Gag Me With A...

American Baby

2012-01-10T07:26:00.000-08:00

by Luna Blue

Jesus, Super Fetus (Aborted Hero of the Second Coming Detective Agency)

2012-01-10T07:20:00.000-08:00

by Robert Bowen

The telephone on the desk cut through the silence in the room like something loud and unexpected, which is exactly what it was. Jesus, Super Fetus begrudgingly pulled his head off the desk, crap simile aside (he would take the time to come up with a better one later, but for now there were more pressing matters). The phone.

It rang again, and Jesus immediately interrupted it’s unwelcome call by lifting the handset from it’s resting place. His good eye finding the clock to see it was 3:33 in the am. At this time of night he knew, the person on the other end of the phone either had the wrong number, or the right one...because they’re in trouble and need a hero...and they’re calling one. Maybe the similes should wait until he was more awake. Divine fetus or no, without a stiff cup of joe, he was useless on just a handful of z’s.

“Second Coming Detective Agency,” he spoke gruffly through strained, underdeveloped vocal chords, made raspier by the over-application of alcohol they suffered through the previous day. The voice on the other end made Jesus sit straight up in his chair. He hadn’t spoken to the Pope since denouncing all that the Catholic Church stood for after returning from his aborted grave. Benevolence and diplomacy often took a back seat with Jesus just after a resurrection, but even he felt he could have handled that situation better. But now, here was the Pope, calling on the fetus that turned on him.

Jesus knew this couldn’t be an easy call for old Bene to have made, so he felt that he should at least extend something of a reciprocal olive branch to the old bastard.

“Jesus?” Ratzinger asked, his voice ringing with hopeful desperation like a high school virgin on prom night.

“Nazi.” Jesus replied coughing off a bit of laughter. Okay so maybe the olive branch would come later.

“I’ve asked you not to call me that.” Ratzinger spat, reeling in as much contempt as he could, and failing miserably like a stoner trying to control the munchies in a candy shop.

“And I’ve asked you to stop protecting degenerate perverts, so it’s disappointment all around, Dic.” Jesus spat back, the venom in his tone matching Ratzingers.

“Look, the reason I’m calling,” Ratzinger began before Jesus interrupted.

“You’re ready to head to hell with the rest of your Nazi brethren, and you’re looking for a little fetus forgiveness before you go?” Jesus was laughing once again.

“Jesus,” Ratzinger’s once desperate tone now riddled with impatience, “I need-”

“A conscience?”

“Please, Jesus, just once can we not-”

“Can we not?” Jesus said mockingly laughing so hard tears poured from the corner of his good eye as he hung up the phone. “Fuck him.”

Okay, so olive branches are out of reach after 3 am, even for a super fetus like Jesus.

Call For Submissions!

2012-01-03T17:23:00.000-08:00

Gag Me With A... is looking for you!

Who: You!
What: Fiction, poetry, non fiction, collage, drawings, mixtapes, friendship bracelets, photography & whatever the hell else you call art!
Where: PeterLorreIsDead@gmail.com
When: Deadline is Friday the 13th!
Why: Because we are artists & must get our shit out there & Gag Me With A... will send your words & pretty pictures around the world at large!

Beanpole

2012-01-03T17:12:00.000-08:00

by Giacomo Lee

Registration for conscription in South Korea is automatic for men in the year they turn 18. Military service lasts two years.

One young man held down another. David Kang-Ho couldn't imagine what was running through the patient's head, a fellow soldier, his curse words streaked by tears of bile from somewhere above the voice box, a rattle tinged with the aftertaste of blinding alcohol, a sermon told in tongues, ripping up one side of the jaw to show tendrils and teeth never seen. A little peek in his head would have shown a similar sound but dragged out, that of chirping cicadas nesting up a mountain in the summer, and nothing else, and no-one else, just views and plant life a little rustled by wind, and rocks in the water, 'til a purple night-time fell and tigers with glowing eyes of orange prowled the plains looking for home.

'My son here, his son here, his son here, his son here, your mother's tails!'

David tried to strap Hyung's wrists down in vain, his eyes wide as his small lips quivered like a fish's, too flummoxed to call out for assistance.

'Bare branches...smashing your mother's head, the ghost'.

One hand strapped.

'Your girl’s head'.

The other was crushing David's wrist.

'Beanpole! I’ll cut you down!'

David shushed, almost faint, his back arching.

'She’s forgot you!'

Shh shh. Still no sign of a doctor.

'I'll eat your bones and your ma and your girl! They forgot us boy, she’s forgot you!'

David's free hand threw a punch at the patient's face, and another, another, and another, and a year later he wonders what it was all for, cleaning the window of Dunkin Donuts as some blonde prick makes two sisters giggle out loud with his pig Korean.

‘I need a war’ he mouths.

To be fair, it was cold out that night

2011-10-07T18:04:00.000-07:00

by Jonathan Super

During some cold night on a boardwalk in any shore town two men stand unmotivated. They talk about topics of no particular importance. “Don’t you think the word “fair” is kind of a strange?” “What do you mean?” “I mean, everyone talks about what it means to be fair, so, I was bored and I looked it up.” “Uh huh.” “It basically means beautiful, but it can also mean something unblemished or pure, so for something to be fair, that thing must be pure, unblemished, totally free of bias. This holds the word at a pretty high standard.” “Okay. So what?” “So, I just thought that, for something to be fair, an idea that is related to purity and beauty, anything unfair or foul, must be related to something unclean, gross, vile and corrupt. Which means to accuse somebody of being unfair, the accuser must first understand unfairness is a strong accusation and that they are making a point that has some strength in it. Making someone seem impure and bias carries a heavy weight.” “So you think people don’t understand the word?” “I guess so. Most people don’t give a shit about anything but their own well being, so instead they throw words around for either their own advancement, the destruction of another, or just for some attention.” “Nobody uses the word that way, so what’s the difference?” “The difference is that they are wrong, but there is something else interesting about it. Since the word means beautiful, I was figuring that ugly people must get a raw deal.” “Okay.” “I mean, since they embody the image of unfair, ugly people must have a higher frequency of being seen as unfair, corrupt, vile, nasty, shitty fucks. Whereas beautiful people get away with whatever they want because it’s only fair for the fair to be fair, you know?” “Alright, fine, that’s a little too meta for me. Turn away, I got to take a piss.” The man turns away while the other takes his penis out and pisses between rails along the boardwalk. “You done, it’s cold.” “Yeah.” “I’m going home.” “Wait. One thing. My dick almost got stuck to the railing like a tongue to a metal pole.” “That would be unfair for sure.” “Real funny wordsmith; anyway, let’s tell everyone that it did get stuck and you had to run and get warm water, then pour it over my frozen dick.” “I don’t think people will believe it.” “Just go with it.” “Alright.” Walking away to their cars leaving one penis story heavier than before while one conversation will die while waiting to be recalled.

Tender Little Mushpots

2011-10-07T17:35:00.000-07:00

by Eric Guaschino

What is Perspective?

"The relationship of aspects of a subject to each other and to a whole"

"Subjective evaluation of relative significance"

"A mental view or outlook"

Which in Layman Terms, means that we could both be standing in the sun, and from my perspective, the sun could feel warm, and refreshing, but to you, it could be hot and oppressive.

Q. So, if 2 people have different perspectives about the same thing/event/time period, which one is correct?

A. Both are correct, since we each dwell in multiple realities concurrently, we are in turn, subject to a nearly infinite variety of perspectives, and can do little to gain true insight as to how we are actually perceived.

For instance, say you have recently ended a relationship, and like most, endured good times and bad times.. say you only remember the good times, and all the bad ones were quickly forgotten. Does that mean it was a good relationship? Absolutly not ! It simply means that your psyche has chosen that particular memory set as your "reasoning shield" so when people ask what went wrong you can plead innocence and victim... what about the person that only remembers the bad times? Same fukn answer fool! Our minds have been trained (by us) to protect us from things... usually the truth, because nothing hurts our tender little mushpots like a good dose of truth. So, in order to protect ourselves from the harsh realities of truth, we conveniently invented.. you guessed it. The idea of PERSPECTIVE.

Perspective tells me that I am cool as fuck, and it tells me you are somewhat of a douche bag. Which will protect me from the possibility that you really aren't a douche bag (because I really am cool as fuck).

So my point in blabbering all of this nonsensical bullshite....is to remind you not to be taken in by the perspectives of others. Because many of us have become submissive, submissive to perspective, yours, and even fucking worse... others!

Try to understand, that no matter how you feel about a situation, most likely, you're fuckin wrong... and wrong in a huge way. We have become so professional at lying to ourselves we don't even think past our initial response most of the time anymore. Many people know I have had some perspective issues for a few months.. my perspective tells me that you all suck for the most part.. and most of you disagree. That is just your perspective protecting you from the truth.....

Just sorta kidding, remember this though kiddies.. when you trust in somebody else's perspective, you are granting them ultimate authority over you. Don't be such a spineless worm. Don't allow the words and opinions of others to have power over you.. laugh at them, tell em to fuck off, and maybe even fold their nose a little to remind them of their inferiority, and go about your business. You want to be number 1? You gotta get past my reality first, bitch.

"Perception is Reality"

The Scent of Prey (The Wish Chapter 2)

2011-10-07T16:57:00.000-07:00

by Robert Bowen

The wind blew so subtly that the trees gave nearly no indication that it wasn’t as still and quiet as the night settling in around the small cabin. So isolated and haunting standing all alone in this weathered, old section of the woods. The scent of prey was in the air nonetheless. Noticeable to any true predator. The soft candlelight which fluttered against the wall inside, tossing an uneven, inconsistent glow against the window pane extinguished. Game on...

The woods around the cabin were bathed in darkness as the candle inside went out. What little moonlight managed to break through the tangled mass of tree branches that reached high into the sky dotted the forest floor in places. Dylan Westing’s boot stepped into one such spot grinding the remains of his cigarette into the damp earth and soggy leaves. Still carrying the remnants of the rain that fell the night before.

Dylan was glad that the weather was clear tonight. He had had his fill of the cool, wet nights among the aged, silent forest inhabitants over the past week as he hid among them. Studying her. Learning. He admired her isolated location deep alone in the woods. Knew those desires to be away from the city and the vermin that roamed its streets. Vermin whose blood often decorated the ends of his blades and his longing, excited hands.

A vision of his last victim flashed before his eyes as he took another step towards the cabin, and a sick smile tore its way across his face. He thought of the dandelion and the wish that was carried away by the wind. Before he knew it, he was making his way on to the old wooden boards of the porch that wrapped halfway around the front of the cabin.

His mind snapped back to tonight’s pressing satisfaction, treading lightly to ensure the boards would not announce his presence before he was ready. He carefully crept to the door and begun the tedious process of picking the lock.

He gingerly pushed the door open, pulling up against it to silence the otherwise restless hinges, and he stepped inside. Eagerly he angled in the direction his nights outside among the trees told him Carolyn LaVencia would now be fast asleep.

Suddenly the sharp pain exploding through the back of his head poured darkness into his vision washing the shapes of the cabin’s main room from his view as consciousness left him. His body landing roughly against the floor with a thud. Amateurs, Carolyn thought with a slight laugh watching her prey twitch on the ground before her.

Dylan woke with a start as the water splashed on his face, pulling hard against the unyielding chains binding his wrists together and stretched high above his head. For the first time he actually saw into the eyes of the women he thought was to be his victim and he knew...tonight he would experience the nature of a true predator.

Heroes & Villains or Brian Wilson, You’re My Hero

2011-09-06T12:40:00.000-07:00

by Deirdree Prudence

“If you should ever leave me”

Brian sat down at his old piano, his childhood piano, letting the red velvet drape over the bench and his back in a great royal bell arcing to the floor.

Clutching the unfolded, refolded and unfolded again magazine cover in his hand, his face looked up at him from beneath the rocky white power.

"Ce bâtard le mettre sur le magazine une interview Le Plage Garçons? Enfoncer le Christ! "

It was funny, though.

But he didn’t smile. Brian never smiled anymore. Writing happy songs about sad circumstances, that was his calling. That was his Smile.

He tapped some of the powder onto the dull mahogany surface next to the discards of his existence: a pen, a scrawled in dog-eared notebook, a half smoked roach, chunky black glasses & a crumpled pack of smokes.

“Though life would still go on believe me”

Using a returned post card he had sent to her, the sun glistening over the Pacific with palm trees and surfers enjoying their summer break, he pushed the powder into two little parallel rows of mountains sides…snowy mountains to fuel the hells of the summer heat.

A lone bead of sweat made its way down the king’s temple, kissing the side of his face.

“Laissez les enculés manger du gateau…”

A rolled up Ulysses S. Grant note, his head bowed over the piano, he inhaled the first line loudly, quickly catching his crown as it started to slide of his bent head.

“The world could show nothing to me”

Finding & finishing off a glass of water to wash away the battery acid draining down the back of his throat, Brian walked into the kitchen and stood at the sink, staring into his reflection of the faucet.

The chunky black glasses he’d just shoved back onto his ever increasing full face from his ever increasing indulging, round gold medieval crown suited for the king of dark ages England resting awkwardly on his messy mop of sandy blond hair, a long red velvet Santa Clause cape with white fleece lining falling from his shoulders, and a deep deep sadness.

“La nuit, nous avons rencontré je savais que je vous fallait donc…et si j'avais la chance que je n'aurais jamais vous laisser aller…” He sang it quietly, watching his lips move in the facet’s reflection.

Another bead of sweat, this time mingled with a single tear fell down his cheek, the color of aquamarine birthstones.

“So what good would living do me?”

Brian turned away from his image, still humming the Ronettes’ cherry on top as he found the abandoned second line and quickly snorted it off the piano and stifled a sneeze, grabbing a cigarette from the mess that was his beach front home and put the Camel between his lips, groping for a lighter and finally after the flame touched the exposed tobacco, he watched the tendrils of smoke march their death march to the ceiling, the end of the cigarette red and lit like Christmas lights on a tree.

Brian rather liked Christmas.

Christmas in July.

He smiled a Mona Lisa smile, the first time his lips had curled up in what felt like months.

“Un de plus, un de plus, juste un de plus….”

Taking drags off the cigarette, he reached for the Beach Boys magazine interview, quickly shoved more white powder up into his sticky grey matter and took a swig of clear liquid, stale vodka but liquid in close range.

Brian kept on smiling, sat at the dilapidated piano seat and started plunking on the stained ivory and black keys again, the Ronettes out of mind, replaced by the grand symphony growing & solidifying in his head.

He finished the cigarette, stabbed the butt out in the overflowing ashtray & started singing as his fingers worked their magical royalty.

“God only knows what I'd be without you”

The Two Faces of Persephone Pomegranate

2011-09-06T12:25:00.000-07:00

I essentially live a double life. In one world I'm the person who is
writing this. I'm Persephone Pomegranate, a feminist zinester with
severe anxiety issues who smokes weed and enjoys taboo sex. I'm a
fairly outspoken person who shares my life openly and honestly in my
perzine.

In my other life I'm boring old Angie. A web professional who suffers
from no mental illness (because that would make me unreliable), bites
her tongue at a majority of the sexist bullshit spouted (because I
would be a total outcast if I called it all out) and has never
experimented with drugs in her life (again, we're back to being
unreliable).

Most of the people who know Angie just see a very quiet and shy girl
who only speaks when she has something specific to say. When it's
directly related to the topic at hand, chosen by the others around
her. Usually work related. It's a bit ironic because those who know me
by my real name don't actually know the real me. Angie is the fake
one, Persephone is who I actually am.

So why do I do this? Why not just let Angie become Persephone and show
everyone in my life the true me? I keep up the illusion with my in
laws for my husband's sake. They're uber conservative and I honestly
don't know what they would do if they knew the truth about who we
were. I keep up the illusion with my work colleagues so that I can
keep my job working from home which allows me to fully live life on my
own terms.

I understand that there is a bit of a selfish streak in what I'm
doing. I should be trying to break those stereotypes down and let
people see that while I suffer from a mental illness and do drugs
recreationally, I'm still a reliable person who is good at what I do.
But I have to be selfish on this one. I need to be able to work from
home, where I don't have to talk to anyone face to face, where all of
my interactions get to be through email, where I can lead the
reclusive life that I need to lead in order to stay sane.

So, at least for now, Angie and Persephone will have to remain split.
And honestly, I kind of like having an assumed identity that allows me
to be completely free. Persephone has opened my eyes to so much that
Angie either wouldn't or couldn't admit to herself. Persephone has
done so much to put me on the path of discovering who I really am.

The Wish by Rob Bowen

2011-09-06T12:21:00.000-07:00

Dylan raised the cigarette to his sun chapped lips. As his rough calloused thumb ran along the jagged teeth of the thumbwheel and the flint sparked life into the fumes from his Zippo, he took a long overdue breath to relax his over-excited nerves. He always needed a cigarette afterwards to settle him back down. Tether him to the earth, as it were.

Traditions, he thinks to himself as the toxic smoke pools in his lungs, waiting for the exhalation to come. Seconds pass as Dylan soaks in the summer sun and the calming chemical interlopers from the smoke holding tight in his chest. As he exhales he reaches into the tall patches of field grass breaking off a small dandelion from it's roots and holding it up to examine it's numerous seeds waiting with their make-shift parachutes to be given flight by the summer breeze. He takes another drag off his cigarette as a subtle grin pulls across his face.

He closes his eyes gently as his wish works its way through his mind before he exhales the smoke, blowing the dandelion seeds free from their keep and into the air. His eyes open to see one solitary seedling holding on tightly for dear life, rendering his wish completely useless. He sighs as the smile slowly fades into a light bite of his lip as Dylan nods in understanding at the fate of his wish.

'Oh well...' barely escapes Dylan's lips, trailing after his sigh, as he tosses the remainder of the dandelion aside. He looks out across the field as the tall grass playfully sways with the wind, and the sun begins to drift down towards the horizon leaving a colorful explosion of pinks, oranges, and purples upon the sky as it bids adieu to the day.

Dylan climbs to his feet and brushes off the earth clinging to the denim on various areas of his jeans. Mostly those that were pushing against the ground as he rested, riding the high he was always left with after each of his 'special encounters'. He wondered briefly if others were left with that same warm rush of satisfaction that ran through them leaving their skin almost tingling.

He crushes the end of his cigarette between his fingers, pinching the barely lit cherry off. Its job is done. The rush is gone, and Dylan's skin is no longer ringing with sensation. A sensation he would be robbed of if that damned dandelion seedling would have its way.

No matter, he thinks to himself turning his back on the sunset and walking from the field. For as long as he gets that same thrill...that rush...Dylan Westing will keep killing.

Blood & Sand by Wendy Hockstein

2011-09-06T12:01:00.001-07:00

Lena sits in front of the fire, the sort you're not suppose to have on the beach, and watches the faces of new kids who have decided to settle on there. They are pale and dressed all in black, their hungry eyes watching as her friends worship them for being new and unknown. Skim, the boy her friend Linda Lu is friends with that she met at the IHOP a few days ago, says they're dangerous, to not come to the beach anymore, to be aware of the stories his father tells of bloodless children and the dead that walk and talk like the living. But as she watches the sharp bones of their faces outlined by the harsh light of fire she thinks of all the years that she has come to that beach and felt the sand under her feet and the water touch her finger tips. She thinks how long it took to teach her body to not burn whenever she went into the yellow light of the sun, old and breathless like her, and as she feels the teeth too big and sharp in her mouth and hears the pounding of the blood in their veins like syrup, thick and smooth running down them, she knows that Skim's father is right to warn his children of the people who have dug themselves out of their own deep cradles in the earth, and that her friends will be safe even if she has to show them what she truly is.

The Living End by Luna Blue

2011-09-06T11:59:00.000-07:00

Here Comes Trouble. Here Comes the Light of Your Life

2011-07-06T19:23:00.000-07:00

by Karley Bayer

Whirling around, head below her knees, rightsideup, around again, again, Stefanie could no longer focus on any of the audience members. The Amazing Henri (say it with a French accent, si vous plait) was a large, dark blur. She never saw the knives coming; just felt the thunk, thunk, thunk as they sunk deep into the wooden target she had been strapped to five minutes ago.

I shouldn’t have drank that whiskey before I did this, she thought. The pot wasn’t helping either. The world was spinning before she had gotten on this contraption. She had tricked herself into thinking that maybe the actual spinning would counterbalance her mental spinning and everything would turn out all right. She feared the knives less than she feared she would vomit all over the place before she was unstrapped.

Even after she was back on her own feet, bowing in an imitation of grace, she felt herself holding her breath. Just get out of this hot tent, she instructed herself. The cool air will help.

Outside, gulping in the cooler summer air, her hair rumpled, her makeup smeared across her face, the vomit came anyway. Hot and acidic, it gushed from her mouth like a faucet. She was leaning over the trashcan full of half eaten fried dough and corn dogs when she met him.

“The Magnificent Stefani! I presume?” He took the hem of his battered, sleeveless shirt and wiped her mouth. He actually had been watching her for a while, afraid to approach this terrible hellcat.

She noticed his flat stomach, the ripple of muscles before he let his spotted shirt fall back into place. “None other,” she agreed. Though she was feeling less than Magnificent right now. Maybe it was the pregnancy.

“Warren,” he said, grasping her by the elbow and leading her to the closest drink stand. “Hair of the dog,” he explained, offering her a cold cup of beer.

“Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear,“ she mumbled; then she noticed that two fingers on his left hand were missing. Fascinating. Three long, delicious strong fingers, and then the smallest of nubs. What would they feel like on her skin?

“Lost them to the Ferris Wheel.” He wiggled them.

“Shit. You work here?” Usually she was on top of the new staff.

“For about five months.”

Stefanie didn’t know how it was possible that someone with beautiful arms like that could have gone unnoticed by her for so long. She threw back the remainder of her beer, and held up two fingers to the man behind the counter. Two more beers promptly appeared in front of her. He wasn‘t the only one with pull around here. “I’m feeling much better, but I think I might also need something greasy for breakfast. You wanna join me?”

“Sure,” he replied, hoping he was reading her offer correctly. But then, not wanting to seem too eager, “What time will you be up?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you’d be in my bed, when I did.”

Warren smiled at her. “Girl, you’re trouble.”

“You’re gonna love it,” she promised.

Three years later, those words were still true.

Craving Nicotine

2011-07-02T10:50:00.000-07:00

Photography by C. Nathan Popejoy IV

Story by Alan Lawless

Serena and I fight our way past the dozen kids in the hallway and enter. We find a spot near the wall in the main room, where the band is playing, and stand with my arms wrapped around her waist. As we listen politely we watch a couple dozen kids mosh around in circles.

Serena opens her bag and hands me the 4Ooz beer we had stashed inside it. I take a big gulp, then hand it back to her. She takes a swig then passes it back.

The concern that Serena can feel my rather large bulge through the thin material of her oversized t-shirt is confirmed when she begins to ever so slightly rub her butt back on it. The band is loud and fast and we continue listening as we trade the beer back and forth for the remaining dozen minutes of their set.

Before I know it the booze begins to set in and my mind gets a bit fuzzy. When the bottle is empty Serena lays it on the floor, then turns around and presses her red lips to mine. I kiss back and run my hands over her firm behind. In her skyhigh stiletto Mary Janes my Angel and I are nearly the same height.

The band finishes their set and I’m craving nicotine, so Serena and I search for an exit. We find a door at the back of the apartment and go through it, which leads us out onto the roof.

The lights of Manhattan shimmer ahead of us in the distance and the sounds of Brooklyn- dogs barking, sirens, cars, people yelling- fill the air around us. I pull my cigarette from the pack, put it to my lips and light it.

Serena insists on kissing and biting on my neck as I smoke and I don’t mind, although it’s hard for the crotch of my pants to hold it together. The tips of my fingers find a hole in Serena’s ripped fishnets and run over the silky smooth skin of her thigh.

    My Angel’s left hand slowly moves up the inside of my thigh and she whispers, “God I want to suck your dick so bad,” in my ear as her hand rubs over my bulge. “Maybe I should do it right here?” she says teasingly. My left hand slides up between my angel’s thighs from behind, finding a very wet spot of fabric. ‘Jesus,’ I think, ‘What happened to the sweet little girl I met about a year ago? Here she is talking about an act she’d never performed up until she met me. ‘What have I done to this girl?’
    Just before I’m done with it Serena takes the cigarette from my hand between her black fingernails and puts it between her lips. She takes a drag then throws the butt to the ground.
    Since the band we’d come to see has finished, we make our way downstairs and back home.

by Veronika Vendetta

2011-06-29T10:26:00.000-07:00

The summer air has thinned and warmed enough that sounds travel quicker to your ear and heart. I can hear the trains from my bedroom window now. Their horns reminiscent of wolves howling at the moon, beckoning me to be swept away from the ordinary, the mundane. They’re a call to action, an invitation to rejoin the pack, never letting me forget a time when falling asleep counting stars was commonplace and standing on the tops of cars after smoking peyote and screaming quotes from Macbeth to the starry-eyed gods was commonplace.

Rugged and worn boot leather crunching and displacing the gravel surrounding the railroad ties as I’d run and hop on my next adventure and the general grittiness and dirt of the lifestyle that seeped into every functioning part of my body whisper sweetly to me while I continue my efforts to just stay put. To just be somewhere for a while. To not be one of the countless friends and acquaintances I’ve lost on the rails to overdoses, greasing the track, and muggings. I strain to remember their faces but time has kindly been sweeping away the details for me for years now. They’ve effortlessly become shadows of the ghosts themselves.

To live for years never knowing where your next meal comes from or what state you’ll be in tomorrow when you wake up or if someone’s going to jump you while you sleep eats at you after a while. I got antsy, I got suspicious, and I had become the crazy hobo that I used to look out for when I ran away from home more than a decade ago and hopped my first train.

But the trains? They don’t ever let me forget, blaring their horns at night when they pass by my house, almost as if to tell me that they’re waiting and that, sooner or later, they’ll carry me far away from here. A promise to start my life over not for the first time and, somewhat fatefully, not for the last.

Cab & Minnie: Sex, Drugs & Hi De Hi De Hi De Ho

2011-06-09T13:16:00.000-07:00

by Deirdree Prudence

Black and shiny like onyx, greased waves curling into his eyes, a slam dance of a hairpiece up and down, Cab Calloway’s hair is a joy to behold, archived forever and ever on film.

The world would have been lost if the new generation didn’t have access to the spectacle of Cab Calloway’s hair.

I bet it smelled of sweet opium and hash.

That jitterbug was too much.

His parted Hitler meets John Waters mustache, his trademark threads of a white suit and coattails, the bellowing scatting and jive talking (he did, after all, write The Cab Calloway Jive Talk Hepster Dictionary) and dancing like a professionally trained epileptic, the entertainer that set the country aflame in the 1930s & ‘40s never would have been if it wasn’t for that diabolical, that wretched hussy, that red hot hoochie-koocher of the Golden Dragon opium den in Chicago, Ms. Minnie La Rue.

It was shortlived.

As are all love stories that realign the stars.

She was out of this world.

Living too fast a lifestyle with one of the most upping and coming big band leaders, Minnie was sent to a psychiatric hospital where she held hands with Zelda Fitzgerald and trillied into the clouds.

Cab went on to write 23 songs for his Min, his main queen, creating a persona for himself in Smokey Joe, and spun tales of the exploits they should have shared.

They were a solid murder to all the ickies out there, the squares who took his Min away.

He went on to have a long-lasting career, performing in movies, on Broadway and the makeshift stages of pallets in an alley of Skid Row.

Every line of cocaine was for her.

Every toke of reefer,

Every kick of the gong around,

it was all for her.

“They took her where they put the crazies

Now poor Min's kicking up those daisies

She was just a good gal, but they done her wrong

Poor Min, Poor Min, Poor Min.”

Clothes Line

2011-06-03T01:47:00.000-07:00

by C. Nathan Popejoy IV
http://cnpiv.com

Falling

2011-04-03T21:47:00.000-07:00

by Alan Lawless

It's about eight thirty on Friday night and my need for a serious amount of alcohol has reached critical mass, yet my boss doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps heaping more and more work on the pile. I've been here 80 hours so far this week and eaten more meals with him than my girlfriend, but he would never notice that.

"Can you print out a copy of the latest script for Lana? She's gonna be by in about half an hour,” my boss yells from his bed where he’s talking on the phone, as always.

"Sure. No prob."

Lana is the most depressing person in the world. After talking to her you want to shoot yourself in the head. And she will talk until you physically remove her from the premises.

The printer is about halfway done with the third page of our one-hundred page script when it jams. It’s one of those cheap, small, desktop printers-meaning that to get to the paper jam I basically have to rip the whole thing apart. I do so and manage to fit my fingers inside of the tiny hole where the offending sheet of white paper is and yank it free. The sides and front of the machine are slammed back on, print is hit again and then I hope that it continues on uninterrupted.

I manage to get across the apartment, light up a cigarette and make a phone call before another death rattle is emitted from the machine. My head begins to pound and suddenly the room is twenty-degrees hotter as my patience is reduced to absolutely zero. When I reach the printer, the red light blinks at me, mocking my attempt at productivity smugly. It not being possible to argue with a piece of hardware, I extinguish my cigarette, put my phone call on speaker and attempt to continue my conversation as I repeat the earlier operation. Plastic parts lie everywhere and paper is once again removed.

I get about halfway through another cigarette and wrap up my phone call when again I’m beckoned to the other side of the room by a screeching sound. That’s it. This is a war of attrition and I’m only left with one move. “Phillip, come with me for a minute,” I tell my friend and co-worker as I sprint through the office; the printer in my arms.

We run up two flights of stairs and arrive atop our six story building. A police car sits at ground level warning me not to do it, but at this point a fine is a small price to pay for revenge.

I look to Philip one time in hopes that he’ll talk me out of this, but instead he encourages me with his mischevous smile.

The printer dives across the narrow alley, makes contact with a window, then falls to the pavement with a satisfying crunch. That feels much better. Now I can get back to work.

Secret Keepers

2011-04-01T13:22:00.000-07:00

by Anonymous

The sickness. The revelation that the subconscious mind can bury your secrets so well that even your conscious mind can’t find them. The stomach turning. The imminent anxiety. Douse it. Lose it all in the three dollar bottle of chardonnay from the gas station. No good, the tears have loosened themselves up and have convinced your eyes to set them free. No such thing as crying before tonight, now you have to punch yourself in the gut as hard as you can to dry up.

That song. That evil, melodic song. Which one? Flames. It’s all that song’s fault. Relistened to it for the first time in years tonight and it flooded my brain with our handful of memories. Been sitting in a trance-like state since its advent. It’s on repeat. You were the only one I knew that loved that song as much as I did. You are the only one that I’ve ever fallen in love with and couldn’t admit it to myself.

That time next to the river, our second time ever being together. We lay in the grass next to each other. I invited you to my wedding and you said you wouldn’t go because you didn’t want to cry. I laughed it off and playfully punched you. Why did I never give that simple sentence one iota of thought? You loved me too, didn’t you? Why didn’t you say anything? God damn you. Why did you say nothing?

Those times we talked on the phone? I’d never met anyone that made me laugh as much as you. We clicked from the very beginning. And now? Now you ignore me. I don’t even get the satisfaction of staying in contact with you.

We’re married now. To dim shadows of what we loved about each other. The vomit rises up in my throat. My heart races my boiling hot blood through my body now. It could have been you. It could have been. It would have been. If only we both weren’t so good at keeping secrets.

God, Strung Out

2011-04-01T13:19:00.000-07:00

by Christopher Stella

To a fragile mind’s tidal-wave eyes a stained-glass horizon peeled out
of Los Angeles, a bastion of bleach-jeaned beauty, a mental cold turned
of heat mania, blathering her flagellated Christian intangible doubt
of intuition. Dread-locked and sweet, petite-stout, desolate and drained
of light, Reformation ,and black-barley wine poured from her lips
of tightened rebar towards hips of linen-night gossiped silence.
We basked in the sun for days and neon-eves of blissful horror, nips
we would take of cheap malt liquor and the unique mental, menial violence
we, she mostly, induced from blood-libel, stillborn ideas of morality. Broken,
we strolled through sand and stick-poked tattoo seas on tired-eyes.
We, being groggy and blear-faced at dawn, would struggle, barely woken,
to trek Oxnard and Long Beach for record stores of crust and crucifix’d commie-

-oilslick’d-wax

Pawning fillings from coffee-stained teeth to drag ourselves from squat-to-squat,
we learned quickly of aged consent alive, decaying, in romanticized urban rot.

False Moustaches, Moustache Candy, Moustache Bandages & More

2011-02-16T22:06:00.000-08:00

by Kenny O'Connell

Oh dear God in his mercy doing paperwork with a lightpen has redefined bringing the office home under the blanket at 1:30 in the foookin morning which has thus defined the adage, 'live to work, work to live.' In other news I've again found mid digit hair on my lateral hands smaller fingers, which in turn reminded me of those really ugly Portuguese girls in high school that had moustaches, which now has prompted me to break into a resonating blissful version of 'Pencil Thin Moustache' .....and like Blue Bayou I'm picturing those fooking fishing boats with their sails afloat on my own personal downeaster Alexa.

♥ Editor's Special Note: Drugs are bad, Pacman. ♥

Kappa: It's All 日本語 To Me

2011-02-02T11:15:00.000-08:00

by Amanda Griggs

When you see the word kappa, what comes to mind? Frat boys or sorority girls? Kappa IS the lOth letter of the Greek alphabet and a popular name option among college panhellenic groups, however in Japan the word has an entirely different meaning.
Kappa are mythological water imps, mischievous in nature and portrayed as being green or yellow, with a scaly, tortoise-like body and webbed hands and feet. They are typically the size of a child but are deceivingly strong and known to attack livestock and humans (particularly children, their prey of choice). The crown of a kappa’s head is concave and holds its life force, water from its home. Kappa are strictly freshwater beings and are often blamed for drownings. At one point in time were referred to as "anus vampires" as many victims were found with distended rectums. It was believed that after drowning their prey, kappa sucked their entrails or life force out via the anus. The kappa has a voracious appetite for the blood of human children, second only to their appetite for cucumbers. Kappas’ love for the vegetable and its usage by river goers to appease the sprites (and enable a safe bathing experience) led to the creation of a cucumber-filled sushi roll called kappamaki.

Despite their gruesome qualities, kappa are extremely intelligent and have a strong sense of decorum. If attacked by one, the only sure way to escape is by bowing deeply to them—in Japan, bowing deeply to someone is a sign of great respect. The kappa will return the bow, spilling the water from their head and rendering them immobile. By refilling the cavity on its head with water from its home, the kappa will become obliged to you for eternity. Once captured, they are very loyal, helpful and will always keep their promises. Benevolent kappa were even believed to have taught bone-setting to their human captors. A fine example of their loyalty can be seen in the cheesy 2010 Japanese film "Death Kappa", in which a kappa (indebted to a young pop star and her grandmother) is exposed to radiation and battles another monster to protect his benefactresses. Spoiler alert: the world is saved and further crisis is averted, mostly thanks to Death Kappa. See? They aren't all bad.

These days kappa aren’t really considered a threat unless you’re racing a Koopa Troopa in Mario Kart or battling a Pokemon trainer with a Golduck in their party, but if you’re planning on going to Japan it sure couldn’t hurt to walk softly and carry a big cucumber.

For more information on the elusive kappa, check out wikipedia, pantheon.org or onmarkproductions.com's deity dictionary.

Kappa-maki

2011-02-02T10:55:00.000-08:00

by Amanda Griggs

You've learned how to appease the kappa, now learn how to appease your stomach with a quick recipe for kappa-maki (just in case you have a spare cucumber lying around).

What You Need:
6-7 sheets of nori (dried seaweed, available in the Asian section of your local grocer)
2-3 cups of sushi rice, cooked and cooled (sushi rice is short-grain

Japanese rice, steamed and seasoned with rice vinegar)

kappa-maki: The tasty treat.

l cucumber
salt
soy sauce & wasabi paste for dipping

How It Works:
Wash the cucumber and peel it if desired.

Scoop out the seeds and discard them.

Slice it lengthwise into thin sticks and sprinkle each with a dash of salt.
Lay the nori sheets on a flat surface and spread a thin layer of sushi rice over about 2/3 of each sheet (leaving the l/3 furthest from you rice-less).
Lay a long slice of cucumber in the middle of the rice. Start at the edge nearest to you and carefully roll the seaweed into a long tube.
Repeat with the other pieces of nori and cucumber. Slice each tube into bite-size pieces and serve with soy sauce and/or wasabi for dipping.

If you live near a body of water and have children and/or an anus, I would suggest taking the precautionary measure of setting of sushi aside for your newest friend. You know, just in case.

New Gay Whore-to-Culture App

2011-02-02T10:11:00.000-08:00

by Nicholas Krempasky

I’m a fat chaser
I’m a ball baster
I like masc jocks into WS
I’m DDF looking for Same
I’m a latin bottom bitch looking to
Have my hole filled by older white daddy
Papi’s to the front of the line.
Happily partnered but not dead
Open to anything
Come over now
No one over 25 please…

From crass and to the point to the ltr
Looking for same these boys have one thing in common
They are the new electronic gay-whore-to-culture
But don’t worry, there’s an app for that!

It doesn’t stop there… these pseudo “social” sites allowing gay guys (sorry ladies, your market doesn’t have the dollar impact yet apparently) to hook up indiscriminately (or as picky as hell given the tags) has seen wave after wave of new-gay come onto the scene… think pre-stonewall parties with instant access to pants (I know, not much different) but also access to complete digital livelihoods. I miss the cryptic glances and the swarthy stares from across the room… I can still get those looking younger than my near 3O (read as “almost dead”) years, but only from even older men in bars themed in ways interior decorators these days would call antique thrashed sheik or in beer pub relics of even older beer pub relics from the UK to old school dives with innuendos for names… I may miss the more exhilarating glances and the possibilities of free drinks, but I certainly appreciate the doorbell ringing and escorting my evening’s entertainment, who btw I don’t plan on remembering his name, in doing a cordial meet and greet using no words and after festivities, sending him on his way all while wearing my PJs (except when it is “socially excepted” that they be otherwise strewn about my floor).

Le Tour de Earth

2011-02-02T10:05:00.000-08:00

by Steven 'Chopes' Davis

‘I’ll meet you in the Philippines. Oh, how? I’ll ride my bike there. See you in a couple yrs!’

This is how this whole craziness started. Joking around with my buddies, then the question popped into my head: ‘Why can’t I ride there?’

2 years later, I am doing it. I am about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime…circumnavigate the world, on my bicycle! To see the people of the world and how they live, will be amazing. I want to learn as much as I can while out and maybe some people will learn from me. There is so much out there and I want to see it all! What better time than the present to do it? Long Beach, CA - Long Beach NY, zigzag my way from Portugal to Transylvanian Alps in Romania, Ukraine, India, Asia.

With my bicycle, a tent, some necessities and WITHOUT sponsorship! The plan is to get as far as my money will get me, which will be at least into Portugal, then get a job to continue on. Riding when I want, breaking when I want, doing what I want. This ride has no time limit because I want to get the most out of it. If there is a stretch of nothing, I’ll probably get through it quick. If there is a stretch of beauty and entertainment, more than likely I will stay and check it all out.

I will be documenting this trip with pictures and posts on my blog at LeTourDeEarth.blogspot.com. You can follow me around the world and see what kind of trouble I am getting into and what sort of terrain I am passing through, as well as daily mileage and mental state. This is going to be a solo trip, so I will probably be like Tom Hanks talking to Wilson in Cast Away. I already have my bike mojo, a Tron action figure (Sam). He will be my companion for the duration of the trip and get me through the hard times.

With the good thoughts from you and the positive people on the road I will make it through this alive. Curiosity never killed any cat I know!

Wagdug Futuristic Unity: Masters of Mad Style

2011-01-26T03:03:00.000-08:00

by JT Thomas

The MAD CAPSULE MARKETS was formed in 1990 by Hiroshi Kyono and Takeshi Ueda and over two decades their sound has evolved into a style unique to the band and its off shoots. Ueda and Kyono led MAD CAPSULE MARKETS, formerly called Berrie, as a punk rock front which resembled Japanese punk groups like GISM, Gauze, and The Stalin. The songs were short, violent and vitriolic, with thrash metal riffs, heavy metal bass lines with an anarcho-punk focus. Kyono's lyrics reflected the angst of a generation of Japanese disgusted by the economic shit-cake they'd been forced to eat through out the 1980's.

By 1994 they'd evolved beyond punk and started sampling. With the release of MIX-ISM and PARK, Takeshi's bass-lines took on a garage rock tone and Kyono's vocals became melodic with sing-songy tendencies, leaning toward grunge. The thrash was still there, but the bands punk influence was kept to aggressive guitar riffs. The songs were twice as long with refrains, chants, and hooks. With their 7^th album MAD's focus shifted to Takeshi's bass more than ever and their guitarist ISHIGAKI left the band.

Hiroshi Kyono

In 1999 MAD incorporated Digital Hardcore elements, a style created by ultra radical and often atonal Atari Teenage Riot, and disseminated through Alec Empire's Digital Hardcore Recordings. The DHR style was composed of grinding samples mixed with hip hop and drum 'n bass drum loops. Takeshi and Kyono called this blend of their punk rock influences and Digital Hardcore 'Mad Style', and with the release of their album OSC-DIS, Mad Capsules Markets received their first wave of international interest. This interest came from their juxtaposition of post pop riffs and melodic arrangements over the aggressive grind of Digital Hardcore's glitchy sound. Kyono's vocals became insistent, malicious and brutal exhalations, giving the tracks a more guttural, industrial quality.

By their last two albums as the Mad Capsules Markets, 010 and CiSTm KonFLiqT, they'd returned to a hardcore sound while including drum machines, synthesizers, and samplers. The beats were much heavier and largely more mechanical, with programmed bass arrangements accompanying Takeshi's live playing. The bands roster was in constant flux at this time, as the guitarist ISHIGAKI left the band. In 2005 the three remaining original members of the Mad Capsules Markets split. Takeshi founded AA=(aaequal), while Kyono perfected 'mad style' with Wagdug Futuristic Unity.

Even though Takeshi's AA=(aaequal) unarguably has elements of 'Mad Style'; hectic tempos, glitch audio samples, and manipulated vocals, it lacks grit and comes off cheesey and uninspired.

In contrast Wagdug's sound incorporates all the grimy brutality of MAD's first three albums with Kyono's willingness to experiment with novelty. On Wagdug's first album Hakai, Kyono collaborates with the likes of Chino Moreno, Ceephax, Funkygong, Justice, Numanoid vs. Mazda, Maximum the Ryo, Ultra Brain, and DJ Starcream. This was their first full length album and a defining example of the potential of 'Mad Style'. But the best examples are found on Wagdug's EP Nu Riot, specifically the track Hakai (Deathtroy).

Hakai (Deathtroy) was featured on the soundtrack of live action adaptation of DeathNote, a Japanese film about a bored angel of death, a sociopathic high-school aged would be god, an agoraphobic detective and a masochistic pop-idol. Wagdug's video for film increased the bands popularity in Japan and affirmed them as masters of 'Mad Style'.

Keeping the Group Alive

2011-01-25T11:26:00.000-08:00

by Wendy Hockstein

The Shrawt’s college reading group sat around the usual table in class room Infinity they usually met in, staring at each other from across the table, each doing something different with their hands or biting their lips in order to not look at the seat next to Mathew Morren where Lindky Maynson had sat each meeting.

It was the first meeting in a long time and it was a good l. They sat and enjoyed each other’s company, Lindsy and Jack brought snacks, they all traded stories about the Jackin witch.

That was all they ever did at meetings, talk about the witch who sat on the hill near the school,
and was terrible, and was old, and was always there. You had to talk about her, had to tell the stories, and keep her alive. Or she’d get angry and start to take people.

Or they’d end up like Linkdky Maynson.

Five Minutes In the Heavens: Astrological Archetypes

2011-01-20T23:30:00.000-08:00

How to guess someone’s astrological sign

by Veronika Vendetta

While astrology isn’t an exact science, there is undeniably something to it. No, I’m not talking about the daily horoscopes you read in the newspaper. Those are bullshit. I’m not 100% behind the predictive nature of astrology. I have much more faith in what the planets in what houses and signs can tell you about yourself.

So, how can you tell what someone’s astrological sign is after only knowing them for five minutes? It’s easier than you think. (Though, I might warn you about people born on the cusp. Cuspies, as I call them, can confuse the hell out of you but, if practiced enough, you can tell what two signs they border on.) Pay attention to them! It’s as easy as that! And here are the traits, looks, and characteristics that will let you know if they’re a Pisces or a Libra.

Aries

Leader of the pack. Look for people following closely behind or mimicking gestures and movements. Red hair or ruddy complexion (signifying their strong Mars influence) and an athletic build.

Taurus

Comfy clothes that look like they’ve been slept in. Not too quick on the uptake, if you know what I mean. Profession might have something to do with cooking/baking, or home design.

Gemini

Easy to spot. Will talk your ear off, circulate the room, and talk to anybody including themselves. Look for a strange purse if female. (I don’t know why this is true but it is.) Also, pay close attention to their bodies; Gemini is the sign of the twins and there will definitely be something asymmetrical about their appearance. Crooked smile, a limp, one ear higher than the other.

Cancer

If you’ve ever been cut down to size and had nothing to say about it, you’ve probably met a Cancer. Sandy hair color is a maybe, but look for a voluptuous neckline on a woman or some padding on the men. Wise-cracking and witty, also has a way of never being broke.

Leo

Easiest sign of the zodiac to call out. It’s all about the attention with them and they will find whatever way they can to get it; lead singer in a band, in the middle of a circle of people telling jokes and entertaining. They like the spotlight only on them and aren’t comfortable sharing. Also prone to blushing.

Virgo

Shirt tucked in, shoes shined, hair immaculately parted and held back. This is the essence of Virgo. If they pull their wallet out in front of you and all of their receipts are in chronological order in their billfold, you’ve found one. Look for anal retentiveness, OCD, and things of the like. Also may have brown eyes/hair.

Libra

Chubby cheeks with a dimple somewhere on their face. Lighty, flowy conversation that doesn’t offend their sensibilities. Make a declarative statement about someone and if they disagree, you’ve got yourself a Libra.

Scorpio

Dark and broody, usually hovers around the edges of the crowd observing everyone. Dark eyes, unwavering stare and a propensity to wear black. Snide remarks are also common.

Sagittarius

The girls tend to be a bit ditzy, but will astound you with something you never knew they knew. The boys tend to be super athletic or super scholars. Look for sparkling eyes and a few near-death experiences.

Capricorn

The hard-workers of the zodiac. Grad school, four jobs, they will absolutely push themselves to the limits. Sexual powerhouses behind closed doors. Talk about sex and watch their reaction. If they don’t say anything, it’s probably a Capricorn.

Aquarius

Flits around the room. May leave in the middle of a sentence. Into all kinds of weird things that most people have never even heard of. Also has ankle problems.

Pisces

Look for that guy/girl that is staring off into space, in the middle of the crowd but not a part of it. Soft spoken and thoughtful. Thinks before they speak. Also usually has blue-green eyes that change between the two often, like the planet that rules them, Neptune.

Crispin, Prudie & the Flamingos

2011-01-20T23:11:00.000-08:00

The empty black pain of the dry wind put a smile on Crispin’s lips that he couldn’t shake. The agony creeping across his head only made the smile more fancy free: her dark hair, her hazel eyes, the deep red of her lips….her beauty would be burned into his mind forever.

He sat on the warm pavement, wet and sticky, slowly taking his shoes off with a single hand: black socks with holes in the toes and hearts around the ankles rested, restless.

Crispin raised his face toward the skies, making out nothing but the smallest of stinging glitterings. He couldn’t tell if they were celestial bursts from one god or another or the acidic glow of surrounding urban streetlamps.

It was warm, a balmy breeze burning the holes that were once his eyes.

His caustic smile never seized.

And then he heard her footsteps.

He felt Prudie’s body fall against his, her left arm blanketed around his waist.

They sat facing the nearly black water, sitting on the graffiti and gum stained sidewalk away from the sand, both grinning at the roaring sound of the ocean waves lapping against the rocks of the breakers.

“My love must be a kind of blind love

I can't see anyone but you.”

She didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at her. But their lips were collective curls of a secret truth.

Prudie’s hand found his, not his vacant hand but the coddled hand with moist fingers closed oh so delicately around the wet stickiness.

With Crispin, it was always wet and sticky.

“For you, Mrs. Glover.” His lips touched her ear with a haunted murmur.

Prudie’s bottom lip trembled as she gingerly took the treasure.

Carefully.

Oh so carefully, she opened the warm, wet sticky fabric.

She stared at the bloody mess, two orbs that she would never see again.

Her own eyes glanced sideways at Hellion in the warm moonlight.

One by one, she placed each offering of love eternal into her mouth.

And swallowed.

When they were gone,

Crispin never saw her again.

But they were together.

She was forever behind his blood-matted lashes.