Glorious

It was right around when the Vatican sent out an official decree declaring it a cardinal sin to eat crayons that Nu found himself trapped in a position that he had never wanted.

Nu had always considered himself an artist of integrity, someone for whom gimmickry and flash and the cult of personality held no appeal. But fresh out of The Art School with a masters in bullshit, Nu had found that his losing a little bit of that integrity was maybe worth not washing dishes for the rest of his life. So Nu started eating crayons. A lot of them. Nothing but crayons for 3 straight weeks. He got a fellowship and was put on display at the largest gallery in that part of America that artists usually don't talk about. The effect on his body was amazing. His skin became waxy, his muscles became slack, and his hair started to fall out in clumps. Constipated, his stomach grew hugely distended. Doctors crowded around him and shouted that he was killing himself. The crowd just thought they were part of the exhibit. Eventually the doctors were replaced with actors dressed in white coats who did the same job for less money. Nu was just happy that he didn't have to bus tables. He just kept on shoving those crayons down his throat.

6 weeks after he started, Nu was bloated, blind, and hairless. His limbs snapped like twigs at the slightest whisper of a breeze. His stomach was enormous. His face was covered in a rainbow paste almost an inch at the thickest. Interns were shipped in on boxcars to feed the crayons into Nu's slack waxy orifice.

And then he made a sound, a horrible, 'horking' sound like a beached narwhal, and the interns stopped. It was time. Nu was flipped gently on his stomach using wooden pizza peels, and then the interns were instructed to gently squeeze him, to slowly apply more pressure as they went. 6 interns, three on each side, pressed against Nu's massiveness with the full force of their bodies, and what happened next may never be known, for all who saw it have been sworn to secrecy, but what we know for sure is that what came out of Nu's body was the most beautiful piece of artwork that had ever been passed through the noble organ called the small intestine.

The wax sculpture that Nu produced was named the most glorious artistic achievement in all of human history. Nu didn't see it, himself. Well, he was blind. But when he got better, after being fed a solid diet of cheeseburgers and cabbage, he still didn't see it. To him, it looked like a giant technicolor shit. But Nu didn't fuck with success. He was the richest man in the world, and he owed it all to completely abandoning his integrity and getting it on with a crazy stupid gimmick.

But the longstanding institution known as the Catholic Church did not like this one bit. The Anglicans didn't like it much either, but nobody really noticed. All this attention paid to human excrement was not healthy for the human soul, they argued. Nu privately agreed. But he couldn't publicly denounce his work. They'd lynch him, or worse, take all his money away. So when the Vatican declared that eating thousands of crayons for the purpose of shitting out art was a cardinal sin, Nu was conflicted. On one hand, he had had no intention of doing another stunt like the crayon thing again. On the other hand, he wasn't even Catholic, so it didn't really matter anyway. But now the longstanding institution known as the Art World was demanding a response. Surely the only proper response of an artist facing censorship was to shout their message louder, so everyone could hear.

Nu didn't know what his message was supposed to be. He felt awkward asking people. It seemed like it was so obvious to them.

Soon came the day known to all as Crayola 2, and the whole world was excited. School was canceled so that children could stay home with their parents and watch the news coverage of the big event. Tickets for the 100,000-seat stadium where Nu would be performing were being sold by scalpers for a half mill each. The doctors were rehired at more money then they could've ever made at their medical practices. Nu, meanwhile, didn't know what he was going to do. Everybody was expecting something big. He didn't know if he could give it to them. He really didn't want to birth another wax sculpture. He still had problems sitting down from the first time.

The art world wanted a rebel. They wanted their hero. Nu decided to listen to his heart and give them what they were asking for.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" He spoke over the loudspeakers. The whole world listened. "Today I will spit in the face of convention!"

The crowd erupted for the appropriate three minutes. When the crowd quieted, Nu spoke once more. "I will undermine your expectations! I will rebel against the establishment! I will be, first and foremost, AN ARTIST!"

The crowd exploded. Literally. Like pockets of the stadium were so overcome by glee that their bodies combusted in unison.

"I will do this," said Nu, "by NOT eating so many crayons that I might die!"

The crowd became instantly silent. And then it exploded. Not literally this time, they exploded in rage. Nu's core audience crawled over the division walls and onto the field. They swarmed on Nu as he tried to get away on his helicopter, and dragged him to the ground where they started shoving crayons in him. It seemed that he would produce another masterpiece, whether he liked it or not.

Meanwhile the pope ate a Chicken Caesar Sandwich. "Thank you, LORD, for this excellent sandwich," he said. Then GOD spake and said unto him, "IT'S COOL."

Bank Robbers

Happy Halloween Everybody!
*****

This is the story of Wilma South Dakota, wife of Tim "North" South Dakota, the infamous Bank Robber. Wilma was a quiet woman, the kind of lady who counts on being constantly underestimated. That's how she became owner of the hippest nightclub in Mexico, that's how she became betrothed to the wealthiest bank robber in all of Texas, and that's how she became the most powerful matron in the long, noble history of southwestern bank robbery syndicates.

But those stories, though interesting, are not for today. Today I'm gonna tell you the tale of how Wilma and North South Dakota carried off one last bank robbery and in one job became the wealthiest couple in their entire profession.

It was 1968. In many ways, the 60s were coming to a close, and bank robbery was simply going out of style. Wilma and North were already getting on in years, and the generation of bank robbers who were coming up behind them didn't have the same sort of ethic as they did. Bank Robbery had always been, since FDR and FDIC, the profession of only the classiest and most morally rigorous criminals. "Nobody Moves and Nobody Gets Hurt" used to really mean something, in the old days. Nowadays it was always "get on the ground, bitches!" and the like. Just totally classless. Language like that had no place in the vocabulary of the noble bank robber.

So one day, Wilma South Dakota is sitting across from her husband at the breakfast table and says, "Looks like times are getting tough for us bank robbers, doesn't it north?"

North nodded his head while scarfing down some Grape Nuts. He was reading the back of the box.

"Makes you think that maybe we should get out while the getting's good, eh?" Wilma said.

North South Dakota grunted and swallowed. "This stuff's pretty good," he said, "But they gotta come up with a better name. 'Grape Nuts'? That's just doubly obscene. Goddamn hippies."

"Mmm," said Wilma, standing up to put her bowl in the sink. "Sure, but what do you think about my bank robbery idea?"

"What idea? Oh," said North. "Yeah, sure, whatever. This counts as my anniversary gift, though."

Wilma kissed North's cheek and walked out of the room. "You still gotta get me somethin' though," shouted North. "I want a new fedora, in case you care!"

Several weeks of precise planning, and they were finally ready to execute the biggest heist of their entire career. Wilma, as always, was idling the getaway vehicle one block up the street from the bank. Nobody paid her any mind, since she was totally inconspicuous. Except for the ski mask, but people just thought "I wonder where that inconspicuous lady is going skiing?" and then didn't give her another consideration. But the only place Wilma was skiing to was Easy Street, on skis made of solid gold down a mountain made of stolen money. Wilma was not known for subtle metaphors.

Wilma was staring at a pocket watch, waiting for the exact moment when she needed to drive up to the bank's front steps in order to retrieve North, when North surprised her by knocking on her window. He wasn't holding any money.

She rolled down her window and shouted, "what are you doing?"

North pulled up his ski mask and smiled. "Plans changed, baby-doll-cakes," he said, holding up a set of keys on a black key chain shaped like a dollar sign.

"Are those...?" asked Wilma.

"They sure are!" said North. "The keys to the armored tractor-trailer. The biggest haul of money a bank robber can ever hope to take. We're gonna be legends after this! It wasn't even difficult to get them!"

That was true . In fact, North hadn't even held up the bank. He'd seen the distinctive key ring on an occupied teller window, grabbed them, and run outside immediately to tell his wife.

"Robbing a bank is one thing, robbing a bank truck is another," said Wilma, "but robbing a bank semi? That's what we call, epic profit, baby."

"Looks like our steamboat is finally coming in, huh?" said North. "Look, you drive home and get ready to sort our winnings. I've got to pick up our new ride."

They kissed and North jogged around behind the bank, where Wilma drove home, visions of private islands and golden skis in her head.

Later that night, the doors to the bank tractor trailer were thrown open, and faces transformed from anticipatory to crestfallen almost instantly. While counting their loot, Wilma repeated the word "idiot" so many times that it lost its meaning. After a while, her frustration bubbled over and she became so enraged with her husband's terrible mistake that, in the heat of the moment, she shot North in the face with her laser eyes and killed him. The police declared it a freak accident, and Wilma was never charged.

Still, she felt guilt over her husband's unfortunate passing, and in some form of penance, she never left her house ever again. She lives right over there, that house right across the street, but nobody ever sees her. Except for one night of the year - Halloween. Don't bother trick-or-treating there, though. She only ever gives out pennies.

Not a Love Story

RTam3 logged into one of her many Wikipedia accounts and typed in the URL of a user named "Mikesauce." RTam3 thumbed through Mikesauce's many recent contributions. It appeared that Mikesauce had recently started "watching" the article for the sandwich franchise "Jimmy John's." “Watching” was when a user made it their personal business to monitor any edits to an article in order to prevent people from vandalizing said article, for example, by changing every pronoun to the word “dicks.”

RTam3 opened up the “edit” page for the article and paused. She thought for a minute. Then she added this to the article:

“Although technically headquartered in California, Jimmy John’s is unofficially centered in southeast Michigan, where most of its franchises currently exist.”

RTam3 saved the changes and then went back to the article. She set the “auto refresh” add-on for Firefox to refresh the page every 10 seconds. Her edit was a good one. Not so outlandish as to immediately draw attention. It might take a while for Mikesauce to catch it.

But of course, Mikesauce caught it almost immediately. Mikesauce was like a dude on a horse, bound by his code to protect Wikipedia articles from vandals. After only three refreshes, RTam3's edit had been tagged with [source?] This meant that the claim was not verified by any documentation and would, eventually, be deleted.

RTam3 ate some cashews, considering her next move. She'd tried to walk the line between plausibility and ridiculousness, as to avoid being deleted on the spot, but she didn't know whether to call her "[source?]" a victory. Sure, for a while her made up information would still be available to the public as if it were gospel truth. Uncited gospel, but gospel nonetheless. And there were bound to be a few rubes who went to their graves thinking that Jimmy John's was centrally governed in southeast Michigan. But after those few weeks -days, if Mikesauce was on top of things, (and of course, he was) her edit would be quietly reverted. RTam3 considered just taking her small success and moving on to another article. But then, instead, she didn't. She opened up a Word document and another instance of Firefox. She visited Jimmy John’s official site and started copypasting information to the Word document.

A week later, the new issue of Newski Magazine, the local university’s third most prestigious litmag, hit store shelves with the fury of a raging bumblebee. In it was an essay by RTam3 called “Jimmy John’s: on Corporate Inconstancy.” The subject matter, an analysis of the patterns of Jimmy John’s franchise locations, was pretty dry, but then again, Newski wasn’t really in the position of rejecting submissions. Ironically, RTam3’s article quickly became Newski’s most popular article ever, declared by the local student newspaper as “the greatest achievement in Newski’s 100 year history as a publication” and inaccurately compared it to the essays of David Foster Wallace. The almost universal public praise led the school to give RTam3 an award worth 9,000 dollars even though she hadn’t applied for it and there were many more qualified/needy candidates available.

RTam3 was not available for comment. She was on Wikipedia, editing the Jimmy John’s article again. She added a footnote referencing her recent publication, and then a citation next to her original edit. Then she saved, and smiled.

Mikesauce crushed an empty can of Coke in his hand and threw it dramatically against the ground. Then he opened up a Word document and another instance of Firefox. He opened his email account and typed in the email addresses of all the editors for The New York Times, USA Today, and The Wall Street Journal.

Vincent Donofrio is my Homeboy

Vincent Donofrio is sitting in the passenger seat eating chicken ranch gorditas from Taco Bell while I drive.

"These are really good," he says. "I can't believe they're only 89 cents."

"Well, that's Taco Bell for you," I say, absently. I pause midsentence while eying a man on a bicycle to the right of me. He's riding very close to the dividing line and has got me nervous. "...Taco bell for you, very uh, cheap."

"Yeah," says Vincent, starting on his third gordita.

I look back over my shoulder into the middle lane to make sure nobody is in my blind spot, and then I turn on the blinker and change lanes. I feel relieved to not be near the cyclist anymore.

"So, Vincy, what's it like being a celebrity?" I say.

"It's alright, I guess- Man, these are good! 89 cents. I just can't get over it!"

"Yeah, I noticed that your, ah, fans..." I drift off, trying to think of the right way to say it. I pretend to be worried about the guy in front of me who keeps drifting into the center lane. "What's this asshole doing?" I mumble.

Vincent Donofrio wads up his third Chicken Ranch Gordita wrapper and tosses it in the Taco Bell bag. Then he starts on his fourth one.

"Anyway, I noticed that your fans are kinda, well, fanatical?" I said, actually turning and briefly making eye contact with Vincent. "That sounds dumb, but you know what I mean, right?"

"Fuck my fans," says Vincent, punctuating his sentence by shoving half of the gordita into his mouth and biting down a little too enthusiastically.

"You don't mean that," I say quietly.

"Yeah I do. Fuck 'em."

There is a long pause during which Vincent Donofrio chews and swallows the rest of his fourth gordita. He wads up the wrapper and tosses it in the bag with the others. He looks out the window at Lake Michigan.

"Watch out for Tempest Street. We gotta turn on Tempest Street," I say. "Tempest Street."

"You're right," says Vincent, still looking out the window.

"Hmm?" I say.

"About me not hating my fans. I love them," he says. "I love my fans, but they can be just a little..."

"Obsessive?" I suggest.

"Yeah, I guess. I like that people appreciate my work, and think I'm a good actor and all, but they make it so... personal, sometimes."

"Yeah, they can be a little weird," I say.

I'm still looking for Tempest Street. It should be coming up any minute. I wonder if maybe I missed it while making eye contact with Vincent. I worry about this for a minute and wonder if I should turn around.

"Still," I say slowly, "I bet if you got to know them you'd find that outside of their hobby they're just as normal as anybody. Besides, isn't there something weird you do in your spare time that might seem 'creepy' to the uninitiated?"

"Well, I do collect taxidermied pets and dress them up in antique military uniforms," says Vincent Donofrio. "Does that count?"

"Sure," I say, "and I write antagonistic little stories on a blog nobody reads, mocking people who've never done anything to me."

"That's pretty fucking weird!" Laughs Vincent Donofrio.

"Yeah, I guess!" I laugh too, thankful for the moment of levity.

John leans forward from the back seat and says, "what are you guys laughing about? I can't hear you back here."

"Tempest Street," says Vincent, pointing at a street sign above the next traffic light.

"Sweet," I say, sarcastically exaggerating my enthusiasm. I turn on my blinker and move into the turning lane. The turning light is red. I keep my eyes on the light so I can immediately hit the gas once it turns green.

"What are you guys talking about?" repeats John, still leaning forward. Vincent ignores him. I just say "nothing," quietly. John sits back in his seat and broadly rolls his eyes.

The green arrow lights up and I hit the gas a little too hard and the tires screech. Vincent laughs. John looks annoyed. For a moment I'm worried that maybe a cop will pull me over but then I realize how unlikely that is.

We drive in silence for a while. I turn on the radio. It's country music. I scan through the rest of the channels. Mostly country music, and NPR. I like NPR, but I don't know if Vincent likes NPR. I know that John doesn't like NPR, but I'm not really thinking about him. The airfield is to the left of us.

Vincent ties up the Taco Bell bag with the wadded up wrappers inside of it and rolls down the window. Then he tosses the Taco Bell bag out the window. I'm surprised by how shocked I feel. If he had only thrown out a wrapper, or a kleenex, or an empty can, I would just be annoyed. But the fact that Vincent Donofrio just tossed a full bag of trash out the window is something I find extremely unsettling, in a way I don't quite understand.

I turn into the airport and drive towards the main building. I get to the loading zone and idle the car. Vincent smiles at me. "Thanks again for the ride," he says. I nod without saying anything, and then pop the trunk. Vincent gets out of the car and walks around back, then slams the trunk, then walks back to the passenger side window.

"Got your bag?" I ask. Vincent holds up his suitcase and pats it. "Okay, remember, don't make any jokes about terrorism. Airport security does not have a sense of humor. They WILL put their hands up your butt."

Vincent chuckles as he walks inside. "They won't put their hands up MY butt, I'm Vincent Donofrio."

I pull out of the airport and back out onto Tempest Street. John asks several times if we can pull over so he can get in the front seat. I worry about Vincent Donofrio's anus for the rest of the ride home.

The Red-Headed Ronin and the Deadly Clown

Ronny McD ran down the alleyway, gun drawn. He slid behind a dumpster and tried to prepare an ambush. He couldn't catch his breath. Too many cheeseburgers, he thought. Who would have thought that cheeseburgers would be the death of him. Him!

Ronny tried to focus. He thought about what his master had taught him, all those years ago, in the wilderness. Quiet your mind. Try to find the beat of your heart. Feel that rhythm? Okay, good.

Good.

This was no big deal, right? He had taken on tougher opponents before, and he'd always come out on top. Ronny had never fallen in battle, and he had taken on all the greats in the biz. The Big Boy, the Noid, that little fuckin' Chihuahua… Hell, he had taken down the King just last week. The Motherfuckin' King! No way some little redheaded bitch in pigtails was going to take him down. He was the undisputed Mac-Daddy of fried foods.

Still. He thought. What she did to Grimm was just… Ronny bit his painted lower lip. Just then a rocket exploded against the side of the dumpster he was hiding behind, flipping it end over end. If it hadn’t been for Ronny’s training, he would have been crushed.

There, a silhouette against the bright orange of Ronny's burning limo, was Miss W. She was holding a rocket launcher. Her left eye was missing, and was covered in a patch made out of an old burger wrapper. Her pigtails were singed. Her dress was torn, revealing a tattoo across her chest that said, simply:

BURGERS² 4 LIFE

She was smiling. Her teeth were like a shark’s teeth.

“Holy shit.” Said Ronny. His face was pale. You couldn’t tell, because of the clown makeup, but still.

Miss W hefted the rocket launcher on her shoulder again and looked through the sight. She pulled the trigger.

Ronny just barely dodged it. He pulled off an astonishing sideways flip and landed on his face.

As Ronny McD pulled himself up, Miss W was reloading the rocket launcher. Ronny aimed his gun at Miss W’s face and pulled the trigger, but she was already pulling up the rocket launcher when he fired. The bullet glanced off the metal of her weapon and grazed her ear. Miss W just smiled again, her eyes wide and frenzied, and she aimed directly at Ronny, still on the ground. No way he’d dodge it. He had just one shot to take her out before she could fire.

They fired at the same instant. The bullet caught the rocket just a foot in front of Miss W. and the whole mess exploded, throwing the girl back several dozen feet.

Ronny stood up and squinted through the smoke. When it cleared, there she was, just standing, smiling that shark smile of hers. She looked at the rocket launcher. It was broken and useless so she tossed it aside, and pulled a plastic knife from her sleeve.

It was at this point that Ronny remembered that he still had a gun, and decided to use it. He fired, but Miss W. was too quick. She leapt forward, and dodged a succession of 5 shots from Ronny’s gun. She kicked off from the wall opposite Ronny and before he could swing around to fire, she was already on him.

Ronny’s gun clattered on the ground somewhere out of sight. He struggled, but Miss W, despite her smaller size, had him pinned. Ronny looked like the most scared clown in the world. The makeup around his eyes was running.

“What the hell… Are you?” he asked. Miss W. didn’t smile this time. She just looked at the plastic knife in her hand.

“What am I?” she said, “why you should know better than anyone. After all, you're the one who created me.”

“Wha-What?” said Ronny, genuinely surprised that his his throat hadn't been slashed open yet.

“That’s right, Ronny McD. Or should I say… Daddy McD?”

Ronny just stared at her face for a long while. “...What?” he choked out.

“Don’t tell me you don’t see the family resemblance!” Miss W. said with a cold, bitter laugh, tugging on one of her singed, bright red pigtails with one hand, and Ronny’s bright red 'fro with the hand holding the knife. Ronny flinched. Miss W. sighed.

“I suppose you’ll say now that she never told you, that you never knew… “ Her accusing eyes danced over Ronny’s face, looking for a sign of guilt. Finding none, she continued. “It’s no matter, anyway. I was sent to an orphanage, and adopted by a kindly old fast food Mogul. Seemed he had been adopted too, wanted to give back. A charitable man, a throwback to a more noble fast-food age. “

“Dave Thomas.” said Ronny, his voice barely audible.

“Of course… “ said Miss W, “you killed him.”

There was silence. A dog barked in the distance.

“I-I’m sorry,” said Ronny, looking away. “If only I had known… If only I had known, things could have turned out different.”

“Yeah, well, they didn’t.” Miss W. held the plastic knife above her head and got ready to strike.

“Waitwaitwait!” Shouted Ronny.

Miss W. paused, narrowed her eyes. “What is it?”

“We can still fix this. We could rule the entire industry, father and daughter, together!”

Miss W. laughed hysterically.

“What are you laughing at,” said Ronny, “I’m telling you that you could be a princess, the one and only heir to the fast food throne! It could all be yours!”

“You pathetic little clown. You didn't actually believe all that bullshit, did you?”

Ronny gasped.

And then the knife came down.

Tao Lin, please give me a free book

Tao Lin has written a couple of books of poetry that I haven't read, a novel called Eeeee Eee Eeee that I loved, a collection of short stories called Bed that singlehandedly got me into the whole online lit scene, and now a new novella called Shoplifting From American Apparel that is apparently mostly autobiographical. I want to read this book, but I don't have any free cash right now, so I am writing >1500 words about Tao Lin so that he will send it to me. This is typical of Tao Lin, who does what most people might scornfully call “crazy stunts” to get attention and thus sell more books and make enough money to survive. I also call these “stunts” although perhaps “crazy” is a little extreme. (One time he tattooed “fuck america” on his arm. I thought this was funny, but also a little crazy if it was a real tattoo[1]) I like that Tao doesn't bullshit about what he's doing. He wants to make money. He wants to be able to live off his writing. Some people may think that's not the way an artist should think about his craft, but I think if he can manage it then he has every right.

I remember this interview, I think it was with NPR? Where Tao said that he thought selling off royalty shares of his next novel Richard Yates was “definitely” a stunt. I liked that. He made a lot of money off of that deal. I read somewhere else that all told, he's only made $16,000 from writing during his career. That's not very much money, although it is a lot (I think) for someone writing in the “alt-lit” scene to make. That's because he takes the initiative to promote himself aggressively. Even when he's pulling stunts like selling off his myspace on eBay or getting that “fuck america” tattoo, he's promoting himself. And good on him. More people should try.

So since I am doing this in order to get a free book, I am going to try to explain to you why you should read Tao Lin's stuff so that those few of you who read this blog post will be compelled to at least check him out, and then, hopefully, purchase books from Tao Lin so that he can buy food and apostrophes.

What I like about Tao Lin's writing is that he has a distinctive voice. Sometimes reviewers dismiss Tao Lin as being a one trick pony who can only do these little declarative sentences dotted 'sporadically' with apostrophes in order to indicate a 'detached', 'ironic' perspective. And sure, those are the hallmarks of Tao Lin's style, but its not all style without substance. There's an emotional component that underlies his best stuff and a real wry sense of humor, too. There are 3 stories in Bed that made me feel an intense reaction, almost bringing me to tears. Not sad tears, exhilarating tears. These stories are “Three-Day Cruise”, “Suburban Teenage Wasteland Blues”, and “Sasquatch.”

My favorite story was “Suburban Teenage Wasteland Blues”. Basically, this story is about this very awkward 20-something who has become very isolated from other people and has trouble relating. I got the feeling he was autistic. It made me think about how the inclinations that drive this dude to become isolated and alone are inclinations I feel, too. I bet they are inclinations that Tao Lin feels, too. Maybe that's why he writes, so he can communicate those feelings and connect with other people. I think Stephen King said something about writing being “psychic communication with your reader” or something like that. I like how you can pick up a story like “Suburban Teenage Wasteland Blues” and get a sense of another person being communicated to you. Does that make sense?

The ending of “Three-Day Cruise” really got to me. I think the mother was bipolar, but I might be remembering wrong. All I remember is that the story ended with the mother weeping and saying that she was so happy. Made me think about a manic state. I just realized that I analyzed the two characters I've talked about so far as having mental disorders. Maybe I'm wrong. I'm not a doctor.

I don't think a lot of Tao Lin's fiction is online. You can check out his poems though. He wrote this poem where the last line repeats about a thousand times, and he's done it at readings, which I think is hilarious. I remember this one video of a reading of “i went fishing with my family when i was five” where everyone was giggling but there was this ONE guy standing in view of the camera who was getting visibly frustrated. I can understand that. I imagine he just didn't find it amusing, and maybe he was able to be polite about it for the first 10 or so repetitions, but its gotta suck when you don't find a joke funny and then you have to continue hearing it for 11 minutes. Still, rude.

Recently this thing he wrote apparently a long time ago with Kendra Grant Malone called “Conor Oberst Sex” was published in lovely ebook format. It was written by both of them, but Tao Lin did a pass of it and you can definitely tell it's in his style. So maybe check that out and see if you enjoy it. If you do, you might enjoy Tao Lin's other stuff. If you don't, well... hm.

Actually if I was to recommend anything it would be to purchase Bed. Its a good collection of short stories, and its paperback, so its relatively cheap if you have money. If you're not sure, or you live in a third world nation like Australia and shipping costs a shit ton, (excuse me, tonne) then maybe go to your local university library. Those places are great in my experience, usually have every book you could ever want. If you're not near a university, and I guess most people aren't, then your normal library might have it, and if they don't, then they might have an interlibary loan program, so you should be set. And if you decide you really like his writing, then you can support him by buying it from his website or whatever. I don't know if he likes people buying from amazon because it bumps up his ratings and thus increases the likeliness of people finding there way to him, or if he doesn't like amazon because it is slowly killing small independent booksellers. I bought both Eeeee Eee Eeee and Bed from the Shaman Drum, a really cool indie bookstore in ann arbor, back before it closed down. That was a great store, but I do not personally have any moral convictions about amazon one way or the other.

I like reading interviews with Tao Lin. He seems very contemplative and somewhat evasive. You should read some, once you've gotten a feeling for his writing.

I know, some people don't have money to be being books just because someone on a blog they occasionally visit told them to. I am one of these people. If not for Tao Lin's generosity in this offer of his, I probably wouldn't be able to rationalize purchasing “Shoplifting” until after the winter holidays. That would not be a tragedy, I suppose. But if you are a person with disposable income, maybe buy bed or eeeee eee eeee? They cost like 8 dollars. That's how much a video rental from blockbuster costs (disclaimer: I am guessing) and I think one of those books is worth more in the long run since you can reread it at any time and you cannot do that with a video rental unless you use dvdshrink and nero to make an illegal copy which is a federal offense and then it is still only worth it if it is an exceptionally good movie like Ferris Bueller's Night Off. The only reason I am not explicitly recommending reading Shoplifting from American Apparel is that I haven't actually read it, so I can't in good conscience vouch for it. It's probably very good. From those reviewers whom I respect, it seems to be well-received. I know that I am looking forward to reading it. But if you are hesitent you can always read what he already has out there to see if you are interested.

Okay now I've written over 1,500 words, but I want to do the best job I can to draw “mad hits,” as Tao Lin describes them, to this blog post, so I am going to do something that got me the most hits I've ever received just a couple weeks ago. I'm going to talk about Vincent Donofrio.

Vincent Donofrio is an actor best known for playing that really boring guy on Law and Order: Criminal Intent. I also think he was in full metal jacket. A couple weeks ago I had a character in a story I wrote comment that she thought Vincent Donofrio was a robot sent to test the patience of mankind with his poor ability to convey humanoid emotions. I don't really care about Vincent Donofrio. It was just something I wanted the character to say because I think its funny how people get so passionate over stupid shit like that. Also I think its funny how there isn't a single other character in the law and order universe (law and orderverse?) who is half as boring as the lead detectives on criminal intent, Vincent Donofrio and the lady who is his partner. Anyway, the next day I check my statistics and find that like a hundred random new uniques had visited my page in the twelve hours since I'd posted the story, which is a lot for me. When I investigated, I found that the most used search term to find the story was the phrase “Vincent Donofrio,” so, yeah. Apparently people really dig on Vincent Donofrio. So, sorry, guys, if you were offended. But you know what's cool about Vincent Donofrio? He always has a neutral facial expression, just like Tao Lin. So if you like Vincent Donofrio, then you'd probably LOVE Tao Lin.

[1] getting that tattoo (if indeed, it is real) seems to me like an act of artistic bravery. laser tattoo removal costs thousands of dollars, so if Tao ever wants to get a “real job” it'll be that much harder for him to do so. Or he could invest in a long sleeved shirt. That is also a possibility.

Fish Surgery

Everybody in the office resents me, ever since I got my fish surgery. Susan in data entry, AKA the office gossip, hasn't said one word to me all week. Michael pretended he didn't even see me when we happened to be in the bathroom at the same time. Karalyn hit me in the ear with a stapler. And Florence, dear Florence, the vending machine guy, doesn't want to shoot the shit with me about candy bars anymore. Can you believe that?

Ari in accounting snubbed me at the water cooler the other day. Me and him, we used to be real exceptionally tight. We went bowling together only last month, and he even named one of his cats after me after losing a bet on the election. He used to always have an Oscar Wilde quote or a funny youtube to share, but now, nothing. His betrayal hurts the most. Except for the stapler thing, I think that might've done some serious long-term damage.

I can understand the alienation; as transformative as the fish surgery is, it still hasn't become "mainstream" yet. And people are always resistant to new things at first, let alone something as revolutionary as the fish surgery. But I thought these people were my friends. Real friends, the kind of friends that you work with. And what with my parents disowning me and destroying all the photos they had of me and setting fire to my apartment building and trying to hire an undercover police officer to put a hit out on me, I was hoping my workplace would serve as the place of comfort and unquestioning support that I needed during this difficult transition.

I finally decided to talk to Middle Manager Ricky about it when someone took a shit in my computer. Not on it, understand, no, I could forgive that. They actually unscrewed the back and took a shit inside of the case. Now, usually you'd go to Human Resources about an issue like this, but since it was our H.R. guy who did it, I wasn't sure that I could expect a serious response.

Middle Manager Ricky came in late that morning, wearing a surgical mask over his face. This was right around the time of the Emu flu epedimic and all the important employees were being required to wear surgical masks to protect them from infection. The rest of us peons weren't obligated to do anything. Heck, we weren't even required to bathe if we didn't want to, Susan was proof of that. Middle Manager Ricky decided to volunteer to wear one anyway. Since, y'know, it must've just been an oversight, what with him being so invaluable to the company and all.

"Well, you are right, Tom. This is a very serious issue," said Middle Manager Ricky, examining the inside of my case with a small flashlight.

"It's just, well," I said, anxious, "it wouldn't be so bad except I feel so... alone."

Middle Manager Ricky looked up at me with those black, serious eyes of his, and nodded his head gently.

"No-one around here knows what I'm going through. Nobody here has had the fish surgery, nobody here understands what it's like, what I have to deal with on a daily basis. The scrutiny, the stares, the raw, unmitigated hatred that is based in nothing but the most superficial assessment of who I am... I don't know, I just can't deal with it sometimes."

Middle Manager Ricky put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a stare that was as cold as his hand. "Hey," he said. "I'll always be here to talk. FYI."

I smiled. "Thanks," I said, touching the hand on my shoulder gently. "But I'm not sure you could ever relate. You'd never be able to understand what it's like to be different, to be ostracized. You're as normal as white bread in a big brown basket!"

"Oh, I think I understand, Tom," said Middle Manager Ricky. Then he pulled off his surgical mask to reveal a distorted, absurdly long frown, the top of which joined his protuding, wide nose, and the bottom of which terminated at the edge of his jawline. While I stared, awestruck, he pulled back his lips and opened his mouth to reveal rows of hundreds upon hundreds of sharp, serrated teeth.

"I absoSHARKly understand," laughed Middle Manager Ricky. That's all it took to break me out my trance. I screamed, punched Middle Manager Ricky in the nose, and ran out into the street screaming "FREAK! FREAK!" over and over again until the cops arrested me and that's why they put me in this secret Eastern-European prison for terrorists.