Then I turned and walked past, kept going in the direction I was going.

Saturday, August 15, 2015


Darlene Lustig, protector of the defeated,
Raped in a jail, victorious for all time----

For her, I'll go to Mars,
And name the desert Lustig,
And the highest point Mt. Darlene.
But this doesn't matter----
Right now she's gone.
And this is really an impossible situation----

One night once she was in my room, she really was.
There was some risk to our lives,
But we slept together like madmen anyway.
We had money and we spent it,
In fact we had the world.
So we used it up.

The world gone, we stood side-by-side
On a summit, high on the fact that we didn't care,
Not about anything except each other.
And in the morning she went out
Into the desolate world
And she never-never came back.

This fraudulent weather is so sad.
This happy day so fake.

Thursday, August 6, 2015


1945 ruined August forever after. No more Central Powers vs the Entente, no more Crown Prince Franz Ferdinands shot in their touring cars or Rapes of Belgium, no more Russian armies invading East Prussia, no more French Theories of Attack toward the Upper Rhine, no more "Which side will Italy join?" Now we commemorate A-bomb blasts. However, 11/11 worked wonders for November. Armistice Day, dammit!

Monday, July 6, 2015


Hi! I am Cancer! I am Plague! I am epidemic! Bjork said, "If you don't stop complaining/You'll face an army of me" Well, so far we're a corps, three divisions, SS/US Corps and after assembly tomorrow with our allies LOS ANGELES, ASTOUNDING/ANALOG, WORLDS OF IF, DARK DECEMBER, VAMPIRELLA, X-MEN, DOOM PATROL TEEN TITANS, et. al. it looks like you will face an army group of me. Call us: ARMY GROUP CENTER. Ciao! --S.S. 9/16/2001.

Saturday, January 31, 2015


YOU ARE LUCKY! Fall Down Face-First on Your Sara Lee Cheesecake! Drive to the Strip Mall! ROCK THE U.S.A.! March For and Against Abortion! Throw Coins at the Fountain! WAY TO GO, AJAX!!

Thursday, December 25, 2014


Why does crime always have to result in evil?
Why can't crime be committed with the good in mind?
Can't the criminal be disciplined enough to use his cunning in a selfless way?
Overrun the weak, co-operate with the strong.
Life as a movie.
It could work but it hasn't so far, chiefly because of the prime movers involved. Psychotic to a man.
"When I hear the word 'culture,' that's when I reach for my revolver." ---Goebbels.
An apt one-sentence summation of the Twentieth Century.

Wednesday, December 24, 2014


"So I've temporarily been condemned to FLESH and in Midwest United States no less----yes, it looks like a time to find knives and ammo and random objects of our affection but this is the Two Thousands, we do acknowledge that fact, so I, Sporty Spice, hereby decree a modified Kill-Spree where *sigh* NO ONE IS KILLED....

"So, so Posh Spice is SO disappeared (Scary won't return calls and Ginger's busy with United Nations. Baby is irrelevant.) Posh is just GONE and she was the best of us five!" [Don't even dare to demur! Sporty is talking about HER MAYBE-DEAD GIRLFRIEND!]

"In a random city, my first objective is the Kids and I will find a way to 'Win', if not with a Rockstar Girl, then we commence a Whispering Campaign, we can't miss! 'Your parents are wrong about everything! Pay NO mind to the Sick Sad Creeps!'

"And there're Pretty Girls everywhere you look, follow them and soon you'll find the Simulacrum of Posh Spice...she could be Twelve or Forty, whatevs--spend Real and Intense Time with the New Posh, brainwash her with the TRUTH and when that's over walk away, walk hundreds of miles away---the horrifying worthless town is changed for the better, I, Sporty, am maybe happier and Our Real Power is ever-spiraling UP...."

Monday, December 1, 2014

The Born Loosers

Proposal for Reality Program

Title: Born Loosers

It's a simple premise. Contributors to sporting news message boards from across the Internet will be selected to appear on a half-hour sports talk show in which they will be encouraged to discuss current sporting news topics.

Participants will be encouraged to use foul language, threats, and actual physical violence against each other. Possible sports figure guest stars. Possible games and contests pertaining to show themes.

Venue: Ideally the program would air on a cable network in order to be able to exhibit adult language, situations, and disturbing behavior.

Estimated budget: $100, 000 per episode.

Saturday, November 8, 2014

SEPTEMBER 1, 1939 by W.H. Auden

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-Second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade;
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
Find what huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair.

Thursday, November 6, 2014


December 29, 2011 3:44 pm
Have you read John Hersey yet?

No! Sorry...hopefully I'll get to it!
Start w/THE WALL
March 30, 2012 10:54 pm
THE MARTIAN CHRONICLES is a slog to read.
March 31, 2012 8:39 am

Wait...he wrote the Algiers Motel Incident, right? I was just looking through that, actually....
Ray Bradbury?
Fahrenheit 451
TV version of THE MARTIAN CHRONICLES starring Rock Hudson 1970s
Noah, do you like short stories?
March 31, 2012 8:18 pm

Depends on the short story! I don't have anything against the form per se.
April 1, 2012 10:11 am
April 1, 2012 12:04 pm
Fukk "There Will Come Soft Rains"
December 15, 2012 9:17 am
I luv Hemingway.
December 16, 2012 11:54 am
Keats? Byron? Percy or Mary?
Wordsworth or Coleridge?

Keats is awesome; Byron is often very funny. Frankenstein is uneven, but has wonderful moments. A lot of P. Shelley is wonderful. Wordsworth can be great, but is often kind of dull. Coleridge is the man.
The Plagiarist and last to die!
No Wordsworth died last?
Keats 25, Shelley 29
Have you read The Last Man in Europe unsure of title By Mary Shelley?
December 16, 2012 1:36 pm

I haven't read any Mary Shelley other than Frankenstein. Is the Last Man any good?
Wuthering Heights is FAR better than Jane Eyre.

Ummm...I don't know if I agree with that. I love them both.
Persuasion by Austen may be the worst "great book" of all-time.

I love Persuasion! Damn it.
ULYSSES vs THE ODYSSEY? Gimme the ILIAD any day. Just kidding. I really like THE BERLIN STORIES by Isherwood. "I am a camera."
And yr. blog still roxxx!
December 16, 2012 7:30 pm

Aw...thank you!
Stay Kool, Noah.
Best Collection of American Short Stories 20th c.: IN OUR TIME. Also see the amazing "in our time" from the year before (1924-25.)
December 17, 2012 5:24 pm
"Foul Play" vs "Spider-Man No More"
December 18, 2012 9:39 am
Hey. Noah!
December 18, 2012 10:57 am
Fitzgerald never in paperback! Why?
December 28, 2012 4:36 pm
You Still Hate Short Stories!
January 2, 2013 10:38 am
January 10, 2013 8:35 am
Cash-In on THE GREAT GATSBY 1925 Short Stories, maan!
January 12, 2013 9:27 am
Q.: Bret Easton Ellis or James Ellroy? A.: Ellis and Ellroy!
January 31, 2013 3:12 am
Amazing Spider-Man 50?
January 31, 2013 8:09 am
February 15, 2013 11:20 pm
James Baldwin! The New Now!
Richard Wright! Langston Hughes!
Harlem Renaissance! Harlem Globetrotters!
LeRoi Jones!
February 16, 2013 9:26 am
Iceberg Slim!
S.E. Hinton!
I'd love to see a Bret Easton Ellis article on HU.
Noah, do you like The Stooges (1969-73)?
Ezra Pound?
Imagism:" Faces in the subway/Petals on a wet, black bough" or whatever. William Carlos Williams. H.D. I say they rival the Symbolists!
February 16, 2013 5:09 pm

Yeah, I love the Stooges. T.V. Eye is awesome. WCW is cool too.

February 22, 2013 12:50 pm
CITY OF NIGHT by John Rechy?
February 24, 2013 7:24 pm
February 25, 2013 8:35 am
Welcome to the Working Week
February 26, 2013 9:47 am
Read TOO FAR TO WALK by John Hersey [1966?]
March 4, 2013 6:56 pm
Have you looked at TULSA by Larry Clark or THE AMERICANS by Robert Frank (w/Jack Kerouac)?
March 7, 2013 6:56 pm
Noah, would you rather read Dickens or Hemingway OUT LOUD?

Not sure; I don't think I've read either of them out loud!
I would discover new things in Hemingway and be super-re-assured by Dickens. Hemingway's actual dialogue would be fun to say. His hidden poetic works between quotes!
March 23, 2013 9:06 am
Noah, have you read Selby or Rechy yet?
Faulkner is forbidding.
March 23, 2013 2:06 pm
Check out BETWEEN THE BUTTONS by The Rolling Stones!

Between the Buttons is great! I like a lot of their early stuff.
March 24, 2013 10:42 pm
March 26, 2013 6:04 pm
A Special Request for HU: Pllease Write an Article on "Gutter Punks"
And more about "Ke$ha!
March 28, 2013 6:35 am
Sri Lanka? Tamir Tigers? M.I.A.?
Uh, Tamil?
April 6, 2013 9:13 am
Is "Lola" by The Kinks the first gay rock hit? Probably. 1970.
April 6, 2013 10:21 am
"Sally Go Round the Roses" by a girl group in '63 is rumored Lesbian-themed. Honorable mention to Sweet Loretta Modern from "Get Back" 1969.

I love Sally Go Round the Roses! By the Jaynetts? Am I remembering that right? Wikipedia says I am....
And the fact that Mitch Ryder (Detroit Wheels) was gay throws a new light on his ultra-macho rock!
April 6, 2013 5:54 pm
What's So Funny About Peace, Love, Understanding, War, Hate, Confusion, and Rape?
Lord Byron 35? Hitler 56. Hemingway published his first novel at 26. Greatest poet of all-time maybe Charles Baudelaire?
Suggestion for HU: a round-table discussion on HIROSHIMA by John Hersey 1946?
April 7, 2013 8:45 am
Suggestion for HU: a round-table discussion on A FAREWELL TO ARMS by Ernest Hemingway 1929 USA?
The Decline of Western Civilization directed by Penelope Spheeris 1980?
Suburbia by Spheeris?
TALK RADIO and SUBURBIA New York Stage Plays 1980s Eric Bogosian USA??!?
Super Kool 120s
Marlboro Black 100s
Newport Non-Menthol 100s
Hello Goodbye
"The Walrus Was Paul"
Dear Prudence
Cry Baby Cry
"YESTERDAY"...AND TODAY [1966 USA] The Butcher Foto!
Neat! Neat! Neat!
Seriously, Hello Goodbye, Noah!
April 7, 2013 11:04 am
Have you appeared in the print-version ATLANTIC MONTHLY yet, Noah?

No...and not likely to, I don't think. Print and web are pretty separate, as far as I can tell...I pitched them something and never heard back, so...not holding my breath.
Who do they want? Naomi Klein and Bret Easton Ellis??!?
What about articles for THE NATION weekly? You're at least good enough for that!
Again, whatevs.

Heh. The Nation doesn't encourage freelancers. And there's no way the New Yorker would print my poems.

I got a review in the print edition of Reason a month or so back. That was nice.
Start your own print mag! I'll contribute anything you want for a flat rate $40/article! I swear!
April 7, 2013 1:22 pm
Submit an article to THE NEW CRITERION! I'm not kidding!
MAXIM, dammit!
THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS! Again, dammit! You are a fine writer and it is wrong to be restricted to some kind of fukt internet ghetto!
Hooded Utilitarian Print-Version! I would happily pay $6 for a copy on the news-stand!
SPIN could use a great writer again!
Column in Sun-Times or Tribune?
Chicago Reader might be the best USA free weekly! Ours in Cinti. is called CityBeat and it's ok. Justin Green lives here for some reason!
Cincinnati Enquirer is a stain on the city!
The greatest novel of all-time? THE LONG GOODBYE by Raymond Chandler 1952? USA
Or at least it's re-readable!
Charles Willeford is fantastic!
April 7, 2013 4:54 pm
I choose the Kinks record!
I've got it! Revive the weekly LIFE MAGAZINE w/YOU as Editor-in-Chief!
April 7, 2013 8:10 pm
Or create a monster PEOPLE/US/OK! DAILY (Print and Website!) $3B invested by UN/World Bank!!?!
HU Worldwide Word Efforts!
April 7, 2013 9:17 pm
Or revive Joe Simon's SICK MAGAZINE just think, Noah Berlatsky, a Mort Todd of the Twenty Teens!
Stop, Darius! Jusr stop!
"I use the N.M.E./I use/Anarchy!"
New Musical Express
"I use the best/I use the press!"
"I wanna destroy passersby!"
Do you care about 70s Punk Rock any, Noah?

Sure! Love the Stooges, love VU. Sex Pistols are okay, first Clash record is okay. Love the New York Dolls....
"Lucky Man" by ELP is weirdly good and also effective anti-war effect, up there with "The Unknown Soldier" by The Doors.
"Lucky Man"
April 8, 2013 9:18 am
Roll On, Hooded Utilitarian
April 8, 2013 10:27 am
OR revive MARVEL COLLECTOR ITEM CLASSICS title from 1965 and YOU can print ANYTHING w/Disney allowing $500,000 each monthly issue to print THE FINEST COMICS OF ALL-TIME! Cover price? FIFTY CENTS! It's true, man, LOSS LEADERS RULE!
April 8, 2013 11:53 am
April 8, 2013 5:19 pm
Noah! What Do You Know?
April 8, 2013 7:59 pm
Hey, man!
Hey! Pachuco!
Noah Berlatsky is Pavlov Picasso!
August 19, 2013 12:26 am
August 20, 2013 1:15 pm
Fake Word
September 21, 2013 3:37 pm
There is No Love in This World Anymore!
September 24, 2013 12:39 am
What's the New, Mary Jane?
October 5, 2013 10:26 am
Noah's Ark: HU, Splice, and Atlantic Monthly, saving the world again despite the New Deluge!
January 3rd, 2:05am
Marvel Collector's Item Classics Now or Never , Noah!!?!
January 14th, 2:03pm
As Ever, Darius!
Monday 5:01pm
What's the New, Mary Jane?
Thursday 6:45pm
Noah Berlatsky: Current President of the American Intelligentsia!

See Noah's wide-ranging Hooded Utilitarian!

Saturday, September 20, 2014


I heard on the radio yesterday that Sporty Spice was dead. Melanie Chisholm, Mel C, not Mel B, or Scary Spice. Turned out to be an anonymous internet stunt.

Fly High, You Flowerpots!

Monday, October 28, 2013


It’s the day after I heard that Lou Reed died, and even though I haven’t paid much attention to anything he’s been doing for several decades, his music was important to me, bandmates, and friends, so I thought I’d write something down here. We used to refer to him as “Uncle Lou”—meaning, I guess, both a blood relative reverence and also irreverence, as in the perverted uncle disowned by the family that no one talks about. I vaguely recall “meeting” him once, when we—I don’t recall who, Keith Busch?—drove up to a record store on Coventry where he played a live radio show and then you could wait in line to have him sign a record or something. (He was very small and wearing a blue hoodie.) I felt embarrassed but went through with it and asked him to sign something ODD—can’t remember what now! Maybe it was a copy of Dharma Scum, a “garage novel” by Sean Hill and myself, or maybe this was before we wrote that, so maybe I asked him to sign my ass with a quill pen. It probably wasn’t THAT, but it was in that spirit. He smiled and gave me a funny look.

Like rock’n’roll, Lou has died countless times already, though I don’t want to get into the negatives here. But neither do I want to write a “tribute.” By the time they built that Clown Factory in Cleveland, rock’n’roll had been buried too deep for anyone to ever pretend to know it, but it does persist like an annoying friend (the kind where you don’t need enemies). I guess it died just about the first time anyone decided that they had this burning urge to write about it, and seeing how there’s not even room in the coffin for another nail, I’m just going to kind of blow my nose over my record collection here.

Now, in the last six years I’ve moved five times, and each time I’ve left a lot of shit behind, including my record collection, except for a handful. I’ve picked up a few at yard sales here and there, but since records are back “in” now it’s too expensive to go out and buy back what I once owned. So here in this small hotel room I’m living in now I’ve got—I just counted them—60 odd records (some odder than others: Dory Previn! The Rockin’ R’s?) I just went through them to see which Lou Reed records I have, and the grand total is two! Most shockingly in absence is my all time favorite, STREET HASSLE (1978) – where is it? There is NO WAY I don’t have that record! Yet, it’s not here. I have been robbed! Just that cover, one of the best album covers ever (what the hell is that red ball?) A great, weird record. It sounds like no other. Oh well, I can’t take it to my grave (maybe Lou did).

Now, this is going to make me really UNPOPULAR but I don’t give a rat’s ass about the Velvet Underground. Sure, I like them, but then I like the ARCHIES, too, but Lou Reed’s second career, as “Lou Reed” is where it really connects for me. And I take that back, Street Hassle isn’t my favorite record, that would be METAL MACHINE MUSIC (1975) which contrary to what people seem to think IS music and you CAN listen to it. It’s not a fuck you to the record company or the fans, it’s a LOVE LETTER. I, however, gave my copy to Jeff Curtis, because he has a radio show and has actually played it on his radio show. In fact, a great tribute to Lou Reed would be to play the entire four sides on the radio (maybe toward the end of the show, then, barricade yourself in all night while the final lock groove goes on and on and on—just an idea). Sadly, I’m also missing LOU REED (1972) with the druggie art cover, I really love that album, but my copy was trashed, and every copy you find looks like someone threw up on it after OD-ing. I also don’t have TRANSFORMER (1972), which is sad because I LOVE that record, but what’s even sadder is that about half the songs have been used in commercials for heinous products and corporations (who I guess didn’t listen to the lyrics?) because it’s about the catchiest set of jingles you’re ever going to hear. I also don’t have SALLY CAN’T DANCE (1974) and CONEY ISLAND BABY (1975) both of which I really love, and shouldn’t have too hard a time picking up somewhere since no one seems to like them. Some of his records after 1978 I enjoyed at the time but don’t really care to listen to anymore.

What do I have, then? Two records I managed to save because they’re like two books of the Holy Bible to me. LOU REED LIVE: TAKE NO PRISONERS (1978) has a way too long title, a hideous cover (though a ballsack is prominently featured) and it’s LIVE. The live rock record is really one of the most dismal mistakes in rock’s portfolio of bad ideas, but THIS record! It’s the one live record you should listen to, and well, just one of my favorite records to put on when I’m in a Scotch and cigarettes kind of mood (but without the Scotch and cigarettes). It’s a double record, folds out, and the inside is a hilarious giant photo of Lou with a cigarette, obviously taken at the same time as the Street Hassle cover (there’s that red ball again), his aviator sunglasses look like they’re covered with perm grease. It’s somewhere between a comedy record, a lounge act, and “live rock” as well as it can be played. It starts out with a pretty formidable version of “Sweet Jane” which he almost immediately interrupts to go into really funny stream-of-consciousness improvisations and complaining: “I never said I was tasteful. I’m not tasteful.” During an extended version of “Walk On The Wild Side” he sets out to tell the story of the origin of the song but keeps interrupting himself, talking about critics, particularly Christgau: “Can you imagine working for a fucking year and you get a B+ from some asshole in the Village Voice?” But also other people like Warhol superstars and celebrities like Norman Mailer: “I met Mailer at a party, he tries to punch you in the stomach to see how tough you are… he’s pathetic… ‘Come on man…’ What? You’ve got to be kidding? Somebody step on him, man. Go write a bible.” Because of the Stereo Binaural Sound recording process, this is a weird listening experience, especially with headphones (not only can you hear Lou brutally addressing members of the audience, you can hear individual members of the audience). “I sing when you shut up.” Causing feedback: “Isn’t that annoying? I can drown you out. Leave if you don’t like it.” But it’s actually all very loving, believe it or not, he loves this audience, and what he’s doing, that’s the sense I get.

I lied when I said those other records were my favorite all-time Lou Reed records because my favorite actually is the other one I have, BERLIN, which is from 1973, the year I believe is the pinnacle of American culture (that’s right, it’s been downhill for the last 40 years). I suppose I’ve listened to this record more than all of his others combined, so I don’t put it on that much anymore—but I still do once in awhile when I need something to cheer me up. People often say it’s depressing, meaning the music, the lyrics, the content, but I don’t understand that, really… I mean, isn’t a lot of art about sad subjects? The songs are all very beautiful, all of them on this record, and I find that uplifting. I think people constantly confuse depressing with sad. I find bad art depressing, maybe, but mostly I try to ignore it. What I love about this record is that it’s so over the top, it’s extreme, melodramatic, emotional. I love to think about these people in the studio, how they must have felt recording it. I hope they felt like they were doing something great. I don’t mean to criticize people who find this record too sad to listen to, I guess, I mean the story it contains IS pretty heartbreaking! But I take it as a story, that’s all. Maybe it’s the ultimate compliment, ironically, if you’re making sad art, when it’s too sad for people to even want to experience. By the way, I sure have quoted Lou Reed a lot over the years, to the extent where it’s like his lyrics have become part of my personality. I think my favorite one of all comes from the last song on this record: “Just goes to show how wrong you can be.”

Saturday, October 5, 2013


I walked to a deserted public library and used a computer for the first time and strangely, I felt vaguely to blame for these new USA super-horrors. I can almost recall a public conversation in the Nineties about hating the way the grotesque World Trade Center ruined the NYC skyline, and wishing out loud that the Twin Towers be demolished. Just idle talk in coffee shops, discussion of the bomber that crashed into the Empire State Building in the forties, and speculation about weaponized passenger jets. Not sure if this is delusional or accurate.


Dear Robo-Poet: Please disconnect your phone, pulverize your computer by sledgehammer, cancel your mail, move to Hawaii where you'll never check General Delivery or even touch a payphone...your pain is so immortal that no mere friend could ever hope to qualify to hear your translations of the word of God into a rarefied English. Sporty Spice is a blip on a sonar screen next to the towering importance of your literary self! Signed, Secret Spice, Worthlessville, Ohio.


Your behavior is scrutinized and the worst deductions are made about you. There is too much food, way too much time, gossip, personalities always carry the day, above all so-called "professional" behavior. In this hospital (University of Cincinnati Medical Center, 8 West, my ward) nothing really important I can see goes on and nothing too horrifying either. The goal is to stack everyone on a shelf and feed them and let them rest, drugging them back to their "proper levels." Our failure to move on in life keeps this carousel spinning. Soon. Something. Somewhere.

Friday, October 4, 2013


We are not sunny here, we are skyless.
I want to remember the way out:
Snappy lines, the unremembered truth.

The grim path, correct and incorrect,
Never changes, the truth flickering
Madly never changes.

Monday, September 30, 2013


I saw a link to an article at Huffington Post about a kidnapped professor in Arizona: "Veronica Perez Rodriguez, Northern Arizona Professer [sic], Escapes Kidnappers In Mexico."
Never mind the typo in the headline. That's a subject for a different post. I was curious about the content-to-"crap" ratio. Here's a miniaturized screen capture of the page that I got. I used Photoshop and hid the actual content (it's covered in red). In other words, the red area represents the information that people actually want to see when they arrive.
The content occupies about 5.2% of the page. The remaining 94.8% consists of ads, links to other pages, links to social crap, a Bing search, a Twitter box, unhidable comments, navigation tools, and who knows what else.
The HTML code is 410K, and it loads eight additional HTML documents, 272 graphic images, 21 Javascript files, 8 CSS files, and about two dozen other files. Loading the page makes 294 HTTP requests, and gets 1,868,368 bytes. It has at least 332 hyperlinks.
The text "facebook" is used 109 times in the raw source document. The text "twitter" is used 122 times.
If you actually read the article, you find that it's just an article and video duplicated from another site -- an excellent example of how a content farm works. This sort of thing probably represents the future of the Web, and it will only get worse. You can avoid some of the garbage by using an ad blocker, but it doesn't hide the fact that this web page is 95% worthless. In fact, it's 100% worthless when you consider the fact that you can find the exact same content elsewhere.
The page where they got the content from is also obnoxious, but not nearly as bad as HuffPo. When you use an ad blocker, it actually looks pretty good.
DLN: What's with all these forwards?
THE MOSS PROBLEM: Really? Get bent, fucker.
DLN: Why are you such a retard? I just asked what you were up to and you act like an ass.
This is why I had to cut off the phone biz. I know part of you can't help it and I feel terrible for the part that can, but sometimes like now I can't tell the difference and I just don't feel like getting treated like dirt for no reason.
If you're well then you're a jerk. If you're not then I'm sorry and I look forward to talking when you've cycled out and into a better state.
MP: I'm not allowed to call you. I'm not allowed to write to you. Only certain DLN-related topics are discussable.
Sending you an article fucks up your life about as much as seeing my name on your call i.d. screws up your life. Your intolerance is staggering, your egotism outrageous. I love you and all and I always will and I am as flawed as they come and you ARE brilliant and all that but no one calls shots in my life lording whatever over me except my future wife and you are definitely not her. I realize you don't need me, I don't need you, but you're a cool guy and I won't play the abused stepchild ever.
DLN: Get bent, fucker? That's what you say to me when I ask what's going on? And now this? What an overreach. Phone is out for obvious reasons though it doesn't make me happy. E-mail is always fine except when you start this kind of crap. Topics are all on the table; where do you get that we can only talk about me? Because you refuse to talk about yourself? I'm not intolerant, I suppose, unless endless phone calls and being abused in e-mail and not liking it is a sign of intolerance.
This is all a two-way street. Ponder both sides, please.
MP: I'm sorry. You're right. "Get bent, fucker," was the extremely worst thing to say. I will regroup, stop spamming you, and try to be human. I suck sometimes.
DLN: Thanks, same here, not trying to pick a fight, I just get it from all angles and it's hard to know when to defend and when to absorb or ignore.
SRM: I accept yer apology...That's the first time I've ever witnessed you flipping-the-fuck-out...Wasn't pleasant. Especially since I seemed to be the one, to have spawned yer Beast. I kept reminding myself that you bark and not bite...I wanted badly to serve you a Karate Chop. But, that probably could have made you imagine that I was a Praying Mantis-style Kung Fu Instructor, at the Fairfield YMCA....and then yer phone call to yr mom would FORCE a call from her to yr paternal arch-nemesis....eventually --tho not TOO far down-- leading to Haldol-induced phone calls begging me to smuggle you-in a few smokes, at Sinclair (sp?) State-where, evidently their professional staff haven't-yet adopted anywhere near-a progressive game-plan, with their five-shelved Darius Case-File...
--I was stuck in the pouring rain. Placed my properties, which you whizzed-out, from yer apartment door-into/onto the floor/stairs...placed them in the dumpster-covered with an empty/discarded Utility of a LaRosa's Pizza Box (a LARGE==My GuD LuK), behind yer complex...waiting fer my Folks to pick me up. They were in the middle of an evening out, enjoying a nice dinner, fer my Dad's Eighty-Years-Old Birthday --forcible phone-- voice interrupting their celebration, soaked, pissed-off, confused, stuck-fer-a-cab (I called about seven friends and cabs-with no dice)...
--(I, the Victim of-)-your overly-physical harangue, coming out-from-nowhere-My tormenting consequence of The Defining dipshittedly, uninspired and garden-variety Flaked Nonsense - (myself, personally-) having nowhere CLOSE to becoming reckoned with-added with disappointing-futility thoughts - "reckoning" what you normally do/who you are, predictable lack of abilities to inspire...Realizing the difference between Rant and mindless middle-aged chatter...
Dexedrine vs. Dextromethorphan....
Talking FAST vs. Talking Mumbo Jumbo...
Ambition vs. Apathy...
Elementary Discussion vs. Confrontational Misinterpretation...
Intentional Personal Neglect (--with available "betterment" means, on hand) vs. Disappointment Surfing With State Aid...
A man and a woman-soon, later, another one of yer neighbors were walking into the building...Was walking towards them, to mostly get out of the downpour...There were NO shelters. No-frills style-parking garages, unlocked buildings, business establishments, nor otherwise...After some kind words, I was let into yer building. Waited in the laundry room, with all my shit (it stayed dry, in the dumpster. LaRosa's Pizza Parlours kick ass...)
...Miserable and rain-soaked approaches lay-down a sympathetic demeanor-even in the most miserable assholes I explained that the crap on the floor was mine and that you'd thrown me out. One of these folks asked me if it was a "lover''s spat" (meaning=You & I = L u V ) - - I said it wasn't...and didn't really bad-mouth you at all, if I remember...I remember a Black girl mentioning that you were (=-she views you as--) "quiet"...No "Gay Talk" was inferred.
I ONLY apologize fer my (sarcastic), confrontational "advice"-regarding yer trends in regards to yer publishing choices/apathy towards profiting from personal Arts & Crafts. etc. etc. etc.
I'll listen to yr voice mails. I'll notice yr e-mails...
That's about IT.
Good luck.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013


Chickfactor: When did you first publish WIGLET and why?
Gilmore Tamny: Started it in November of '90 after I'd moved to Cleveland. I'd been writing stories in college and giving the whole trying-to-get-published thing a whirl, which, ugh, was seeming pretty miserable. My boyfriend showed me some zines--they were a complete revelation--and I knew that's what I wanted to do.
CF: What sort of things were in WIGLET?
Gilmore: Interviews, comics, a confessional or two, essays, short stories.
CF: What thing in WIGLET were you most proud of?
Gilmore: Ah, I think it had a really specific feel to it.
CF: Why did you stop WIGLET?
Gilmore: I'm glad you asked me that. I've felt bad I've never written back to the people who've asked for issues or why I stopped putting it out. It was a convergence of miseries, really. I was having problems which I didn't feel comfortable writing about, it didn't fit into the WIGLET idea, but couldn't really talk about anything else, either. So I just sort of shut down and played guitar all the time. Also, the person who had been the inspiration for WIGLET had gone crazy a few years before and was going in and out of jail and institutions, which was just depressing as hell and I kinda needed to put an end to that era of my life. That's all kind of grim, but I don't know, it worked out for the best, I think I was getting ready to do something else anyway.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013


Buddy Holly said, "I guess it doesn't matter anymore" and he is so correct. I know you're fanatically devoted to "The Day the Music Died," you like to sing along with your good friends while drinking wine and I heard about your heroin abuse episode at this year's Jimmy Buffet concert. "Everybody in my office is a junkie!" Congratulations.

"Rock" is the triumph, finally, of the Loser.

Saturday, September 21, 2013

THE SCHEMATIC STRIKES! by Jeanne Falstrom 1985

priscilla painful on a midnight walk
shouting shallow thunder upwards
as i laugh with envy
poor poor priscilla i say
but as always i really mean me
and she loves me until she gets
then flies to a lighthot lamp
then dies
i pretend not to care
but as always i suck
and i loved priscilla
(when i was