LIVEBLOG: JUNE 5, 2023

5:10 a.m. Emilio woke me up mewing and scratching at door. Fed both cats and went back to sleep

9:09 a.m. Eating oatmeal in bed. Paid overdue phone bill and now looking at emails and text messages. Very tired after yesterday's drag brunch. Legs itchy from shaving. Gave Emilio his milk and then he bounced. He waits around until I give him milk every morning and then leaves to go hunt. Lilou also went out. Hoping it will be sunny today so I can sunbathe

9:15 a.m. Watching RuPaul's Drag Race Season 5 on Sabir's Paramount Plus account. I remember watching this season back when it aired and being *shocked* that Jinkx Monsoon was the winner, and I kind of still get it. She is so demure and awkward and just sobbing and crying all the time. Of course she does well in the challenges but she is overshadowed somewhat by the other bigger personalities, who nevertheless all seem to recognize that Jinkx is getting the winner edit and all gang up on her. I still think Alaska should have won. 

11:31 a.m. Went out to sunbathe but the sun kept going behind a cloud. Now looking out window and it looks sunny again...but looks can be deceiving!

11:47 a.m. Masturbated while watching pornography

11:59 a.m. Showered, scrolled tweets, looked at emails. Very tired

12:04 p.m. Fed Lilou her third meal of day. She is extremely picky and will only eat tiny amounts of food at a time, so I have to feed her 5 or 6 times a day

Ate 2 small handfuls of cashews, prepared cold brew for tomorrow and now boiling 3 eggs

12:13 p.m. Emilio caught a chipmunk. Now he is rolling around on his back to celebrate. Observed honeybees and bumblebees pollinating rhododendron. I keep seeing people's rhododendron bushes in bloom and they're all so HUGE!!! The other flowers I see everywhere now are phlox, which I love. We have a fenced-in "garden" area which we haven't used for anything in years, right now it is full of beautiful, mysterious phlox 

1:32 p.m. Sprayed on some "Attaquer le soleil" by Etat Libre d'Orange. I sort of disliked this the first time I wore it but now I love it and almost want to buy a bottle. There is a kind of dark, dangerous, unsettling mystery to it that I can't get enough of. Jacked off again. Twice in one day is a lot for me, usually I do it twice a week or so, but I'm still totally exhausted from the show yesterday and just lying around like a bum. I feel like I have a hangover though of course I didn't drink anything

1:47 p.m. Ate chicken soup that I made the other day. I used purple carrots for the soup which turned the broth purple which dyed the chicken purple. Didn't finish b/c I was still full from the eggs

5:10 p.m. Drove to Oneonta to go to the health food store. I swear everyone was driving horribly today, people kept pulling out in front of me and there was a huge truck riding my ass all the way home. Bought sauerkraut, muesli, oranges, and some chocolate granola for the endorphins. Tried to peel an orange while driving home and sprayed juice all over the windshield and almost hit 3 turkeys that were crossing the road. Fed cats their evening meal. Mom home from weekend in Ithaca. Watched another Drag Race

6:21 p.m. Cleaned make-up brushes and straightened up in studio. Put on short blonde wig and beanie hat and pink sunglasses. GG said "you look like you play wow and pretend to sell coke." Procrastinating cleaning the litter box. I switched to a new litter made of cedar after the previous corn-based litter started attracting rodents, raccoons, deer, and bees to the spot where I dumped it on the edge of the field. The cedar smells nice but it doesn't clump and requires that I empty the whole box and clean and re-fill it on a regular basis. I'm getting hungry so I guess I'll do the box and then "reward" myself with food

Forgot to say earlier that I stopped at the dairy farm on the way back from Oneonta and bought milk. June is dairy month!

8:27 p.m. Did litter box, ate purple soup plus a carrot and an orange, then threw away some old tuna and raw liver that I meant to cook. I don't hate liver but I have trouble working it into my meal rotation. I think I'll try looking for some liver capsules, I could definitely use the nutritional benefits. Went for short walk and ran into Emilio by my uncle Tim's pond. E joined me for the rest of my walk. Then I ran into Tim in his Mule and he said he saw Emilio up by his compost pile again

10:49 p.m. Dicked around online for 2 hours instead of reading. Saw that the Island Boys are now gay together apparently, or pretending to be. Ate granola while watching finale of Drag Race 

11:44 p.m. Read the same 2 pages of Brad Phillips that I already read last night 

11:46 p.m. Passed out

Trash

The real estate company that owned the Antifa squat on Cermak padlocked the gate leading out to the alley from the building’s rear door. As a result, we had no place to throw our trash, except in the area between the alley gate and the rear exit. Over the course of several months, that area became a miniature garbage dump. There were ten or fifteen units in the building, and each unit had two or three people living in it. That added up to hundreds of bags of trash per month, each bag unceremoniously dumped over balconies or heaved out the building’s rear door. Eventually the mountain grew so high it reached the wooden balconies attached to the second floor apartments. It was disgusting. The smell was immense. Angry hordes of flies swarmed through fetid clouds of poison gas. Rats tore holes in the bags, scampering about and tracking trails of noxious, festering refuse throughout the building. 

But we didn’t care. We were punk. We were too busy drinking, smoking, shooting up, or going to Food Not Bombs to worry about a little trash. We’re lucky we didn’t all die of MRSA.

The smell from the trash pile reached all the apartments in the building, forming a singularly disturbing base note for us to build hideous, multi-layered scent concoctions. Ball sweat, BO, ass, dirty armpits, nail polish, hairspray, feet, Newports, Bugler, honey flavored Jack Daniels, vodka, cupcakes, tequila, donuts, Squirt, hot Cheetos, McDonald’s wrappers, coffee left sitting out for weeks, half price ground beef simmering on the stove, post-nasal drip from the world’s worst cocaine, blood from bed bug bites smeared across effluvia-encrusted bed sheets. These pungent notes formed the heady aroma that hung in the air of the apartment I shared with Kenya and Joy that summer. 

We had several bottles of designer fragrance among us, which we sprayed in all the rooms to mask the scent, and all over our bodies and clothes, a substitute for soap, shampoo, and laundry detergent. We kept the bottles on a shelf in the kitchen for communal use: Versace Eros, Jean Paul Gautier Le Male, and my contribution, and signature scent at the time, Chanel Chance. This was what I wore when I saw tricks, to cover the smell of sweat and cigarettes and human degradation baked into my skin. My friend Hannah had gifted me the Chanel without its box, an obvious re-gift which I appreciated nonetheless. I didn’t have much of a nose for fragrance. All I knew was that it was slightly spicy, with a hint of jasmine, and that it made me smell high class, mature, and MILF-y. 

One time Kenya’s boyfriend Simon came down to visit from Madison. When I went to hug him he pulled away, nose crinkled in disgust. 

“Your dress…” he said. “It smells way off.”

I lifted a corner of the fabric to my nose and sniffed. I couldn’t smell anything. It just smelled like garbage, smoke, and whiskey sweat, same as everything else. I stripped the dress off and laid it on my mattress, then started spritzing it with perfume. I spritzed from left to right, top to bottom, bottom to top, then flipped the dress over and did the same on the back. 

“There,” I said, pulling the dress back on. Simon leaned in, cautiously at first, and smelled me. 

“Mmmm,” he said. “That smells so good.” 

Weeks later, after I’d been expelled from Antifa and moved into my solo squat on Twenty-First Street, I kept incense burning throughout the day. I awoke each morning at six and sat outside the Lebanese deli on the corner by the park until they opened. I poured myself a large coffee from the self service station, then ordered two loose Newports from the guy at the counter and as many sticks of Wild Berry incense as I could afford. I paid for everything in nickels, dimes, and quarters. I couldn’t get enough of that incense. I burned it all day, often two sticks at once. Ocean Wind, Nirvana, Opium, Patchouli, and Jasmine were my favorites. The squat smelled marvelous, like a different realm. A fragrant oasis in a desert of poverty, abjection, and despair. When the cops finally came to kick me out, they raised their noses to the air, sniffing like prey animals smelling the wind for predators. 

“This is the best smelling squat I’ve ever smelled,” said one of the cops, frowning in confused awe. “You wouldn’t believe how most of these places smell.”

I beamed with pride. It was the most flattering compliment I’d ever received. 

“Trust me Officer,” I said. “I know.”  

One Minute Book Reviews: I'm Illiterate

The first few months of 2023 I was on Twitter a lot and my brain melted down into jelly and I became illiterate and hardly read any books at all. In March I decided to take a week off the internet and immediately read 5 novels and finished editing my book manuscript and did like 15 other tasks I had been procrastinating since last year. I think it is time to admit that I have to dramatically alter my social media habits if I’m ever going to make something of my life. Going forward I plan to move into a more “Joe Rogan”-esque social media practice: post and then get the hell out of there. We’ll see how that works out. In the meantime this is what I managed to get through in the last 3 months.

The Shards (Bret Easton Ellis, 2023) BEE is the man. Made me want to read everything he’s ever written. There were times when I was reading this in bed and I’d get so scared that I didn’t want to get up to use the bathroom. Summoned the feeling of being 12-13 and paralyzing myself with fear by reading Stephen King novels late into the night. The King influence is strong here. The scariest thing I’ve read by Ellis. The novel sees him reflecting on the process of creating fiction out of life, combining autofictional reminiscences about his time at the Buckley School in Los Angeles with a disturbing serial killer plot that rivals anything Stephen King has produced. I devoured this novel.  

Cold Moon Over Babylon (Michael McDowell, 1980) I first became aware of McDowell while researching the movie Clue for an ill-conceived paper on Chaucer during grad school (don’t ask). McDowell wrote the novelization of the movie script, and he also wrote the screenplays for Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice and The Nightmare Before Christmas. In my research, I learned that McDowell had an extensive collection of death memorabilia – 76 boxes worth – which is now housed at Northwestern University. Looking back I wish I’d gone up to Northwestern to see the collection when I lived in Chicago, especially now after reading this book, which I quite liked. It’s a grotesque, beautifully written Southern gothic horror novel, with genuinely disturbing imagery, memorably funny characters, and a richness of atmosphere and place that far surpasses that of most novels. Stephen King’s blurb from the '80s called McDowell “the finest writer of paperback originals in America,” and it’s easy to see why. Would definitely be excited to read more McDowell.  

Communion (Whitley Strieber, 1987) This is a classic of the UFO experience genre. Strieber was a bestselling novelist at the time of the experiences described in this book, and his gift for storytelling elevates the material to something truly bizarre, bewitching, and frightening. It’s impossible to come away from this believing he just made it all up. Either Strieber and his entire family are all completely insane, or the stuff described here really happened. The episodes Strieber describes do not conform to traditional storytelling structures, which somehow adds to their seeming verisimilitude. I was especially scared reading this because it all takes place in a cabin in the woods in upstate New York, relatively close to where I live, also in a cabin in the woods. Incidentally I’ve long believed that I’m overdue for a UFO experience, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if one happens relatively soon. The truth is out there. Trust. 

Gut and Physiology Syndrome (Natasha Campbell-McBride, 2020). Hippocrates said “All disease begins the gut,” and Campbell-McBride has clearly taken this dictum to heart. Her basic thesis is that small tears in the gut allow bacteria to infiltrate the bloodstream and organs, causing a wide array of physical and physiological symptoms. To treat leaky gut, she prescribes a diet composed largely of meat, meat stock, connective tissue, eggs, and fermented foods, with zero grains and limited plant foods. In 2013 I was given Prozac to treat anxiety and panic attacks, and anytime I took it on an empty stomach I felt a scorching, burning sensation in my gut – it was completely incapacitating, to this day the worst pain I have ever experienced. I strongly believe that my mental health problems in 2015-2017 were in large part caused by this “medication,” and I think my gut has still not healed properly, contributing to my current issues with chronic fatigue. Tao Lin recommended I try this, and I’ve been eating this way for approximately 3 months. I noticed almost as soon as I started the diet that my body temperature went back to normal, after being stuck at 97 degrees for the past 3 years almost, which I’m hoping is a positive development. P.S. – There is no evidence that mental illness is caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain, and psychiatric “medications” function – to the limited extent that they do – by either tranquilizing the entire nervous system or via the placebo effect. Many doctors and researchers have long known this to be true (see Joanna Moncrieff, for example), and it is increasingly becoming mainstream information (google “depression chemical imbalance”), yet the myth of biological psychiatry continues to be the dominant treatment model in the US and elsewhere. Why?

The Diary of a Young Girl (Anne Frank, 1947) I read this after hearing Zach Langley talk about it on his podcast. It is a genuinely moving, yearning, beautiful book, and a masterpiece of the diary genre. The thing that inspired me most about Anne’s diary was her relentless optimism, her belief in humanity’s ultimate good even when she was surrounded by death and confronted head on with the purest, most absolute evil. I think there’s a lesson here for people in present-day America, who have all their needs met, who have the most decadent existences in all of human history, and yet still find shit to complain about, pretending their neighbors are fascists and that the whole world is ending just because people have different opinions about things. If Anne Frank could maintain her optimism and joie de vivre while locked in an attic eating rotten potatoes for years watching Nazis march Jews through the streets below her window, then I’m sorry but you really have no excuse for all the gloom and doom and manufactured panic over nothing. Grow up!

Surfacing (Margaret Atwood, 1972) I read this for my book club, we were basically united in giving it 3 out of 5 stars. The prose is lyrical and poetic to the point of distraction, two hundred pages of semi-monotonous lilt. The narrator, too, is so icy and disaffected that it’s a struggle to relate to her in any meaningful way. The book felt longer than it is, it’s kind of a slog. But there are images of real power, the nature writing in particular is beautiful, and there’s a schizophrenic wildness that takes over in the third act that I found really wonderful, and really accurate to the experience of psychosis. Overall I’m happy I read it but I’m not champing at the bit to read more Atwood. 

The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand, 1943) A bold, epic novel about how social workers are Satanic and the root of all evil. So obviously a work of genius that having read it, and knowing its reputation among the literati, I feel almost in shock, I am questioning everything I’ve ever been told. Jack from The Perfume Nationalist is correct in his assessment that anyone who calls this “bad” writing is either lying or has an ideological ax to grind. Rand’s prose is sharp, undecorated, and clean, and the novel mixes noir, melodrama, and art deco maximalism in its incisive probe into themes of power and artistic genius. There were elements that reminded me of Charles Dickens, particularly in Rand’s satire of do-gooders and two-faced philanthropists. In fact the whole thing is very Victorian, particularly in its unfashionable commitment to the Manichean moral extremes of melodrama and pre-modernist romance, which, in my view, is a better and more exciting way to express truth than, say, kitchen-sink realism. Yes it is pedantic, yes it is didactic. No it is not subtle. Ellsworth Tooey is one of the great scheming sociopaths in all of literature. Read it and decide for yourself!

Ruthless Little Things (Elizabeth Victoria Aldrich, 2021) This was one of the first indie/small press books I read upon entering “the scene,” and it remains the best. Like I said on Matt Sini’s “Getting Lit” podcast, this is a book that burns a hole in you like a cigarette left lit after passing out. It is a scorching distillation of the creative spirit, a toxic love manifesto, a kaleidoscopic postmodern Sapphic romance, an LA doom generation epic in miniature, a tiny grunge miracle. Elizabeth’s voice is like Courtney Love by way of Gregg Araki by way of Sappho. This is a book I will keep coming back to forever as long as I live. It breaks my heart to think of what untold masterpieces Elizabeth might have produced had she remained with us, but we are so privileged to have this work. If you want to understand the fire that animates the creative spirit, buy this book and read it immediately. 

Cheat (Danielle Chelosky, 2022) The question that animates Cheat is one of life’s eternal mysteries: Why are fucked up guys so much easier to fall in love with than nice ones? Emily Brontë pondered this question almost two hundred years ago, and now Danielle Chelosky tackles it anew. Danielle writes about the pleasures and pains of teenage love with the emotional acuity and precision of someone twice her age. The book is told in a series of fragments which detail the dissolution of the author’s relationship following an episode of infidelity. Drinking, smoking, crying, going out to eat, going to shows, hooking up, texting, making out, fighting, breaking up, making up: the raw materials are familiar, but Danielle assembles them in a way that feels fresh, urgent, intimate, and unique. The book’s great strength is its emotional honesty; it vibrates and hums with the poetic realness of teenage melodrama. I’m very excited to read more from Danielle. PS – I also love this book as a physical object, it has that B&W punk minimalist spirit of early zines. Fun to look at and hold in your hands.

Play the Devil (Scott Laudati, 2016) A funny, ebullient novel of suspended adolescence, in the spirit of classic 90s comedies like Dirty Work and Billy Madison. Scott is a wonderful, warmhearted writer, he exalts the magic and romance of life while sharply observing its contradictions and frustrations. The novel takes place almost entirely over the course of a single day, following two pool boys as they struggle to vanquish eleven of the filthiest, gnarliest pools in all of New Jersey. Sort of like a Jersey Shore riff on The Odyssey, but instead of cyclops and sirens there’s Russian mobsters, male strippers, and Nazi war criminals – and they all need their pools cleaned. The book captures, with heart and aplomb to spare, the squishy, slapstick comedy of life, love, and low wage work.

The Queen’s American Rangers (Donald J. Gara, 2015) I got this on loan -- against my will -- from the lady I get eggs from, who happens to be a Revolutionary War reenactor, and a Loyalist at that. To think! I made it to the Battle of Brandywine but even that was an effort. I would recommend this book to people who have trouble sleeping. Keep it by your bed, it’s like a double strength Nyquil with no hangover. (NB: I didn’t include this in my photo of all the books because it’s in a bag with a bunch of empty egg cartons and Mason jars in my car)

Avatar 2

My mother and I drove to Albany to see Avatar 2 in the IMAX. Forrest and Jacky were supposed to drive down from Vermont to meet us but they had chest colds. It would have been nice to see them, but nothing beats an afternoon with mom. The weather was gorgeous, perfect for a drive. It was warm out, above fifty. The sun was shining. White puffy clouds dotted the blue sky. There’s something about the light on a sunny day in winter. All the snow from December’s storms had melted, and that rich, red-golden light was everywhere, shining through the clouds, brightening the trees. The yellowing grass and weeds growing in the highway median looked like fields of golden wheat. Road crews had filled most of the crummy, potholed sections of the interstate over the summer. Long stretches of the highway had that delicious, smooth, just-paved feel. It seemed like everything was conspiring to make us happy. 

We arrived at the mall early and walked around Macy’s for a while. Mom wanted to buy a slow cooker but we couldn’t find one. We went from display to display in the cookware section, examining various hi-tech implements. Everything seemed to be an air fryer. The toaster ovens were air fryers, the crock pots were air fryers. (Mom: “What is an air fryer?” Me: “It’s like a thing that fries stuff with air.” Mom: “Huh.”) They had some cast iron casserole pans that didn’t seem to be air fryers. Mom found an extra large one and proceeded to tear open the box, removing the packaging and pushing aside the other pans on the display. “I want a pan that I can cook a whole chicken in,” she said. “Is this big enough to cook a whole chicken?” 

“I think so,” I said, looking around to make sure no one was going to yell at us. The only employee around was a tall, muscular Hispanic kid with his hair up in a frizzy ponytail. He didn’t seem to care that we were messing up the display, or even notice us at all really. He kept walking up and down the main aisles of the store, strutting with exaggerated swagger. The way he walked was silly but also transfixing somehow. I didn’t want to look away. He must drive women crazy with that walk, I thought. I wondered if he’d always walked that way, or if he just decided to do it one day. Was it a difficult skill to learn, or did it come naturally? Did he have to practice in front of a mirror? I imagined myself walking with swag like that. I wondered if it would help my image, or make me more attractive to men. 

“Can you imagine if I bought another pot?” mom was saying. “It would make your father crazy.” Her eyes lit up mischievously as she considered it. “Maybe I should buy it.” 

“Maybe you should think about it before you commit,” I said. “It’s a really big pot.” 

“I guess,” she said.

It was time for the movie. The middle-aged woman checking tickets clucked with excitement when she saw what we were seeing. “Oh, you’re seeing the IMAX,” she said. “It’s really quite the experience.” 

Mom wanted the pink 3D glasses, but those were for kids, the woman said, and might not fit over mom’s glasses. She tried on both pairs before settling for the gray adult ones. I felt a rush of excitement as we rounded the corner and entered the theater. I love the IMAX theater! Oh, how I love it. I just like being in there, it’s so nice. The screen is so big, and it smells good, like a new car. The seats don’t recline, which I also like. Theaters with the reclining seats make me feel like I’m in a big bed with a bunch of strangers. I don’t know, it’s just gross. The stadium seats in the IMAX are perfect. They always seem to have been just freshly upholstered. Everything is clean. I swear there’s a different energy to the crowd at an IMAX screening too. All the other patrons always seem excited to be there. You feel like you’re in some special club. The movie appreciators’ club. Real ones only, you feel me? Swag.

Mom and I climbed the steep stadium stairs, holding onto the bannister for dear life. I reserved seats towards the back, which I think is the most fun, because it’s way up high, plus you can actually see the entire screen. 

We took our seats, and a few minutes later the trailers began. I started crying almost immediately, first at the Guardians of the Galaxy trailer. I haven’t seen any of the other Guardians of the Galaxys, but I think the trailer they showed was for the third or fourth sequel. I couldn’t really tell what was happening in the trailer, but there was a little anthropomorphic raccoon and some sort of ferret guy, and they reminded me of my cats, and that’s why I cried. I honestly think I’ve cried at almost every movie I’ve ever seen. Or if not cried outright, at least had a “cry ball” well up behind my eyes. I love going to the movies because of this. It just lets me be emotional. Next they showed the trailer for Creed III, which I also cried at. Seems like a very manly yet intensely emotional kind of movie. Then they showed a sneak peek of the new Mission Impossible: Tom Cruise speeding a motorcycle up a giant ramp and over the edge of a cliff, then opening a parachute and skydiving back down into a canyon. In the preview, they showed the film crew shooting Tom. The director and the crew looked nervous as he performed the stunt, but Tom pulled it off perfectly every time. I felt my heart swell with pride for Tom Cruise. I felt proud of him for all the crazy stunts he can do. Proud to be the same species as him. Proud that he represents us. Tom Cruise is amazing.

“I want to see that in IMAX,” I said. 

“Let’s do it,” said my mother.

Avatar! We both loved it. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before, even including the original Avatar, which I remember not liking, but I was so much more cynical back then. I fancied myself quite the critic. I loved to hate movies. I’m the exact opposite now, isn’t that funny? I used to think it made me interesting if I disliked a thing. Now, if I could, I would love every movie. Every movie deserves to be loved. Every movie is a miracle. I mean, how do they do any of that? Avatar 2? It’s a miracle among miracles. It’s a marvel. I can’t even begin to fathom how this movie was created. It just seems like magic. In fact, it would almost be easier to believe that this movie was created using magic as opposed to man-made technology. That’s how incredible it is. You feel like you're watching something historic, and you are. It advances the cinematic medium. 

I often have problems with movies that use CG for the visual effects. I never understood why we didn’t just stick with animatronic puppets and practical effects. They almost always look better, in my opinion. Jurassic Park, shot in 1992, looks infinitely better than movies filmed this past decade. The animatronic dinosaurs just look real. They have weight to them, they have personality, they have the correct texture, they seem like living things. Avatar 2 is the first movie I’ve seen where the CG actually looks real. Where the animated creatures actually seem to have life breathed into them. The whales and the dragonfly fish monsters and the flying angry dinosaur things in this movie look like they are real. They look as good as the animatronics in Jurassic Park. Every detail in every scene is perfect. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I looked upon the rainforests, the floating islands, the underwater reefs teeming with colorful, shimmering fish creatures. This is a world that seems completely alien, yet also somehow deeply relatable. The characters are archetypes, they speak in clichés, but there is power to their words and actions, the same way there is power to mythology. We are trained, in the modern era, to wield a cynical “readerly disposition,” where we evaluate art based on how well it humors our finely-tuned political and ethical sensibilities. If you’re the type to intellectualize your aesthetic responses, this is probably not the movie for you. It will not stand up to rigorous sociopolitical analysis. This movie only works if you set aside your readerly brain, and experience it as cinema was meant to experienced: like an unfolding dream.

There is a plot to this movie, and there are characters. Best not pay too close attention to those. There is something where characters who died in the previous film are cloned and placed into the bodies of fresh Avatars. I don’t know how any of this works. But I like when movies do things like that. Movies should not follow the logic of real life. Anything should be possible in the movies. I was reminded of Paul W. S. Anderson’s hypnotic Resident Evil films, where Milla Jovovich’s Alice dies and is resurrected again and again over the course of the series. There’s never any logic to it, at least not any that makes sense. None of it matters. Just make it beautiful. Mesmerize me. I just want to be enchanted. I’ve noticed a lot of criticism directed at the plot, the narrative structure, the rhythm of the film, and, worst of all, its “politics.” Meh. You shouldn’t go to Avatar expecting Scorsese. I actually liked the parts of the film where nothing much happened. I could have sat there for six hours, just taking it all in. 

My mother wiped tears from her eyes as the credits rolled. We hardly had words. 

“It was spectacular,” I said.

“It was a marvel,” said mom. 

When I got home, I kept thinking about how nice it is to get out of the house with the people you live with. I often feel like there’s two versions of me: the shuffling, grunting, low-energy “home Unity,” and the fun, exuberant, “out-and-about Unity.” How rare it is for my family to see that latter version! When you go out together, you get to see the best versions of each other. What a gift it is, to be able to drive out to Albany and see Avatar 2 with one’s mother. And for the record, I should have let her buy the cast iron. We could use a big pan like that.

One Minute Book Reviews: Yule Edition

Happy Yule, everyone! I read all nine of these books today. I can very easily read seven or eight or even nine books in one day. I wrote all the reviews before I read the books, too. I already knew what the books were about and whether I liked them or not before I read them. I had pithy, funny things to say about each book already prepared by the time I started reading. I can read a book just by touching it. I can move books around on the shelf with my mind. I moved the books around on my shelf with my mind then snapped the above photo using the magic cameras in my eyes. Then I uploaded the photo, along with the reviews, to my blog, which is what you're reading right now (and for that I humbly thank you).

SELECTED UNPUBLISHED BLOG POSTS OF A MEXICAN PANDA EXPRESS EMPLOYEE (Megan Boyle, 2011) Want to hear something crazy? So I gave my copy of this book to my friend Hootie for Christmas. Right before I wrapped it, I opened the book and pointed at a random passage, which was about feeding Cheez-Its to a cat. Then I brought the book to the coffee shop where Hootie works and guess what? Hootie was wearing a Cheez-Its sweatshirt! Then I showed her the part of the book about the Cheez-Its and she said she feeds her cat Cheez-Its too!!!!!!! Crazy synchronicity, right? This is less a book and more a way of life. Immediately once you start reading, you notice a change in how you’re thinking, writing, tweeting, eating, interacting with people, imagining stuff, looking at your cats. Anyone could have thoughts like these, but no one else could have these exact thoughts, which makes the book feel both universal and thrillingly, perfectly singular. It feels like there’s a little Megan Boyle shaped narrator in my brain now. Hurray!

LEAVE SOCIETY (Tao Lin, 2022) This is the first Tao Lin book I’ve read, based on Josh Sherman’s recommendation. The only other (literary) thing I’ve read by Tao is “A Poem Written by a Bear,” which my friend Michael gave me when he enrolled in my boarding school, aged 23, and groomed me and all my friends. I don’t know why they let Michael into the school, it was fine though. None of us cared. He acted the same age as us, or honestly even younger. Plus I was on so much acid back then, I didn’t really know what was happening around me on any meaningful level anyway. And I always loved the Tao Lin poem, it really stuck with me. I loved Leave Society, too. I think it works on multiple levels: as an obsessive chronicle of the affects and peculiarities of ordinary life; as a sort of anti-odyssey, where in a series of episodes a blasé hero encounters not monsters or witches but dentists, doctors, and energy healers; and as the diary of a dreamer, a flawed yet earnest and warm-hearted seeker, searching for meaning in a world increasingly troubled by mediation, distraction, and toxic chemicals. I also came away from the book with an improved understanding of the term “autofiction,” which here seems less to mean “fiction about one’s self” or “autobiographical fiction” and more “writing that acknowledges, enjoys, and engages with the idea that one’s life is an ever-unfolding work of art.” 

THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE (Shirley Jackson, 1959) I think a case could be made for this being the most influential novel of the 20th century, especially if you take into account film and not just literature. Every haunted house movie, every ghost story, every James Wan’s The Conjuring, every The Shining, every Netflix horror miniseries owes a debt to this book. And I bet some of them don’t even realize they’re referencing its images and ideas. It’s all bled into the culture so much. But like omg. This book is so, so good. It’s so elegant and sharply written, so psychologically acute, so FUNNY, and, when it gets there, so absolutely terrifying. I read it with my book club and it seemed like everyone loved it, even those who don’t usually go for spooky stuff. And even seasoned horror fans find it frightening. I don’t know what else to say. I love this book so much. 

THE SHINING (Stephen King, 1977) WOW, this book has a lot of N bombs! The Overlook Hotel lobs psychic N’s at Dick Hallorann so hard, he almost falls off his snowmobile and over a cliff. I kept wondering if King could still get away with all these N’s in today’s society. Or if he would even still attempt it. I mean, I guess he’s pretty untouchable at this point. What can I say about a book like The Shining? It’s perfect. Even the annoying/stupid parts (ie the evil hedge animals) are perfect. I’m sure this has been said a lot, but the thing I loved about it the most is how it’s like…600 some pages, and Jack doesn’t even really fully lose his mind until 450-500 pages in. It’s just all slowly building tension and suspense. And the writing is so stripped-down, unpretentious, there are no mannerisms, almost no affect. It’s just bloody brilliant. 

ANYBODY HOME? (Michael J. Seidlinger, 2022) Certain stylistic choices kept me from loving this one. The writing is engaging and clever, with a great flow. I blew through it in a couple of nights. But I found little to differentiate the characters, particularly the five home invaders, and I struggled to care about any of the victims. I think the author wanted readers to view events unfolding from a clinical distance, through a dispassionate, chilly, impersonal lens, and he definitely achieved that. Whether that’s to your liking, I leave it up to you to decide. (FWIW, I would see a movie based on this book, and I actually think the material would be better suited to the screen than the page). 

FINALLY, SOME GOOD NEWS (Delicious Tacos, 2022) Is it possible to find happiness in a world where your decisions have already been made by others? Where corporations dictate your every move, from the clothes you wear, to the food you eat, to the car you drive, to the places you go on vacation? Where you're essentially owned by the company you work for, and the banks who sold you loans? Where you're a slave to the desires of your body and the sinister machinations of late stage capitalism? Me, I wouldn't know, because I left society after reading Tao Lin's book, and I now live in a hut I built out of mud and sticks in the Alaskan wilderness. But if you do want to know the answers, I would ask Delicious Tacos. He seems like he thinks about these things a lot. Hell of a writer, too.

THE CROWLEY TAROT: THE HANDBOOK TO THE CARDS (Akron & Hajo Banzhaf, 1995). I got this because I don’t understand the book Crowley himself wrote regarding the Thoth deck. I don’t even know where my copy of the Crowley book is now, I may have sold it. The guy at the shop where I bought this was having a mental breakdown of some sort. He was talking very fast, burning too much sage, and weeping, and he followed me out to my car trying to tell me stuff about the universe after I checked out. I hope he's okay, I'm worried about him. The book is good so far, it’s much more clear and easy to understand than the stuff Crowley wrote. But honestly I’ve only read like 7 pages so far and I’m just including it here to make it seem like I read more books in the past couple months than I actually did. 

DONALD GOINES (Calvin Westra, 2022) Propulsive, repugnant, shocking, nasty, wholesome, hallucinatory, filled with masturbation and puppets, richly imagined, minimalist prose but maximalist plot/imagery, tripped out, referential & allusive yet totally unique, and also just a beautifully designed, joyful object that makes you happy when you hold it in your hands. I loved Calvin’s previous book Family Annihilator and I love this one too. 

EVERYTHING IS TOTALLY FINE (Zac Smith, 2022) I still haven’t finished this. I’m reading it right now. I mean like, right now right now, not right now in general. I’m sitting here reading it as I type this. I’m typing with both hands and holding the book under my chin and reading it upside down, and I’m also masturbating at the same time by rubbing my computer against my erect penis. I’m also drinking an Arnold Palmer through a straw, and juggling several bowling pins using my feet, and I’m naked. I’m catching the bowling pins between my toes, which are grossly enlarged and have wide boiling pin shaped indentations between them. The pins are making a sound like thwut thwut thwut as they land in the spaces between my toes, and the laptop is making a sound like dkl dkl dkl as it rubs against my penis. Now I am sticking out my tongue and waggling it at you as I do all of this. Now I am in jail because you called the cops on me for doing all of those previous things. Now I am getting called out on a blog post for style stealing (the gravest of all literary crimes) because I stole Zac Smith’s style when I wrote this review of Zac Smith’s book Everything Is Totally Fine by Zac Smith by Eveything is Totally Fine Zac Smith by Zac smith and published it on my Zac Smith blog is everything is Tottally Zacc Smith blog is totally Zac smithh is everything blog is totally fine is everything is totally fine by Zac Smith.

One Minute Movie Reviews (II)

 

I watched all these movies over the past month or so, some in theaters, and some at home on my laptop. I go to see most any horror that comes out, even though most are kind of bad these days. I’ve seen articles saying this has been a “banner year” for horror, which is true I guess, if you go by Rotten Tomatoes. Personally I would welcome something that shook up the formula a bit, something that went beyond the ComicCon style of “hehehehe spoooooky!” horror that’s in vogue these days. I blame Sam Raimi for that, by the way. And look, I love The Evil Dead. It’s a great film, and so is the sequel. But it’s still his fault, okay? Also, the whole Marvel thing is his fault, too. It all started with that gay ass Spider-Man bullshit. Everything is Sam Raimi’s fault basically. But it’s not all bad. You can still find a lot of cool shit to watch online, if you know where to look. For horror and cult stuff, I recommend Arrow, which my friend Bradley turned me onto. They’ve got lots of weird, obscure shit you can’t get anywhere else. Shoutout Bradley. 

SMILE (Parker Finn, 2022) Out of all the recent milquetoast horrors to come out in theaters, this one was probably my favorite, which is funny, because it’s also probably the least formally daring. Compared to Pearl or Barbarian, Smile doesn’t take many risks, but there’s a certain inventiveness in the way it builds tension, and I actually found it scarier than I was expecting to. There are off-kilter stylistic choices that create an unnerving, intense atmosphere of dread, like how Finn shoots his creepy actors looking straight at the camera, or the nausea-inducing upside-down establishing shots of trees and city buildings, or the gray-blue pallor of the interior shots. The style and plot borrow heavily from the American remake of The Ring, adeptly mining audience nostalgia while providing just enough original imagery to keep you entertained.

HALLOWEEN ENDS (David Gordon Green, 2022) I didn’t like the first two Halloweens in the new trilogy, but I did like this one, which is funny because it leans into certain aspects I disliked about 1 and 2, sometimes even harder than those ones did. Maybe it’s that here the filmmakers felt more committed to the weirdness. Ends begins with a nasty little prelude that far surpasses anything in the first two films, and then proceeds to go off the rails, oscillating wildly in tone and bouncing awkwardly between discordant plot threads. I loved that it felt like a schlocky, silly, ‘80s style slasher, instead of adopting the dreadfully somber tone that afflicts all the slasher reboots starting in the early oughts. There was something so much more disturbing about cartoonish, tonally discordant, makeup-heavy freakouts like Nightmare on Elm Street 3, compared to the like, Ridley Scott/Jerry Bruckheimer-i-fied hyper-realist/action-y reboot aesthetic that began in 2003 with Marcus Nispel's Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I thought the filmmakers tapped into that anarchic ‘80s spirit quite well. Character deaths were disturbing and visceral. Jamie Lee Curtis got to have her “moment.” Overall, not bad.

PEARL (Ti West, 2022) Was anyone really clamoring for an origin story about the murderous crone from X (Ti West, 2022)? I read somewhere that West and Mia Goth wrote the script for this in two weeks, and when I read that, I was like yeah, that makes sense. I wonder if they did a lot of coke when they were writing it. I don’t know if this was a good movie or not. I didn’t get why the mom was German. A lot of the details didn’t make sense. Plus I just wanted it to be way more unhinged. The scarecrow sex scene was pretty unhinged, but then it kind of got more and more “hinged” from that point on. The Technicolor Wizard of Oz aesthetic was nice to look at. Mia Goth has an awesome, crazy, giant face, which is incredibly nice to look at. She really carries the whole movie. Without her, it would have been an absolute bust. The dance audition sequence was wonderful. I just wanted them to push everything way, way further. Everything should have been 10x more over the top. 

BARBARIAN (Zach Cregger, 2022) Honestly? It’s giving improv comedy. I got serious “Yes, and…” vibes from this one. I liked the first half, which was clean, tight, and suspenseful. The two lead actors were well-matched and perfectly cast. The Detroit setting was effectively creepy. I hated the plot twist. I hated how the movie abandons its protagonist halfway through and starts over with a new main character. It just felt like the writers ran out of ideas and started adding a bunch of random shit without any regard to what came before. You could tell they thought they were making something outrageous and unhinged, but in the end it was way less than the sum of its references. I felt deeply irritated any time Justin Long was onscreen. The “MeToo” plot felt already dated, and also just annoying and pointless. 

THIS IS THE END (Seth Rogen, 2013) I watched this on Netflix because I think Jay Baruchel is cute. Baruchel was okay in the movie, which had one or two chuckles but no belly laughs. The special effects at the end were entertaining. Seth Rogan tries so hard to be affable and likable, all his characters are these lovable doofuses. I wish he would do a movie where you see him as a raging, sociopathic, narcissistic, evil, shithead. Maybe like, as a murderous acid casualty or something. I doubt he would do it, though. He seems very self-aware and conscious about his image. Oh well. 

UNFAITHFUL (Adrian Lyne, 2001) A filthy sex movie for perverts. I loved it! I want to write a 7,000 word essay analyzing this movie according to the different sweaters the characters wear. If you’ve ever dreamed of having raunchy, filthy sex with Diane Lane inside of a Williams Sonoma catalog, this is the flick for you. 

FALL (Scott Mann, 2022) This is a B movie about two hot rock climber chicks who get stuck on top of an abandoned 2000-foot radio tower in the middle of the desert. If you hear that description and think you might enjoy it, you almost definitely will. I think the filmmakers made the absolute best possible version of their concept. My palms were sweating to an uncomfortable degree. The scene with the turkey vulture was terrific. Probably wouldn’t play as well on a small screen. Jeffrey Dean Morgan was criminally underutilized. They should have cast a no-name in his part, or deleted that character entirely.

JACOB’S LADDER (Adrian Lyne, 1990) A bleak and disturbing film which posits life on Earth as a kind of purgatory between life and afterlife. I love the way the film resists traditional narrative structure, and operates instead according to the surreal, associative logic of dreams. There is something of Kafka in its labyrinthine, Chinese finger-trap, nightmare-you-can’t-wake-from structure. The film is especially lauded for its horrifying imagery, which famously inspired the design of the Silent Hill video games, and it’s easy to see why. The hospital sequence in particular will haunt your dreams. Great performances from Tim Robbins and Danny Aiello. 

DELIVERANCE (John Boorman, 1972) Whooooo-eee! Wow. I thought I knew what was coming, but I was totally unprepared. A truly shocking movie, which combines extraordinary artistry with brutal exploitation. It kind of reminded me of Tobe Hooper’s Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It has the same kind of visceral, down-n-dirty, twisted redneck energy. The scene where Jon Voight reaches the summit of the cliff and looks down over the rapids is breathtaking. The “squeal like a pig” sequence is certainly among the greatest ass rape scenes in American cinema, if not the outright best. Highly recommend this one.

TERRIFIER (Damien Leone, 2016) Felt like I needed a shower after watching this. It is grubby and disgusting, and utterly pointless except as a means to depict the nastiest, grisliest violence you could possibly imagine. There were times I had to look away from my computer screen, it’s that gross. No plot, no character development, just brutality. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone really. HOWEVER. In my opinion, there is an undeniable power and grit to this film. There are layers on layers of grimy texture in the production design. The acting is much better than it has any right to be. And the character of Art the Clown…I mean. Damien Leone, the writer-director, clearly has a direct psychic link to some sort of malevolent demonic entity. Which is kind of what horror is all about, no? At its root? Showing us our demons? If you like snuff-adjacent, radical, pornographic horror…well, I still can’t in good conscience recommend this movie. But, you know. If that’s what you’re looking for, I can’t stop you. Consider yourself warned. 

TOP GUN: MAVERICK (Joseph Kosinski, 2022) This is the greatest motion picture ever made. And if you disagree, you’re clearly a puppet of Vladimir PUTIN!!!!

One Minute Book Reviews

Happy autumn, bookworms! And what could be better, on a crisp fall day, than donning your comfiest sweater and curling up with a book? 

I’m excited to get back into writing about books! After my dishonorable discharge from PhD school in 2016, I installed a block in my brain around criticism, writing about books, and having thoughts about stuff more generally. I put myself through hell in grad school, trying to be smart enough and live up to my own unrealistic expectations. My experience there quite literally drove me insane. So, you can see why there’d be a block. I’m hoping that with this blog, I’ll be able to ease back into criticism in a gentle way, and hopefully not cause another mental breakdown. Or if I do have another mental breakdown, at least now I’ll be able to blog about it. And THAT’S using lemons to make lemonade! ;)

These are all the books I read in the past ~2 months or so, in no particular order. 

THE BACCHAE (Euripedes, 407 BC) By golly, this play has everything! Hordes of frothing, hallucinating women…cattle stripped of their flesh…fountains of milk and wine spurting from the soil…living mountains…emasculated kings…brutal dismemberments…shapeshifting gods…cannibalism…cross-dressing…everything! This is one of my favorite works of literature. I read it for the first time in college, and I’ve enjoyed revisiting it every couple of years since then. It is a bloody, brutal phantasmagoria that depicts what happens when man refuses to acknowledge the godliness of the gods. The moral of the play can be summed up with this quotation, spoken by Cadmus following the tragedy’s climax: “If there is anyone who holds deities in contempt, let him consider this man’s [Pentheus’] death and believe in the gods.” 

THE PUSSY DETECTIVE (DuVay Knox, 2022) I was sold on this book as soon as I heard the premise. A detective who specializes in lost and missing pussy? Genius. I was expecting the book to follow a more traditional mystery-noir-detective plot trajectory, but that’s not really what it’s about. The pussy detective is less a “detective” as such, and more of a sexual-psychospiritual healer. The mysteries he solves are inner mysteries – mysteries of the human psyche, and spirit – and pussy. This is a bawdy, funny novel about spiritual regrooving. The thing that really makes it pop is the style. DuVay Knox is a born wordsmith, and you can practically taste the delight he takes in the possibilities of language – taking it apart, putting it back together in new ways: what his narrator calls “being Ebonically incorrect.” The ending leaves plenty of room for a sequel, or even a series, which I would definitely be excited to read should it come to fruition. 

DETRANSITION, BABY (Torrey Peters, 2021) A beautiful piece of literary fiction, a sort of dramedy of manners, hyper attuned to the emotional-energetic matrix of transfeminine experience. For Torrey Peters’ characters, even in detransition there is no escape from the monologue, the internal/infernal perpetual armchair gender theorist. Torrey writes these characters so well that it almost hurts to read. I wanted to give the characters a Xanax. I wanted to give them a hug. I wanted them to calm down, they need to discover meditation or something. It feels like a weird way to praise Torrey’s writing, but I think it’s a testament to the book’s success that you kind of get sick of these people. Or at least I did, which maybe says more about me than it does about the book. 

DARRYL (Jackie Ess, 2021) A hilarious, searching novel about the struggle of types to become individuals. One of the most genius uses of “character” as a literary device I’ve ever seen. The book is structured as a series of comic monologues; it could be performed as a one-man play and I bet it would be a big hit. Generically it begins as a sex farce, then darkens and deepens into a transgressive psychosexual thriller (or maybe it’s a dark psychosexual thriller from the beginning, but the narrator is too naive to realize that’s what’s happening?) I read it twice, first on my own and second with my book club. Some of the people in my book club didn’t like Darryl as a character – they felt he was unlikable, or even that he was too much of a cuck and that that made him irritating. I definitely liked the book more the first time. The second time I did get a little sick of the character. But the comedy is so sparkling, and the voice is so perfect and precise. It carried me through. Jackie Ess is the smartest kind of writer – the kind who doesn’t ever feel the need to prove her intelligence. Adopting Darryl’s voice allows her to poke and prod at the excesses of contemporary subcultural grouping mechanisms without moralizing or seeming disingenuous or rude.

LAZY EYES (James Nulick, 2022) James Nulick is frighteningly brilliant. His sentences are silky, seductive, mysterious, prismatic, like glittering jewels. He inhabits his characters like a shadowy puppeteer. James has told me he’s not a believer but I almost don’t believe him. Or maybe I do, maybe he’s not a believer, but his writing is – kind of like how Courtney Love says she’s not psychic but her lyrics are. My favorite stories in the collection were the ones involving animals – “Claws,” where the narrator is a cat yearning to be reincarnated as a human, and “The Black Doberman,” which anatomizes the erotic tension between a couple and their dog. Dark, disturbing, haunted, and haunting stuff. 

NARROW ROOMS (James Purdy, 1978) This book is wild! It’s like…mythological gay retard gothic sex melodrama set in the Appalachian mountains. It is gory and horrifying. It also has some really weird sex scenes. I like a book that depicts the abject horror of being a gay man. I wonder if that’s why Purdy hasn’t been canonized, even in the world of gay literature: his work is too bleak and distressing to fit into popular historical narratives of diversity, assimilation, rising above struggle, etc. It’s not a pleasant vision of homosexuality, or life, or love, or fate. But I think it’s a very deep one, and true. 

IN A SHALLOW GRAVE (James Purdy, 1975) One of the strangest and most moving love stories I’ve ever read. There is a comic element here that’s missing from Narrow Rooms, I think in part due to its first-person narrator. The narrator of this book was disfigured in Vietnam, and all his bones and arteries and veins are on the outside of his body. He sits in his old farmhouse writing letters to the woman he thought he would marry, who is terrified of him now on account of his inside-out appearance. I don't want to spoil what happens, it's too perfect, so if anything about that description sounds interesting to you, just read it. I think it rivals Wuthering Heights, in terms of wild, Gothic, weird, funny, slightly supernatural love stories. 

MARIGOLD (Troy James Weaver, 2016) This is such a beautiful book on every level, from the style to the pacing to the voice to the interior design to the cover. It’s a work of art that fits in your pocket. Other authors & presses should take notes. Troy’s voice is so precisely his, when you read it you go: Only one person in the entire history of the universe could have written this. And that’s especially impressive given the book's brevity and economy of means. There is so much feeling in this book, contained in so few words. It is intense and poetic and bleakly comic. It cuts clean through to the bone. 

HOW TO HEAL YOURSELF WHEN NO ONE ELSE CAN (Amy B. Scher, 2020) I didn’t read this straight through, just skimmed parts and skipped around to get to the exercises. The basic thesis of the book is that many physical illnesses are caused by thought patterns buried deep within the subconscious mind. Negative experiences from your past, or even experiences from past lives, “install” harmful thoughts and beliefs that manifest in various physical and psychic symptoms. The book includes exercises to help readers hack into the subconscious mind and reprogram these harmful thoughts and beliefs, as a means of energetic self-healing. I found the argument of the book compelling, but so far haven’t noticed any improvements in my health after doing the exercises. The idea that my subconscious mind is making me sick in order to protect me resonates on  a very deep level. I’m going to continue with the exercises, and will write another review if I see any improvement in my symptoms. 

THE RICHEST MAN IN BABYLON (George S. Clason, 1926) My uncle recommended I read this to learn more about personal finance. I read the first few chapters. It’s kind of boring but it has good advice if you’re interested in developing a healthier relationship with money. My favorite piece of advice in the book is to remember that a portion of all the money you earn is yours to keep. I never really thought about it that way before.

THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY (OSCAR WILDE, 1891) RIP Oscar Wilde – you would have loved TWITTER. I didn’t actually finish this, and I wasn’t paying very close attention to the 40 or so pages that I did read. I just couldn’t get on the right wavelength, I guess. I did however enjoy the aphorisms that form the book’s famous “Preface," including this one: "All art is quite useless."