At the end of last year, LEO had their annual "Literary LEO" competition, the categories being Short Fiction, Flash Fiction, Poetry, Photography, and "Something Else." I sent in two little humorous things for the "Something Else" competition, one of which happened to win first place. Titled "New Releases" it was basically just a bunch of fake record reviews. (It's still available online here: http://leoweekly.com/special-issues/first-place-new-releases. Note the pseudonym, a combination of my middle name and my mom's maiden name - clever, huh?)

Anyway, they had a public reading, like they do every year, but because of scheduling conflicts and the hellacious ice storm we had, I didn't manage to make it there until after the readings. I stopped by long enough to pick up my check (125 dollars US, baby) and met a few of the LEO staffers, including editor Stephen George. He told me how much he liked my piece, how he was glad it won first place, how he was pounding on his desk laughing, etc. We talked a little bit more about Jen Futrell, and eventually I thanked him for the kind words and made my
exit.

A couple weeks later, realizing how poor I am, and getting my first grad-school tuition bill in the mail, I figured there was no harm in sending him an e-mail seeing if there were any positions open at the paper. Nothing to lose, I thought. So I sent him an e-mail, reminding him who I was and how much he liked what I had written, giving my writing background (I've basically wanted to be a writer since I was a little kid, had my first piece published at 16, and during my undergraduate days, because of my major in Philosophy and my Writing minor, ended up having written about 300-400 pages worth of material,) and even pitched a story idea. No response. Not even an e-mail to say "Ha ha no, you stupid person." Oh well, I thought, can't win 'em all.

Wednesday I opened up the LEO, as I do every week, skimming through as I go, reading some columns here and there, when I stumbled upon page 20. There, in the top left corner. LEO WEEKLY - Fake Issue. What? "For the first time ever we're turning the LEO creative staff loose and letting them invent the content for what is sure to be the funniest issue of the year." Wait, isn't this what I did? Every issue of LEO has record reviews, I made fake ones. Six months later, they're doing an entire fake issue. Thanks LEO, (and editor Stephen George), for lowering my respect for you even more.

Ok, Summary: I write fake record reviews which are ha-ha funny and win first place in LEO's annual writing competition. Then, I'm like, "Hey, give me a job!" and am completely ignored. Now they're doing an entire fake issue, without even as much as a "We got this idea from this awesome guy who is totally good at writing!" No, nothing. Am I wrong to be pissed off about this? Someone tell me. For real.

Sofa Head believed
that his head was full of hair,
Not like a hamster,
more like arm-chair.

His father said to Sofa Head,
"The sharks of mechanical time
are biting each soft second
as they filter through your mind"

His mother said, to Sofa Head,
"Why do you wear your hair so long?"
And Sofa Head said,
"Kick out the jams, mother!"

And they had marmalade and kicked the pantry out into the street and lived happily ever after. I think that silence is appropriate, and it shall remain appropriate.

His father said to Sofa Head,
"My son, I give to thee
the total of my lifetime's work,
an alcoholic legacy."

"The ballpoint blue of old tattoos,
the shrieks of a drunken whore,
the wine-red stains of open veins,
a squib on the lavatory floor."

And Sofa Head believed
that his head was full of hair,
Not like a hamster, more like arm-chair.
And sofa head was sure
He could pull out more and more and more and more and more and more and more and

1. Tomato paste is not exactly glue that you can eat.
1a. However, it is interesting to note that small children often eat paste anyway - the non-tomato kind.
2. I was wondering the other day if Peter Cetera (like a motherfucker) is any relation to Et Cetera, as I had written "CETERA!" on my cigarette lighter to distinguish it from others'. Note to self: Ed Cetera is great name for a character in novel.
3. "Is cake one of the four food groups?" I asked. "No, but dick is three of them." "I have mixed feelings about this," I responded. "The last group is pie," I was told. "Fuck yeah."

I know, I know, I hardly ever post anything anymore. But I just got struck by a bolt of inspiration and made these three neat little pictures:





and



I dunno, whatever.

As I was leaving James's last night I was walking by a car full of girls, all speaking Spanish. As I passed, one of them called out to me, "Hayy!" to which I replied "Hey baby!" She giggled, and the car immediately rear-ended the car behind it. "Careful!" I said, "Es muy peligroso!" More giggling, and then I heard, "You're looking hot tonight!" to which I replied, "You too, baby!" as I kept walking.

Sometimes I'm just too smooth for my own good.

Right, so, if you're Indiana people, you probably know that Miki Purcell died. For those who don't know her, or don't know how I know her, we, eh, dated, back in high school. I'm not going to lie, I had a pretty low opinion of her, was known to make offhand comments when her name was mentioned, and yes, even wrote a less-than-respectful song about her (it was a damn good song, however.) Anyway, on Sunday, Nugget told me that Kim told him that she had heard that Miki (or Jackie, as some people know her) had died, but she wasn't sure, etc.

It's weird, since just a few weeks ago I'd stumbled onto her myspace by accident and mocked it mercilessly (to be fair, she has a picture of her with Staind on it - come on, that's just setting oneself up.) Yesterday's Courier-Journal carried the obituary, so, you know, it really happened, and I really don't know how I should feel about it. For a brief moment this person was an important part of my life, but since the day we broke up, I had only seen her twice (once at Twice Told, of all places, and once in her car behind me at a red light) and hadn't spoken to her in almost seven years now. It's definitely sad, and I really feel for her family, who I remember lost a son (one of her brothers) about ten(?) years ago.

Last night at the bar, I asked Christy about it, since she mentioned a while back that she had hung out with her recently, but Christy didn't know, so I ended up breaking the news to her and her friend whose name I never can remember.

Yesterday, though, I mentioned it to my mom, who - get this - has little to no recollection of the girl at all. "You almost never bring girls around here," she said. "Mom," I told her, "You met her at least twice, and I took her to senior prom. Redhead, taller than me?" "Oh my god!" she said. Apparently my brother's baby's momma is friends with one of her best friends, (my mom didn't put this together until just then,) so I know a little bit more about it, but still just a tiny bit.

Apparently, she didn't show up to work on Saturday morning, so her parents went up to her room and found her in bed, gone. There's supposed be an autopsy, as they have no idea what could have caused it.

Also, according to her obituary in the Evening News, she was a law student at UofL. Who'da thunk that, eh? Weird.

Here I am sitting at school looking at funny pictures of cats on the internet, (OH YES SHOW THAT OTHER CAT YOUR POKEYMANS THAT IS FUNNY!!!!) when Amelia's roommate walks by (you know, the one whose name I don't know and who is taller than me and therefore frightens me ) and waves hello to me. I do not want anybody to know that I do not have anything more important to do than look at pictures of cats on the internet (OH YES LONGCAT YOU ARE INDEED LOOOOOOOOOOOOOONG) so I tried to hide my face behind other various parts of my body, to no avail. "Hi," she said, at which point I pulled my legs from over top of my head and returned to my proper right-side-up position in the chair and responded "Uh," and trying to hide the computer screen (OH MY WORD THAT IS NOT A CRAZY CAT THAT IS KRAZY KAT THE COMIC STRIP HEROINE BEING HIT WITH A BRICK).().

"Buh!" she responded, "We're having a show at our apartment on Friday." I remembered Amelia putting up one of them myspace bulletins with links to each band's myspace which I checked out in order to more knowledgably mock them. "OH YES" I said "One of them is a Christian rock band!" I smiled because there is an unwritten rule that says if you are a Christian Rock Band then you are inherenly horrible and should die. (Remember: Bob Dylan was at his shittiest when he was a Christian for a few weeks).

"Oh, you read their About Me?" She said. "Well, he's not that bad he is actually a very good friend of mine do not hold that against him."

"Too bad!" I said, "I am going to hold that against him!" and then turned back to my computer to keep looking at pictures (OH YES U R IN MY GUTTER BLOCKIN MAH DRAINAGE!!!!!!)

From: "J. Roshi" <choppadoo@gmail.com>
Date: February 28, 2007 10:03:18 PM EST
To: leo@leoweekly.com
Subject: This week's crossword


I don't wanna pick nits, but somebody's got to take better care with
your crossword puzzle. This week, the clues were all garbled (as they
sometimes are.) I can get by without seeing the quotation marks
around clues such as 95-across ("See ya,") but it took me hours to
figure out what the hell 104 across was looking for - "H gen-___" is
just complete gibberish without the a-umlaut in there to make one
realize they're looking for an ice cream instead of some obscure DNA
code of some sort. My head still hurts.


--
"I seek the ninth level of power. And perhaps an inexpensive hairbrush."


-------------------------------------------------------------------------


Buddy Schneider <buddy@leoweekly.com> to me, SHavens, Cary
show details 11:06 am (4 hours ago)

Hi, my name is Buddy and I work in the production department at LEO.


First of all I REALLY want to apologize for the problems with the New York Times crossword puzzle clues.
Secondly, I REALLY want to thank you for bringing it to our attention! Believe it or not, nobody in the office here at LEO plays the crossword, and we honestly had no idea that punctuation was being garbled.


I'll try to explain why ...
The technical reason for the problem is one of computer translation. Last year LEO switched to a new computer layout program, and the New York Times sends us the crossword puzzle every week in an older format. Our new computer program could open the puzzles just fine, and since we have gone for about a year without complaint, we assumed everything was working fine.


Apparently what has happened — unknown to us — is that punctuation marks were not making the translation from the older format NYT puzzle into our newer system. Now I personally check every week to make sure that we have the correct grid and the correct answer graphic, as well as make sure that all of the clues are on the page and none are cut off. But the punctuation issue remained unnoticed because the crossword clues typically do not have punctuation, not even periods. And since none of us here actually play the puzzle, nobody was studying the clues close enough to realize that there are special cases where special punctuation is required.
I know it's a lame excuse, but it's honestly what happened!


I have communicated with the New York Times department that sends us the puzzle, and I believe I now have a solution for this embarrassing problem.


Thank you again, and hopefully the only headaches you have from now on come from the actual "correctly punctuated" clues.


--buddy
LEO Production

I forgot how to imbed youtube videos so eff it, here's a link:

ROBOCAT

And also this:

Man, my kick-ass thermal henley has a big hole in the seam on my right elbow. That is totally not cool at all. I blame Don Henley and his shitty merchandise.

Oh my my, here we go:

The Cyst
So, a few weeks ago, while wiping my bottom after some really caustic coffee-poops, I felt this bump. A bump? A bump. OMG NOT TEH CANCERZ!#@!#!!1 No, 'tweren't the cancers. However, there on my taint, slightly to the right, between asshole and testicles, was a cyst. Oh snap. Here's wikipedia's take on cysts:

cyst is a closed sac having a distinct membrane and developing abnormally in a cavity or structure of the body. Cysts may occur as a result of a developmental error in the embryo during pregnancy or they may be caused by infections. However, sometimes they arise spontaneously with no apparent cause. Cysts are often dangerous as they may have negative effects (for instance, compression) on the nearby tissue. They may contain air, fluids, or semi-solid material. A collection of pus is called an abscess, not a cyst.

OH HOLY GOD DO NOT DO A GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCH FOR "CYST"

Anyway, went to the doctor, dropped trou, he squeezed my balls and told me I had a cyst. Game plan? Wait. Or get it sliced out. Whichever comes first.

Deutschefreude
"What is the Velvet Underground?"
"Oh, they're a band."
"Ah, okay. Frau Morgan, be sure to visit the Velvet Underground."
Giggles!
"Are they any good?"
NOTE TO SELF: Do not call Nico a retarded kraut in German class.

Update on Total Cunt Stripper
My acquaintance Tasha was telling me the other day that Total Cunt Stripper punched her in the face at the Mag Bar. I was all YOU GO TASHA. I wish I could remember what happened, exactly. Oh well. Uh .. . . fuck bitches.

This One Thing
I'm graduating in May. Hey Chris, turns out my ceremony's a week before yours. SUCK IT.

And Finally
For about two weeks I've been thinking to myself about how I need to update this thing with a bunch of interesting occurrences. Now I can't remember anything I wanted to talk about other than the cyst and Total Cunt Stripper.

OH WAIT
That's right, I was going to write about House of Leaves. Too bad, I'm too sleepy. I'll do it soon though. I got a lot to say. About important things. HURR.

Tags: cunt, cyst, happy, nico, poo, taint

Mag Bar Mondays - been going on for years now, and don't look like they're gonna end anytime soon. That being said, every once in a while something out of the ordinary occurs, and it's on those Monday nights that my brain has to rearrange its synapses and try to understand these bold new concepts. Last night was not a normal Monday Night at the bar. First of all, it's Christmas(R) Season, which means a bunch of people are in town who usually aren't. Which means that friends of mine from high school will be sitting up front with a bunch of emo trash, looking all pretty and deep and talking about the latest Decembrists record or something, I dunno.

I spent most of my time floating between the very back of the bar and the very front. In front were the aforementioned emo kids, mixed in with a few folks I've known for a long long time. Too long, methinks, but I'll get to that in a minute. In the very back of the bar, sitting on the steps leading to the back door, were all the usual bastards, drinking and smoking and cursing each others' poor lack of billiards ability. On my many trips back and forth (as well as to the bar and to the toilet) I ran into dozens of people I haven't seen in a while. I ran into Roseanne, who kept yelling my name in my face and making fun of my vinyl habit (I first met her a day or two after I saw her being hit on at Underground Sounds while she was buying one of the Eno/Budd collaborations on LP.) She tried to get her friend to fight me, but instead I think her friend was kind of into me, whatever. Good times being had by all.

Hold on, I'm getting to the real story. Give me some time, I'm a goddamn poet, here.

Nugget got faced and disappeared, and people started drifting out, so Ed got on the horn to James and we all decided to head towards Jimmy's place. Just as the door closed behind us, I heard someone shout my name. I turned around and saw James pedaling down Magnolia. He asked if the Camel Fairies were in there (they weren't - bastards) and went inside to say hi to some people. Meanwhile, I tried to ride his bike and failed, so Ed, the drunkest of the bunch by far, got on and drove back to James's place. I took James home and hung out for a while before I decided I'd go back to the bar and have another drink, since I was bored and coffee-fueled and there were people up there I hadn't seen in a while.

I sat with Roseanne and Jessica, talked with them for a little bit, then went to the toilet. Coming out, there was a long-ass line in front of the women's room, headed by Jessica. I asked her how the roller-girl fundraiser thing went on Friday, she said it went good, and then somehow we got on the topic of muscles. She flexed her biceps, but I asked her "Wouldn't that really build up your legs more?" and she responded with a "Fuck yeah! Feel my calves!" which I did. Because I'm interested in athleticism. And not just because a cute girl wanted me to feel her legs. Fuck you for judging me.

The point is, standing behind her in line was this girl I lit a cigarette for a few weeks ago, who looked like your stereotypical stripper. Big tits, fake hair, fake nails, fake lips, the whole deal. Now, I've got nothing against strippers other than a few bits of neo-communist theory that I'm still working on in my head, but I couldn't help but laugh when she looked at us and said "Ooh! I'm a dancer, I've got great legs too! Feel my calves!" I gave Jessica a distressed look and slowly, methodically, and dare I say scientifically poked the stripper calf. Then she turned to Amelia's co-worker whose name I don't remember so I will just call Colts Fan, and started playing with her hair. She and Amelia looked distressed, and I informed them of what happened when I was exiting the toilet, and we all had a good laugh. I roamed around a bit longer.

I ended up sitting next to Amelia, because all night, when she was surrounded by people I didn't know, I'd run up and throw my arm around her and yell about how good it was to be friends with her. I even wrote a song about it, which I will not go into here. All of her friends were leaving, except her co-worker Colts Fan, and some guy whom she introduced me to whose name I couldn't remember but who was grabbin' all up on her like a centipede in a pumpkin patch. Or some other simile that works. Colts Fan kept talking about how she needed a ride home, she couldn't get anybody to answer their cell-phones, etc. I saw that Amelia wasn't going to get out of there to fuck this emo boy if bitch lady didn't have a ride, so I finally said "Okay, I'll give you a ride." Amelia disappeared almost instantly, leaving only a wisp of smoke, the smell of anticipated sex, and a half-empty Bud Light. I threw on my hat and stood to leave, but Colts Fan still had a bit left in her bottle.

Here's where things start to get odd. Colts Fan and I start chatting about whatever, blah blah, and she starts talking about the "dancer." I'll refer to the "dancer" as Stripper, because fuck mincing words. Anyway, she kept joking about getting her to come sit with us. "She can braid your hair!" I joked. Now Colts Fan was trying to get me to go up to her and invite her over. I kept politely refusing, because, really, I don't give a shit. I had better things to do than sit and talk to some stripper. I could be playing video games! She kept insisting, and while we were politely arguing over who was going to go get her, she picked up my hand and held it in hers and squeezed it for emphasis.

Oh yeah? Oh yeah she did.

Then she got up. Uh oh. What is going on here? Did some girl I just met, who I agreed to give a ride home, just squeeze my hand and then get up to go grab some stripper to come sit with us? Sure enough, she brought back Stripper, and plopped her down in the seat next to me. Then Colts Fan asks the Stripper what she wants to drink. Ah, dammit. By now, I was just wanting to hurry up and get out of there so I could go home myself. Morbid curiosity getting the better of me, I decided to stick it out. So to speak.

While Colts Fan went up to the bar to get some beer for our Tit-Juggler, Stripper just stared at me. Literally. She looked at me, and I said "Hi," gave her a nod, you know, because I don't know this girl and, to be frank, she doesn't appeal to me. I like my women to be at least 90% organic. At least. So, while we're waiting for Clots Fan to get back, she literally stared into my eyes. I stared back for a second, then took a swig of Amelia's leftover Bud Light and started watching Sportscenter. Eventually Colts Fan got back, and they started talking a little bit. I wasn't paying attention, until they started whispering in each others' ears and giggling like little schoolgirls on heroin.

Things were getting odder. It didn't end there. The bar was thinning out, and Colts Fan and Stripper decided to get a seat up at the bar. I was still trying to figure out what the hell was going on when Stripper grabbed my arm and told me to come with them. Whatever, I thought, I can still see the TV from there. Well, that's about the time Stripper started being a bitch. She started by asking me why I said she was a dancer.
"Well," I said, "you told me up by the bathrooms you were a dancer. When you made me poke your calf, remember?"
She just looked at me suspiciously and turned back around to Colts Fan. I lit another cigarette and pondered my next move. I could always just leave, but I told Colts Fan I'd give her a ride home. I figured I was doing her a favor since she lived out in bumfuck Indiana and I actually knew where it was. After another whisper-fest between the two, Stripper asks me what I do for a living.
"Oh, I don't have a job. I've been looking for one, but I'm in school too, plus I'm lazy."
Well, well! Stripper didn't find that humorous at all! What was going on here? My brains were working overtime, assimilating evidence like some super-computered Dexter machine, analyzing potential blood-spatters and whatever else. Seemed like Stripper here got pissed at me for mocking her job as a Stripper. Which I didn't do. I mocked her skanky appearance. But not to her face. So, wait, was Colts Fan in cahoots with her now? No time to think, here came another question:
"Do you still live with your mom and dad?"

Oh - burn. Right, I now knew for sure where this was going, or at least what route it would take to get somewhere, and I definitely didn't need some bitch who gets paid for doing something as easy as HAVING A VAGINA to start getting on my case while I'm trying to figure out what to do with my life. I mean, if I wanted to, I could exercise and get in shape and start whipping my dick out for the ladies, but I don't think someone should get paid for that, in principle. I lump models, most actors/actresses, strippers and prostitutes all in the same category of doing the easiest thing in the world - "looking good." Fuck that shit. At least at most of the jobs I've had, I've had some sort of skill that I could put to use. Not that dancing isn't a skill, mind you. But let's face it, there's a difference between classical ballet, modern jazz, and pole-grinding. I gave another half-assed answer about how my father died when I was eighteen, I live with my mom and step-dad, because I'm lazy and a student, blah blah.

Stripper kept asking small little bitchy questions, but by this time I wasn't paying attention. She turned back to giggle with Colts Fan, and as I lit yet another cigarette, I saw Jessica beside me.

"Jessica, I'm in a moral quandary." She leaned in so she could hear me better. "What do you do when you find out that the girl you promised to give a ride home is a total cunt?"

Her head pulled back, and she gave me a look that said Jody, you're fucking retarded.

"You just fucking leave."

I thanked Jessica, took a drag of my cigarette, and just fucking left. Word to your moms.

Now, I usually think that any video someone posts on Youtube of themself trying to be funny is NOT FUNNY. This one, however, actually made me laugh. If you think it sucks, wait until the cop shows up. That made me giggle.

Clicken Sie hier, bitte.

From some interview I found with David Berman:

CMG: Why don't you like CAN?

DB: Everything is boring about them. What's more boring than a can? And they put okra on one of their album covers. I like Germans but not music from Germany.

From Toothpaste for Dinner:

Rush Limbaugh is oh so sensitive to those with life-threatening diseases, especially if they're celebrities. Except maybe for Michael J. Fox. What a dick.

By lying through they teeth, folks!

. . . is being unjustly persecuted by a fascist regime.

Q: So what do you think of the President?
A: BWAPP!!

Uh, what happened to Paris Hilton? We now have something in common. Dear God no.