Orwell’s Diary as a Blog! Hipster Essay. Fence Editor Tells Contributor to Eat Shit. Six Ways to Get Published.

Here it is. Orwell’s diary–propelled to the NOW.


Ever since PBR sales spiked  in 2002 and the brewery had no idea why (they found out why–and slyly started marketing to the super-cool youth), I’ve been interested in Hipster Culture.

My bro sent me this Hipster Essay. Others have maybe seen this already, but I am old so it takes me longer. It started strong, but maybe could have gone more in-depth? The best part is the 2000-to-3000 comments. Man, people do have opinions on the hipster.

Essay begins:

I‘m sipping a scummy pint of cloudy beer in the back of a trendy dive bar turned nightclub in the heart of the city’s heroin district. In front of me stand a gang of hippiesh grunge-punk types, who crowd around each other and collectively scoff at the smoking laws by sneaking puffs of “fuck-you,” reveling in their perceived rebellion as the haggard, staggering staff look on without the slightest concern.

The “DJ” is keystroking a selection of MP3s off his MacBook, making a mix that sounds like he took a hatchet to a collection of yesteryear billboard hits, from DMX to Dolly Parton, but mashed up with a jittery techno backbeat.

So… this is a hipster party?” I ask the girl sitting next to me. She’s wearing big dangling earrings, an American Apparel V-neck tee, non-prescription eyeglasses and an inappropriately warm wool coat.

Yeah, just look around you, 99 percent of the people here are total hipsters!”

Are you a hipster?”

Fuck no,” she says, laughing back the last of her glass before she hops off to the dance floor.


I wish I know what to eat today. I have a few chips, some sour cream. I wonder if I could…Place this, uh, there. Cover with…Melt…uh. Maybe if…

Taste like a movie that doesn’t start until six-fifteen. Like Huntington, West Virginia. Blar. Blar me. Blar me of the universe. Now.


Here is where Fence editor, Rebecca Wolff, tells a contributor to “eat shit and die.”

Make of it what you will…


Adam Peterson has good poems about death at La Petite Zine.


Danger + Desire = Tension.


I made a chart today and this blog screwed up the formatting.

code desire express radically                    vivid y




liver throb

eaten by a cloud



the moon!

panty triangle,




so-called querulous

cooling towels






fuzzy pink




Mr. O



by Valery Oisteanu


I am wanting to read Blake Butler‘s novella.

I am thinking his blog made me want to blog, but maybe I don’t know.

I am wanting to eat cold oysters and white wine. With Hemingway. On the moon of a demoted planet. Why did he hate Fitzgerald for laziness and alcoholism and other isms?

My first oyster this guy in Florida gave to me covered in Tabasco sauce and mustard and on a saltine.

What is the point? (life metaphor)

Turning 30 is a demoted planet.

I am wanting to eat rotel.

Stoppage for days.

Feeling your pulse sludge.

I am wanting to bludgeon those who blog about Sarah Palin.

I am wanting to run away from home (again).

I am wanting to drink and Ebay.

I am wanting to drink a meaningless beer.

Have meaningless sex.

Dance to meaningless Depeche Mode.


I want my president to not be regular. Not a regular person. In no way regular. Sorry.

I am wanting a shamrock.

I wish I knew more about my genealogy.

I am shallow now.

I am linking to a kick ass Tao Lin interview. All his answers are spot on. Why do they ask why he writes about energy drinks and IM chat? Why did Van Gogh paint crows? He looked out the window, saw crows.

Tao Lin grows on me…

Time grows on me.

Regret grows on me.

Lorcet grows on me.

Sports radio grows on me.

I am wanting to link to an NBA star who has a new memoir.

I am wanting to mine Yoda’s roots.

I am wanting to quote Sarah Palin when asked about the $700 billion bailout:

“That’s why I say I, like every American I’m speaking with, were ill about this position that we have been put in where it is the taxpayers looking to bail out. But ultimately, what the bailout does is help those who are concerned about the health-care reform that is needed to help shore up our economy, helping the—it’s got to be all about job creation, too, shoring up our economy and putting it back on the right track. So health-care reform and reducing taxes and reining in spending has got to accompany tax reductions and tax relief for Americans. And trade, we’ve got to see trade as opportunity, not as a competitive, scary thing. But one in five jobs being created in the trade sector today, we’ve got to look at that as more opportunity. All those things under the umbrella of job creation. This bailout is a part of that.”


1.) Send in short stuff. Editors only have so many pages. You are not a “name.” That’s ok. The role of lit mags is to publish the edge of literature, the new, the voice, the cream puffs and hosiery of our time. They’ll take a flyer on you but not for 30 pages, freak-o.
Cormac McCarthy’s first pub was in a lit mag.
Ditto Hemingway.
Ditto Roth.
Ditto Elizabeth Bishop.
2.) Send in September, or January. You send in the end of their submission window and they are tired, drunk, bloated with good work, limited with room, feeling like twenty drops of tincture of hemlock, or weight loss drug, up all night not eating, circle and cycle, what do I do last night? If you do stimulants (don’t–at least not every day), be sure to have a “downer” to help you come off the back-side, on like Sunday. Even a Funny Car has a parachute near the end of its run.
3.) Get to personally know some editors. Have a beer with them, walk their dog. Loan them one of your 84 Joyce Carol Oates novels. Then send them stuff. They might not publish it, but it will be awkward to say no. Most humans don’t like to ever feel awkward. This is a BAD FAITH way to get published so might lead to night thoughts and generalized depression. I mean you can fake out about anyone but yourself, especially in that weird light before you fall asleep. Still, I’m trying to be helpful.
4.) Don’t use silly fonts.
5.) Don’t write about two people in an apartment drunk. Do not have your narrator commit suicide.
Here’s a great story: This young woman wants to run away from home. She’s a teen; she doesn’t recognize the value of family, when the shit hits the fan. A tornado hits, and carries her off to a mystical world of midgets and witches and bad-ass flying monkeys. Her house lands with a thud, atop a witch! The young lady brushes off the dust, gathers herself, looks around, says, “Well, this isn’t Kansas anymore,” pulls out a gun and shoots herself in the ear-hole.
The end.
Get my point?
6.) 300 bucks in the envelope might work.


4 responses to “Orwell’s Diary as a Blog! Hipster Essay. Fence Editor Tells Contributor to Eat Shit. Six Ways to Get Published.

  1. speaking of shamrock. my boy kimbo slice fights an old guy named shamrock saturday.
    google it, you will remember

  2. $300 would sure cheer me up – (maybe) almost as much as did the Fence editor’s eat-shit-and-die blog post.

  3. That Fence thing was just plain wierd to me.

    Thank you for the picture of Nachos- it made me happy.

    You, by the way, just blogged about Sarah Palin. And why not? She’s a hot topic, just like that clothing store.

    Oysters and whote win? At least once a month. It’s called date night around here. Gotta do it.

  4. thank you for wanting to read it
    i want you to read it
    soon soon
    this is a good post

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