First, I want to think everyone who has submitted to Crystal Gavel. It’s been a hamster deluge of submissions; I just thank gods that Amazon.com has agreed to take over all editorial duties. (I don’t want to bore you with the legalese, but I still maintain ownership responsibilities for the magazine. They own it, too, and Ander gets cheese and a lifetime gas card from GM. Amazon’s dude, my dude-ette (a stiletto of a woman)–they actually “did lunch.” An industry euphemism for lawyers ripping the gallbladders from each others sternums and slurping the rich bile with a cold tray of raw oysters, white whine [pun intended, folks]–all on the firm’s MasterCard.)
So, if you write a novella (we ONLY accept novellas–all poetical or flash fictional [Which I still don’t get] freaks, please fuck off.), we are really looking for you!! This is your day, lonely house-husband of America! Zombie story teen! Mail-woman with that closeted Sci-Fi trilogy. Let your creative angels fly! Let God guide your hand! Send us something holy!!
Jesus, I hate shit fiction. I mean short fiction, same thing, obviously. Or Flash, whatever. Last time I flashed I was arrested in a park in Memphis, TN.
That’s a joke. I never remove my clothing.
FUCK FLASH FICTION!!!
It’s like looking at a particularly inventive cloud. And then commenting on the shape, form, possibilities. Or asking someone else what they think of the cloud–their individual take on shape, form, possibilities. Who does that? You could have looked at an entire cloudy sky, a whole swath of gray. A big gray sky over everything. An industrial ceiling. An understanding, an ignored thing–so we could all get back to work.
But no, you go and select a specific cloud, lay on your back, with your girl/guy, hands clasped, most likely horny with a one-wine buzz, two wine buzz, and thinking about later that evening, the futon mattress on the floor, the Depeche Mode vibrating the floor, the mattress, your clenched thighs; later, later still, when you leave the river bank (you’re on your backs, by the river, gazing up at this wonderful cloud–OK, full disclosure, you’re on Lorcet, and then the wine, so basically floating like dropped tickets, like scimitars…), and so you’re just floating, in some love space, some envied from afar love space, some way your hands are buzzing, fingers clasping like electrical wires, shall I say snaking (I shall), just so damn happy (really) you keep unbelieving, just so not-wishing-for-more, because you have it: a grassy blanket on the river, a half-bottle of wine, two hands folding into each other like origami, a full evening ahead…a full possibility…
Yeh, fuck that. I hate flash.
Go publish in some rag, like Harper’s. I heard they do flash.
I’d also like to make clear here that Ander Monson’s original post on the crystal gavel spawned the magazine. (I have no real interest in stating this, to be honest. I am under contract by Ander’s lawyers to make this statement–I think adding this addendum to my coerced statement is my end-around. Nowhere in the signed contract did I say I wouldn’t blog an end-around. Stay tuned. Tomorrow I’ll most likely be coerced into apologizing for this very end-around. FUCK HIS LAWYERS!!)
[In Ander’s defense, his lawyers didn’t get involved until Amazon’s lawyers got involved.]
Well, I have my own lawyers, but they are friends who only work when I shovel them Percocet and Zima. Also my brother is a lawyer, but, unfortunately, also a self-destructive drunk. I don’t mind the drunk part. But the self-destructive part sucks. My brother has represented me in court 3 times. We lost twice. Both times we lost I felt we had a winning case, rhetorically locked. Etc.
But my brother self-destructed!
But I digress. I am going to quit talking now.
(dude, bro, I’m not in your profession, but lawyers don’t throw cell phones in court, or fake seizures)
Holy shit, as always, the lit mags online are rocking!!!! What do you need for good reads, people??? I’ll blog fresh individual pieces later but check this macrocosm:
* How about this new Diagram?? You could read good shit all night and day and night.
* Have you ever had questions about food service?? Well me too. Check out Hobart.
* Juked is hot. I heard that Lovelace guy writes about Simone de Beauvoir.
* A new issue of Hobart online
* I want to expand your minds, folks! Check out this new magazine, Crystal’s Place.
(I’m not saying she ripped off Amazon’s new hot lit mag, Crystal Gavel, but it’s a little sketchy. Their people will call her people, 2morrow.)
She will be a fighter, though. This Crystal is the kind of woman who knows the meaning of one universal equation: White-out + Connecticut Motel= FUN!!
I am finally going to respond to my readers. They keep leaving questions and complaints. So I will now, through a random algorithm, select two questions from the past year.
1.) You seem to romanticize alcohol. That is a shallow type of humor, I feel. Alcohol is a poison, period. You are romanticizing a societal poison. What is your point?
R2D4: I do not feel I romanticize alcohol. Ever. Alcohol will kill you, kids, and it also costs a lot of money and time. Can I write that any more clearly?
2.) Your ABOUT page says you’re a father, but I don’t feel that in your blog. Where are these kids?
CMeUNDONE: There is a term out there: Private life. It implies you can have a nacho chip/shard of your life private. But I also see your point, the hypocrisy of my blog, or even my existence on earth. Why even mention the kids and then not address them–it seems unseemly (pun intended, folks).
Here are my two kids, named MAY 2008 and Tiffany.
(check that dope hat on Tif!)
I love u all