My father had his own brand of pedagogy that consisted of instructing me to do something and gradually increasing the volume of that suggestion until I figured it out or we both gave up.
And that happened the other day.
A new microsite for Purgatory, NY
There’s a short author bio and a link to the amazon page. It’s really just a nice place to put a link up. Also, if you’re a lucky visitor you might be able to score a free download (but you’ll have to give me your email address first).
Just another reminder about Oh! Daddy (A collection of erotic art and writing). We’re raising money for the printing at indiegogo, click through drop a couple bucks on us. Here’s another excerpt from “Main de Gloire”:
“Is that a full hoop? I spent most of Burning Man just hooping.”
“Oh yeah, she’s a really good hooper.”
“I’ve only been hooping since August.”
“Well, you’re really good at it. Betty, you should totally see her hoop. She’s good.”
“Fuck, we need to turn the lights down eh? There are way too many lights on in here.”
“Heh, yeah. If I was sure that I could get there I’d turn off that lamp. God. I couldn’t hoop right now if you paid me.”
“Want to do another line?”
“Sure, but turn off that light, huh.”
“Got it.”
“I want to watch something. I want to watch Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?”
“Dick. Heh, I love Dick. I studied him, like I did a ton of papers on Dick in school. Betty, would you say that I’m a big Dick scholar?”
“You totally majored in Dick. Big Dick.”
“K Dick.”
“Holy fuck, yes. K Dick.”
“I’m fallin’ into a hole.”
This is a small set piece I wrote several years ago about wandering around Coney Island on a cold, rainy day.
Today I went out to Coney Island. I went out on business and afterward
I took a stroll down to the boardwalk. The whole sky was grey, rain
was alternating between a fine mist and a steady drizzle; just light
enough that you wouldn’t get anything more than damp by walking around
in it. The neighborhood of Brighton Beach looks very much like a
Sydney suburb, the brick buildings stacked up into awkward blocks, all
on a march toward the water. It struck me as very odd that in the
midst of this decade’s real estate frenzy this area hadn’t been
completely razed for glass and steel luxury high rises. Here it is, 45
minutes from Manhattan with a city beach and a quaint boardwalk but
just blocks away from the beach are all the hallmarks of a poor
Brooklyn ‘hood: strangely understocked bodegas, stores selling the
national costume of Pakistan, shop signage in Cyrillic or Arabic
scripts.
I felt like a strange intruder in a hand made Zegna suit, fresh from a
sales call, here to mingle with the Poors. Guys that would have
hardballed me had I walked down the street flashing my tattoos walked
by as if we were both invisible to one another. When I got down the
beach I enjoyed its emptiness. It was a weekday, and a rainy overcast
one at that. The whole place was silent, most of the shops were
shuttered, and I felt like I was on a special tour. I sat down in
Ruby’s, had a hotdog in the place where they were invented, and I
washed it down with a cold American beer. Afterward I walked to
Stillwell Ave and hopped the D back to West 4th.
I put together a short story for a collaboration project that I’m working on headed up by Aaron Morgan, a Seattle-based artist. It’s a coffee table book called Oh! Daddy (A collection of erotic art and writing) and we’re raising money for the printing at indiegogo.
Here’s an excerpt from “Main de Gloire”
He couldn’t tell where her body started. There was wetness and she stank of chemicals and sweat but his dick was diamond hard. She was a petite girl and he moved her around viciously, shoving himself down her throat until her eyes rolled back. For a moment he worried … but she moved his hand to the top of her head when he went to pull away. Eventually she came up for air, spit streaming from her mouth and mixing with the water coming out of her eyes.
From outside the window the street was screaming. There were shouts in Spanish, though if they had been in English he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. Over and over again he heard ¡Puta madre! And variations on that theme. The sound of flesh on flesh and something hard; the hollow thud of metal.
The short gets a bit dark. It also has a faust-y theme and served to give me the inspiration for the (much, much lighter) Purgatory, NY series.
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Jenny:
Hey mopey, are you still stressing over the dude that’s coming to kill you?
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Henry:
Oh that? No, I’m totally fucking fine with that. I’m just really disappointed in the president’s economic platform.
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Jenny:
Touchy.
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Henry:
Who wouldn’t be? Look what I got today.
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Henry:
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Jenny:
Well, what are you going to do about it? Just sit here and wait to have your ass handed to you?
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Henry:
Oh, I might sit at my apartment for a bit.
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Jenny:
Jerkin’ it.
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Henry:
We all deal with stress in our own way, Jenny.
The first two episodes are out! It’s got everything: amputees, hipster loan sharks, a demonic landlord… . Grab a copy! Share the link! Send me ice cream!
A (very) short shory. This one about pretty people and their tears.
Spring had just broken over the city and fashion week was coming, the streets downtown were overrun with cool people rushing to do cool things. Most of them were good looking, including me. I’m only basing this on what people tell me though; and they’d been telling me that since I was a child.
Wow, you look amazing in that picture! Or it would be something like: I hate taking photos when you’re around, you make me look ugly. That would usually be accompanied by a light sneer, but I knew they were only playing.
I’d deflect the comments and act embarrassed—I can make myself blush at will. Vanity is ugly. I didn’t want to be one of those beautiful people that everybody hated—I wanted to be a beautiful person that everybody loved. She’s tall, lithe, and so surprisingly down to earth, they’d say. They’d also remark on my cheekbones, because they’re really fucking nice.
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Toward Molly, one of the beautiful girls there, I soon developed an uncommon feeling of trust, which in frightened people takes the place of love.
From Journey to the End of the Night by Louis Ferdinand Céline
