New Year's Resolutions

"New Year's Resolutions"
by America

AN EXCERPT:
Resolution #11: Exercise more.

Resolution #12: Jumpstart economy.

Resolution #13: Get housing market on track.

Resolution #14: Get out of Iraq.

Resolution #15: Put an end to Spencer Pratt.

I'm A Man

"I'm A Man (and other not-so-shocking truths)"

by Brooke Hogan

.

AN EXCERPT:

I'm dumber than shit.

Come Home With Me

"Come Home With Me: Spending A Season With My Family And Other Suicide Missions"
by Katy French

BOOK SLEEVE EXCERPT:
So after the Christmas tree and the cats caught fire, the kids ran around screaming with smoked presents in their hands, thinking they were glued as gift-wrapped. The turkey had been thrown out the window when Uncle Eddie yelled at Aunt Mara for letting the kids smoke in the house, though it was Uncle Eddie that had started the fire with his "magic" (lighter fluid, old saloon cards and a top hat that went all wrong). My mother was swimming in scotch and my father was light as a feather (and as high as one, shooting off toy guns at the neighbors, though they weren't aware they were playing "War"). Cousin Arch was sipping on water he found in the radiator. Marco Marcowiz was playing a Halloween song on the trumpet he got for Easter. Disastrous Diana, our most oddball second cousin, was on the roof with fireworks and Jimmy, the local boy she loved. Kevin had already fallen off the roof and not moved off the front lawn since Grandma Crans gave him a bottle of vodka to waste away the pain. Grandpa Sceers had fallen asleep on the dining room table. And there were 16 more guests.

All while I was having the cigarette of my life on the porch, watching the cops roll up.

One Last Victory

"One Last Victory"

poems

by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"Churchfire"
finally...by jake kilroy.

After the long nights of warfare in bedrooms and cafes,

and the short years of peace we had during nights on the town,

the moon went down for a nap and the sun swallowed some pills.

I know you always liked sporadic poems,

filled with descriptions and ongoing sentences,
without rhymes or reason,
filled to the brim with cheap shots of beauty and spaz junk slang.
But you chose the weapons,
you compared us to the Cold War,
you left the salute for a new god,
and you left the love letters for the dead poets we glorified,
back when my mailbox was filling up with wonder,

and nothing from you.

I checked every day, and never a thing of praise or libel.

But I fell asleep in my kitchen, waiting,

clinking glasses with my greatest of doubts,
marching on, tearing down every beautiful thing for your church,
painting new martyrs and humming new hymns,
I fucked in your temple, just to watch it burn, so sing now!
Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing!

I wish the megaphones were on!
I wish the speakers were taped with explosives!
I wish I could finally say something grand without swearing!
I wish this drink would kill me before the stage does!

Oh, dearest memory of olde, they're playing your song again,

and I finally know the words, I've finally got the fire,
I've finally got the plank for you to walk to cool off.

But this dance is never-ending, so you best get your best shoes,
your best outfit, your best gentleman caller or ladyfriend,

because the only bell that'll sound this season
is the alarm that comes when there's a prison break,
somewhere in the catacombs of your heart.

So when the heat dies down, and you're still drinking martinis,
on ice, shaken and stirred and any other movement coming,
you'll be sweating bullets, popping the floor like firecrackers,
as your feet move swiftly in good shoes back to New York City,
back to New Orleans, back to Chicago, back to Los Angeles,
back to the beach where we first saw new stars,
because so help me on the new holiday weekend,
I may be drunk in a church, but I'll still know the gospel.

And just so you know, I wrote the fucking masterpiece.

Merry Christmas To All!

"Merry Christmas To All!"
by George Bailey & Friends

AN EXCERPT:
Merry Christmas, movie house! Merry Christmas, Emporium! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan! Merry Christmas, other various 1940s establishments that no longer exist! Merry Christmas!

How We Saved Christmas!

"How We Saved Christmas!"
by Kevin Manahan & Eyvette Min

TAGLINE: Two kids. One divorce. Hundreds of hilarious antics! It's like Parent Trap. Except with adopted ethnic kids instead of two bratty white girl twins!

Clearly, I Am So Detached, Moody, Puzzled (And Your Children Probably Like Me More Than You These Days)

"Clearly, I Am So Detached, Moody, Puzzled (And Your Children Probably Like Me More Than You These Days)"
by Kristen Stewart

BACK COVER:
Did you like...see me...in Twilight? Remember all those times I just couldn't freakin' believe that Edward was a vampire and I would like...go into convulsions because I was just so confused? Remember when I said that I would totally, like...miss the heat in Arizona? It was like...in the first five minutes, but be honest...you were hooked. You believed that I would totally miss that heat. And remember how I took it all in so magically and beautifully, like I was amazing...? Cool. Read my book.

Party In Pairs (With Class)

"Party In Pairs (With Class)"
by Mallory Larsen

BACK COVER:
Who's going to hold your drink when you kiss or fight someone? Who's going to smash things with you when you say the party sucks (after you've been asked several times to leave)? Who's going to steal stuff from the party you just had to leave? Who's going to hail a cab by flashing it down instead of flagging? Who's going to take you to your bed and either go saint or sinner on your ass (literally)? Who's going to buy you breakfast the next morning, saying that you totally wanted it and "taking advantage" is libel?

Well, I don't know. I'm a book. But I bet someone is!

Situations where this book may help:

- An ex just showed up to the same party as you with a date, and you can't find your switchblade, so you make your friend look so good, your ex kills his or herself on the dance floor with a dirty knife he or she found in the sink.

- A circus where the ringleader asks for two volunteers and you don't want to work with an audience clown or real clown, because, well, screw clowns .

- Some board games suggests you need a partner and you'd rather have sex with a handle of vodka before you force yourself into a threeway.

- You chose a song at the bar and some bitch changes it. You gotta punch some lessons. Who's gonna hold those arms while you dump a something-tonic all over their face, yelling racial slurs that don't make sense, like "lagibaloo!"

- You want to get down.

One-Sided Phone Conversations, Volume One

"One-Sided Phone Conversations, Volume One"
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"A White Girl, An Asian and Star Wars"

No, dude, you're never going to believe it...

Yep.

Yeah, with two girls!

No way. She could easily slip out of handcuffs.

Well, yeah, she's Asian, dude. She weighs, like, 40 pounds. I could probably throw her over my house. I wouldn't though, because that's racist.

I don't know, man. I guess 40 pounds is a lot, but let's just say I'm really determined to do it.

Yeah.

Ok, look, we both know that I failed physics. I just think that I could toss her over. Or at least make it happen with a running start.

Yeah right, the taller one's white. Really nice body though.

I don't know. But get this...I think her dad's in the mafia.

Hmmm...should I?

He wouldn't shoot me for that. I'm totally being good to his daughter.

But I took her out for dinner first. Doesn't matter what happens later, right? I earned it.

Well, yeah, but we were role-playing at the time.

Tarzan and a sexy cop doesn't even make sense. You're combining roles, dude.

What?

No, that's stupid. That's like...really stupid. Why would a firefighter be with Jane? You're switching everything around now. He's a hot city boy and she's trapped in the jungle.

Why the hell would he rescue her in the first place? Are there house fires in the jungle?

Well, it's not helping. You're just throwing out any combination of roles that pop into your head.

No, you're yelling.

Sure.

Yeah, but it's not sexy if it makes no sense. Princess Leia doesn't even know what a Catholic school girl is. Why would they be hanging out anyway? And then who would I be? Would Luke Skywalker be messing with a school girl's innocence? No way. I'm a goddamn Jedi Master. I wouldn't do that.

I don't know. Jedi's the only religion I know of in the Star Wars universe. Shoot, you'd think that God would've been there a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Wow. Hmmm...maybe George Lucas was telling us all something.

Ok, yeah, Jar Jar Binks would be the Anti-Christ. For sure.

Well, yeah, as Han Solo, you would just have to wear the vest and blaster.

Yeah, but her hair wasn't really all that sexy in the first one. And he was frozen in the third one.

No, I don't want to be them at the end. There's no passion or tension at the end of a trilogy. What about that part where they hook up on the ship? It's kind of boring, but it's something.

That's gross. Don't compare that to the Sarrlac Pit.

Why I Haven't Cared About Real Sports Since I Was A Kid

"Why I Haven't Cared About Real Sports Since I Was A Kid"
a therapy session with Jake Kilroy
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
Chapter 5:
Overexcited Baseball Fans That Get In My Face For Not Appreciating America's Pastime

Ok, I'm sorry I don't care about statistics outside of school. Or even in school. What's his ERA? What is an ERA? All I know is that it's some capital letters that when put together means an extended amount of time signifying some kind of plateau in between two changes in culture and/or science.

Oh, good, you stand to hold yourself invested in and devoted to a group of local multimillionaires that play the same sport you did as a kid. Alex Rodriguez has never publicly written or painted anything. He's never recorded a song. He's not an artist. He has no creativity. He was just paid $252 million to play baseball for ten years.

I'm not worshipping that. Sure, I'll continue to gamble on these players (and attempt to fix the games) but I won't hold them in high esteem. Men who know everything about sports are like aliens that know everything their soil. Did that make sense? I don't care. Chapter over. Whatever. I'm only good at apathy, I guess.

Ok, if apathy was a sport, I'd be Willie Goddamn Mays.

But then that would make me good. And you know what? I'd beat your asses. Ok, now I suppose it's empathy. Because I care about beating you. You'll probably cry.

Ugh. I remember one time that me and Tommy Watson got into a fist fight in the outfield during some Little League practice. That guy was such an asshole. And now he's probably some big baseball star and you totally love him. Man, you'd lick his goddamn knees just to taste his scabby sweat.

Seriously, that guy was a total dickhead.

What?

Wait, seriously?

No way. You're making that up.

Oh. Wow.

No, I had no idea.

Well, of course I wouldn't make fun of that.

Ok, nevermind, it turns out that Tommy Watson's just a stupid meth addict these days. Like an asshole.

I Miss The Good Cameras, They Were So Good To Me

"I Miss The Good Cameras, They Were So Good To Me"
a memoir
by Lindsay Lohan
Photo from photogeek.tv

AN EXCERPT:
Did you see Mean Girls? Remember Mean Girls? Remember how many boys wanted me when Mean Girls came out? Remember how sane and normal and hot I was?

"Oh, it's that healthy cute redhead that parties here and there. We all love here," they would say.

Now all they say are things like...

"Oh, she's such a weirdo blonde lesbian that will never ever do anything better than flash the cameras again."

"She's just a few more rounds of heroin away from being Courtney Love."

"I might be into her if she got a body peel or two, but then she'd look like a dying unicorn."

I don't even know what that last one means!

Cry break!

Annnnnnnnnnd back!

I miss the cameras when they'd whisper, "You're so pretty, baby. You'll always have work." No. Nope. Not now. Instead, I spend time with my 30-something girlfriend that makes little to no-sense. I know, America! I know I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm trying! Ok? Jesus, just let me make my movies! And go see them. Please. Go see that awful movie where I'm fake pregnant. No, it's not Mean Girls, but it's kind of like it. Some of the girls are mean in it. And it's two words. I think it's called Labor Pains. I don't know. I was really drunk the whole time.

I know. I know I can make a movie. A good movie! Parent Trap 3: Caught In A Custody Battle! I'll be a hero! Kids in messy divorces will love me again! They'll understand that I can't do anything about the vodka in my cereal. Oh, the cramps are back. My body hurts. Why is everyone letting me do this? Has anyone seen my sister, the stripper, the breakdown?

I'm ready for my close-up now, Mr. Disney. Remember me before I loved the loins so rotten.

The sun never sets on Sunset Boulevard! Hmmm...maybe I should move there.

Hot doggie, where's the nearest cave?

No, I suppose they don't mind me being thin and blonde there. I look good in those pictures as a baby, don't I? All smiles. No bikini shots. No transparent shirt. No DJ humping. I just want the attention of those that'll really love me.

This isn't mean to be funny. This is meant to be artistic, beautiful annnnnd spectacular! I wanna be a star again! Why won't you let me dance again, God? I'm crying as I write this. I hope you're happy, Hollywood. I hope you drown me or you, America.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. The red hair is killing me. It makes my face itch.

Jubilee

"Jubilee"
a novel
by Julia Hiser

AN EXCERPT:
"There will never be distance in the ocean," Bradley yelled.

Monica stopped, but didn't turn around. The park was busy. The festival was being built around them. By tomorrow, she wouldn't be able to walk without bumping into strangers. Bradley faced Monica's back as she began to cry.

"There will never be distance in our sweeping arms and certainly not our love," Bradley continued. "I am as pure as this nostalgic longing between us. I feel like we're stuck in the 1950s and loving every second. Pull that black and white body against me and let's make sure this new year has fireworks until the numbers change."

The dirt below Monica's worn shoes was sinking, she felt. Her sweater was itchy and her nose felt like it was bleeding. She rolled her eyes, embarrassed of herself and of Bradley, though she didn't want him to stop talking. Not for any second available.

Please keep going, she whispered to herself.

"When I become old, I will have a model train set and you'll have that garden in the backyard," Bradley yelled. "Please build me into a better man. That's all I ask. That's all I could ever ask. I want to feel like a kid again, all the wonder sensation of everything new. Please tell me I'll feel that warm tender sting again. I want that everlasting numbness, I want that glory and I want it is to start now. Can we start now? I want to be home with you tonight, somewhere in the golden windows of a log cabin. I want the blue silver light of the moon and night and stars beating the lake water like it were smashing mirrors and diamonds all at once."

"And?" Monica yelled, hardly turning her head more than a faint nod.

"And I'll have my typewriter and you'll have your books," Bradley said with a smile, feeling as though he were finally digging his way back into Monica's heart. "We'll make our overalls work and our love will endure whatever cowboy western tribulation we'll deal with. I'll love you forever and I'll love you well. I'll love you when my heart is dead cold and my soul is rioting to revive me, so I can love you into another eternity. Give me some light, give me some stars, just give me supernatural illumination."

"More!" Monica wailed.

"You'll never tell me it's done," Bradley yelled, beginning to shead a tear every couple of sentences he screamed, slowing approaching her. "This is our sailboat waiting. I couldn't love you any finer than our own private tropic island. I'll love you to the worst black death in Australia. There would be heart there. You wouldn't be able to tell the difference from the city's lights and stars. I'll laugh and love you. I'll cry and love you. I swear to the Almighty that I'll love you. I promise him I'd love you. I have to love you. You're never going to have to love again. Please never leave me in the stars watching you. I've passed through Heavens and clouds and nearly knocked stars to love you from afar. I want to watch you, but I'd float farther into the next afterlife, so it'd be blurry enough to never recognize the new man. I could pretend it's still me. I could wage war in my mind to tell you everything you want to hear from such a starlit distance. For the first time, my feet will swim through carpet. I'll treat life as a painting and death as a delightful joke. The worlds will swirl and I'll still love you. I'll love you. I love you then. I love you now. I love you still. I'll love you forever. I love you."

Monica collapsed. Bradley reached her. They were safe with each other again. They both had forgotten about the lake, the mysteries, the heartache, the letters, the lifelessness in both of them. They had survived, though their limbs ached. The wind picked up.

The Last Song The Devil Played

"The Last Song The Devil Played"
a collection of poems
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
What shall we call this?

The Pompous Poet Lounges Around Loudly Once Again In The Streets
(Or, "What Graces A Young Women To Dance Sin In The Wake Of A Public Speaker")
(Or, "The Cobblestone Address Of Confidence And Beauty")
(Or, "What Renaissance? I Thought You Were All Here To Love Me")
(Or, "When Careless And Dashing, Always Love Heroically")
(Or, "Speak Before Spoken To And You'll Always Have Women")
(Or, "The Evening Speech Of The Arrogant Writer Near The Lake At Sunset")

Hear ye, kings and mighty swordsmen!
Hear ye, leaders and courageous soldiers!
Hear ye, queens and slender women!
Hear ye, bad saints and good sinners!
Hear me, chumps and chumpettes!

I swallowed fire to impress all of the audience
that gathered fair at the renaissance!
We had to dress up kindly and spark with manners,
as we traveled to a where, not a when.
I saw the push of the shove as her tush I came to love,
and I rhymed myself straight into her bed and right out of her heart.
In one holy place and out the other I am.

I've set fire to kingdoms and I've set foot in churches!
But I've never wrestled a beauty such as you.
The beat talker, no street walker, is she
(I pray, and I hope, well-wishers),
but us hapless rogues (snarky and sharky), (whimsical and cunning),
(brutal and bare), (shape-shifting and flesh-kissing),
we're still the leading reason they invented handcuffs.
And I've never been a criminal for crime.
But subliminal for time, or rub slims sinful for rhymes.

Well, you ladies with fans and you fans of ladies,
hear me like the cannon that may be my doom!
I'm the smartest court jester that you've ever seen dance a jig,
and I can swindle your clothes, your cards and your coins,
before you even knew you loved me.
Ah, fair games are only in afternoon lounges it seems!

I live over yonder, out where the trees sigh with content,
the youths swim nude and the lake water has no weeds.
Visit me! I have no barren soul
(or any real character to speak of, just tongue).
I've been an empty birdcage full of words since I last loved,
and since I last loved, I've evolved,
much like the jackrabbit (fast and sweet, I tell you).
I'll lay you tender and I'll lay you cold.
By the end, I'll leave your eternity old.
You'll have learned from loving I,
and I'll stay with you until your chest is red with warmth.
Battlegrounds? I should say not!
I couldn't hold any weapon greater than a pen!

So ink your skulls! And spill paint onto your lovers!
We dine on the most sinful of feasts tonight,
but only after the dimmest of lamps in the street
blow out their candles,
just like you'll be doing in the new waking eve of heavy breathing.

March, young squadrons of bedroom soldiers!
For I have a declaration and I don't want a king here!
Whispers are the only communication us poets have.
They'll kill us otherwise. But I've always been that other wise.

Charming hearts and loosening bosom tops
are charity work in my efforts!
I hereby declare that I'll also be swearing until dawn
that I saw whatever mystical creature you wanted to exist
and named it too!
So piss off, young dreamers and schemers and feverish crashes!
I have done all there is to be done in this era,
that is this day and this age!
And your loves sin from dusk until dawn,
while I leave these troops of stretching women!
Wives have left their husbands!
Queens have deserted their kings!
And I have left my floor before!
But nevermore am I a humble worker in this town,
quiet and without muse!
I am as reckless as I am planned, and I'm as glorious as I am damned!
Drinkers are the only sinners that don't make mistakes.

Powerful rogues! This goes on! I continue! And I apologize for it!
But once you have a fair audience, why stop?
Burn your bottoms and cut off your tops!
The only war we have is with ourselves!
How long have you been fighting? Will you go on? Are you done?
Have you felt your last human being who wasn't you?

Shackles! Prisoners of love! Prisoners of war!
Nobody is at home near the fire!
The giggling you hear at night is not you!
It belongs to your lover.
You've slept right through the excitement
while she slept right through me!
Yes, constables and squires,
I loved your maidens and they loved me!
I assure you that I loved them better
than they could ever hope to sin,
like steam in courtyards.
Beautiful, tender, wild (never mild in my throws),
careless with laugher. Sweet, loud laugher/(explicit).
Look into it while you chase me on the cobblestones!
I'll look to you as I hobble you with words, gentlemen.
Tomorrow evening, I expect us to have drinks!
Because the only thing I'm better at manipulating than your maidens is your language.

The prettiest skies are our faintest light
and our darkest hour is upon us!
You see, I wrote this in five minutes and it's best left
for the eaters of squalor who holler for fights at night when they rhyme so right.
But me, I'm making this up as I go!
I saw a girl in cowboy boots and I felt inspired.
You don't know cowgirls, you say?
Well, I couldn't even tell you
what this poem was really in regards to anyway.

But I'll continue to stand in the public square,
maybe to refine this one day! Or night.

For now though, I have a date with Destiny!
And she's alone until he comes home.

I'm off!

The Murder of Winston Bounds

"The Murder of Winston Bounds"
by Graeme Olsen

AN EXCERPT:
"Nothing but horse thieves and blood-thirsty orphans in this town, I swear," mumbled Charlie.

"A little harsh," laughed Wyatt. "Just be thankful there's a collar around your neck and not a noose."

"Yeah, thanks for not letting me sleep vertically tonight."

Wyatt handed Charlie the reins and helped him onto the other horse. Charlie held his arm. It had stopped bleeding, but the veins still didn't feel like they connected. Not much of Charlie actually did. His whole body ached. He could feel his own feet falling off his legs, he thought. His boots felt like warm jail cells.

"Always my pleasure. Never seen much truth in lawful death anyhow. I'm may be in the business of shooting, but I'm not in the business of killing," shrugged Wyatt.

"Not many cowboys that don't think their gun talks too much."

"Well, you know me, I'm the silent, ungodly type," Wyatt said with a smirk. He rubbed his chin and squinted. Wyatt himself wasn't even sure if he was looking into the distance or the future. They both had a long journey ahead.

The two horses walked slowly through the plains as the two gunslingers carried very different postures: one proud, one slouched.

"These prairies will make mighty fine homesteads one day, just you wait," Wyatt said with a smile.

"I suppose a man has to sleep somewhere," shrugged Charlie. "But for now, we've got a bigger problem."

"Ah yes," Wyatt said with a sly grin, "the mysterious evening murder of the outlaw Winston Bounds. What a fine mess this shall be. I'd like our tombstones to be built here instead of homesteads should our hearts give out from a spectacular loss of blood."

"I'm the only one burying me," Charlie said in harsh breaths.

Wyatt took in what Charlie mumbled, laughed to himself, shrugged and said, "You know, Charlie, that gash may also be a head wound."

"Har har," Charlie said with a forced chuckle. "Now, let's go find the three men that killed Winston Bounds and kidnapped Mary."

"I'd say that hole in your arm is a good place to start digging," laughed Wyatt.

"No," Charlie said with a serious tone, "save your strength for graves. We'll need three."

Green, Black & Sassy

"Green, Black & Sassy: my sex dream with Nicole Kidman"
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
Last night, I had so many epic dreams, I think I drank melted LSD. Not the heroin water I had right after brushing my teeth.

But I remember one dream in particular. I was with my friends hanging out at my house. And that's how the dream begins...

It's a nice get-together kind, like the afternoon backyard parties my mom throws. It's daylight and there's a lot of people, in and out of the house, but mostly in the backyard. I mainly recall me at the computer showing some friends my new band. I forget what it was called (but the letters were green and the background was black) and I'm not sure who was in the band with me, but I played guitar in it and sang. It was a post-hardcore band, I think. And my last name might have been in it, because an old musician friend laughed and called it "Kilroynger Escape Plan" or "Killinger Escape Plan."

Then, it's night and we're at this Orange County Fair thing, but mixed in with a creepy carnival, overgrown haunted marshy forest kinda thing. It's mostly shades of green and black. It seems everyone that I have ever known is there. We're having a really great time, but still know something bad is going to happen. I mean, just look at the surroundings. It's totally creepy.

Before long, we all start hearing whispers that the murderer from Scream is there, trying to knock off my friends and I. Some of us end up in an Indiana Jones jeep and we're driving off to this other area that's shaded well, but behind the carnival. The Scream killer comes. Then there's a flood!

After the flood, somehow, I'm a movie director, but still know the carnival has happened or is happening, but everything is cool with that now. Like it was a joke of some kind. No one died, and the creepy vibe is just for some fun Halloween effect. The rides are free and it's a good time.

Now as a movie director, I'm wandering around trying to finding my actors. I end up in a dirty make-up room / bathroom. The lights are flickering, the faucet is leaking, the walls are smeared with black grease. The walls have a tint of scary movie to them. Nicole Kidman is there. She's in my movie (good job, casting). She's looking young and wearing a black corset kind of deal with sexy underwear, leggings, high heels and clippie things (yes, I still have no idea what those things are actually called).

She's like a portrait that talks, a film that walks, a sculpture that frolics.

And, I have never wanted anyone...

So.

God.

Damn.

Badly.

Instantly, we both know what we want: each other. Like mad. Like rabbits pumped full of bad vitamins. Before I know it, our faces were an old ballroom and pushing each other's body against the wall like professional wrestlers (I seriously can't think of a better analogy).

Side note: Nicole Kidman has the softest, wettest lips, and she uses a whole helping of tongue. My sweet botched eastern god, does she use a lot of tongue. And I'm into it.

Everything is moving fast. I've never moved so fast for anything as I do for this. I want every inch of her. I can't move fast enough to have it all at once.

I want to finish her like a meal, conquer her like a civilization and know that every part of her is part of me at once, like a mooch ghost.

I have never lusted like I am. I feel almost god-like for what I am receiving. It is superhuman how much this lust is pinning itself to my loins. There is some feeling of me melting in the room's air, like her perfume was floating off me and that was the scent of my sickly and death-defying desire.

It's too hectic for me to keep going. I look around the room bewildered often. I remain surprised that the room is not, in fact, on fire. Everything in flames, it feels.

And she's not this classy sort of Nicole Kidman you see in the tabloids. She is sexual youth, greasy, soulful and gutless, with a more addictive sweat to sex than most rabbits or robots programmed for that sort of thing in the future. She would crawl around in dirt just to wrangle you down for ten fast minutes. She is begging and in charge at the same time. She owns you and wants you to be her master. Controlled control.

Plus, Nicole Kidman winks at you a bunch. And it scares you. It terrifies you. You don't know what to do almost every time. No matter how many times she does. You don't know what to do. Every hair on you feels like a fort on patrol. Kill, kill, kill, your body aches. What savages are here for us? You wonder.

Also, you worry the entire time she's kissing you that she could become a snake and swallow your body whole. At any given moment. That's what it feels like. The pleasure of knowing and the panic of not. Your brain remains deceased.

And I'm taking the liberty of excluding the really rough stuff. Yep.

This is where I become a gentleman, because it gets to be so pornographic that the imagination is better than me evolving into an erotic writer. I've written erotica before, sure, but this is beyond that. This is beyond casual sex.

I mean, this wasn't poetry, it wasn't pretty and it wasn't filled with words.

I can't write it. It would cheapen all of it.

It was gross stamina: pure, dirty, feisty, fast, saucy sex. Hands were flying everywhere, clothes kept being ripped off (and because it was a dream, they would reappear) and so much making out, you think your lips don't belong to you anymore.

Nicole Kidman can make you feel like she's going to grind your body into a snortable powder and get your nerves to go AWOL on a roller coaster. It was so antsy and motion-driven. It was like race cars. It was just motion after motion for a destiny right in front of us. I couldn't get enough of her and she seemed like she had hardly started.

She moaned throughout and I blacked out occasionally from ecstasy.

Finally, it slows down enough to where we have feeling in our legs again, but we're still moving faster than humans should. We're standing, and one of my assistants (I have many) enters with a clipboard and a walkie-talkie to tell Nicole that she's needed on set. She kisses me once again with an overwhelming and superhuman amount of lips and tongue and struts away like she just left me for dead.

Which she just did, in some form. I can hardly breathe.

I leave the set to come back to my friends, and I wait for the best moment to tell them. I am so excited for this to be a story I tell, and it is so real in the dream that I thought of real places with real people I could retell the story. I tell some of the friends there at the carnival. And they accept it. No convincing.

Then I woke up. And I was unsure what was reality. In the first fleeting blinks, I wondered how I got home from the carnival and movie set, and when I could feel this alternate universe Nicole Kidman on me again.

And when I realized it was a dream, I was heartbroken. Seriously, absolutely, just...heartbroken. It was awful. Just awful. I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted it all over again. I was robbed, I tell someone (I don't recognize) in the mirror.

I looked at Nicole Kidman's picture in the paper before school and felt awkward, like I was waiting for her to wink or ask if my body was ready to be broken again. Maybe I should take some time off, I thought.

But we'll meet again, Nicole. We'll meet again.

Randy

"Randy"
a coloring book

TAGLINE:
Is coloring pages and pages of an ethnic twentysomething racist? I don't think so. And neither do you. Enjoy!

Shoplifting Stuff Inside Your Butt

"Shoplifting Stuff Inside Your Butt"
by Kim Kardashian

AN EXCERPT:
Christmas is expensive. Birthdays are expensive. Valentine's Day is expensive. Mother's Day, Father's Day, the Easter Bunny's birthday, Best Friends Unite Day, Kooky Fun Hat Day, Midwestern Appreciation Day...the list goes on. There are always reasons to buy gifts!

But let's say you're not rich for no reason like me. Let's say that nobody wants to buy your sex tape and your family doesn't sleep on bags of money and butlers holding up your mattress. There's no maid that will clean up wherever you decide to pee and there's no champagne in your bathroom (if you could even call that a bathroom! Giggle squat!). You have no film crew boys constantly asking for an old glimpsy whimpsy of your romping rump and Paris Hilton doesn't do mounds of blow in your guest room. Your life just isn't as hard as mine. Let's put it that way.

So you earn all of this money from some job as a waitress, a doctor or a pig farmer...or like...a guy who...I don't know...somehow knows Barack Obama and you want to buy gifts. But no money! Oh no! What should I do? Well, I sold exercise videos. But you can't do that. I did that already. Keep reading though! I tell you what to do next! Wheeeeeeeeee!

You steal. "Thank you, Miss Kim Kardashian! We're sorry for calling you fat sometimes!" you all say. And I say, "Ok! Let's be friends! Steal! Usiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing your butt! Haha! Crazy, I know, right?"

What you need to do know is eat cupcakes. Get big. Let the world know you're thick. Then work off everything else but your "lady." You want your fat lady singing to start the show, not end it. Keep it a little bigger than it used to be. Then you can keep it fat and everyone will just think you've got a big butt. But you don't! You have a shopping cart in those panties! Giggle!

Then, you go to the store and you start putting things up your "goofball" and now you have free stuff! Nobody will ever know!

"Oh, look at that butt," they'll say. Oh, you mean the X-Men DVD, bag of ice cream sprinkles and entire subscription of O Magazine! Haha! Joke's on you world. I've got things in my butt! And ideas! Whenever I'm having a bad day, I just put all of my bad thoughts inside my butt with my tarot cards and bird and then I have a wooooooooonderful day!

You'll always be surprised what you find up there months later!

I once pooped out a Grammy, and I don't even make music! Teehee!

No Gold, No Glory, No God

"No Gold, No Glory, No God"
a book of poems
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"Sleeping In A Backseat"
(The Powerlines Looked Like Crosses)
(The Trucks Looked Like Dinosaurs)
mumbled in a backseat by jake kilroy.

I was sleeping in a backseat, counting my blessings,
the other night, the other long sleep.

The powerlines looked like crosses;
rumbling something terrible against some blurs of trees,
some abandoned homes and some orange canvas
(that only really finds itself admist poems of road-thumping),
but as we drove south and my eyes loomed north,
I counted my fingers broken and rattled my body for weather
(that only really finds itself admist poems of road-thumping),
and I strayed from every hopeless deed I've ever burned into my chest,
countering any culture I ever created and destroyed like a pioneer
(that only really finds itself admist poems of road-thumping),
and for whatever reason I ever remind myself of foreign lust,
I can cradle my own skull atop some crawlspace of burden
(that only really finds itself admist poems of road-thumping).

But I went west anyway.
And then the sun went down like the Bible Belt,
finally a part of an outfit being thrown to the floor before casual sex.
Wear it well, with all of your grand desire.
They'll burn your statues to crack open sunlight.
A farce or an affair, suppose it's all the same when you lie to yourself.
But it's always a good laugh in the morning.

And humility will surely always follow.
And then the sun set, beautifully.
And before long...

The trucks looked like dinosaurs;
rumbling a loud passing with Christmas lights attached,
giants moving slowly against a landscape of burned out lanterns
(that only really find themselves admist poems of road-thumping),
and as I tossed and turned atop a mountain of belongings,
I counted some ripped photographs on fingers melting from misuse,
(that only really find themselves admist poems of road-thumping),
but the trucks kept a graceful pace as I let myself greet a slur of droopy eyes,
and smeared the hum of the trucks' glow by drawing the shades
(that only really find themselves admist poems of road-thumping),
as I couldn't ever really pull the blinds of daft irony, for what this may always be,
and I couldn't keep a gun in a carved out Bible,
keeping that book as hollow as it's always been to me
(when I only really find myself admist poems of road-thumping).

See how I lost the beat?
But for how long has this drummer been out of step, tripping over untied shoes?
Yeah, yeah, I bet this pattern's been sewn into a new jean jacket,
ready to be worn for another party circuit without the plug.

And this most certainly could mean nothing,
when I found myself without a cause or a reason,
without cause or reason,both singing for alarm;
I couldn't remember any Bible verse,
though quietly a righteous life;

and without a finger working properly;

I scribbled three lines on my rib cage:

in every single love or war
that i have ever waged or ever will wage,
i remain the most unholy almighty.

Attack Of The One Story Ex

"Attack Of The One Story Ex"
by Jennifer Aniston

TAGLINE:
Get your Team Aniston shirt, blanket and cocoa, because we're about to fry a bitch!

BACK COVER:
Remember in 2005 when Jennifer Aniston filed for divorce?

Remember in 2006 when she said that she wouldn't publicly talk about it?

Remember in 2007 when she let everyone know she still wouldn't talk about it?

Remember in 2008 when she started talking about it by calling Angelina Jolie "uncool?"

But do you also remember in 2008 when Aniston ripped the roof off of Brangelina's house of sin? And ate their children of lies? And kicked over their toilet of injustice? And spit on their spice garden of treachery? And then farted on their bed of unholy cuddling?

Oh, you don't?

Well, then you must have read this back cover before the book. Good for you. You're so trustworthy. Unlike a certain Hollywood couple.

Now, do Team Aniston proud and ruin Fangelina and Money Pitt by reading this book. Just by reading this book, you are burning their evil skin. And killing vampires. Vampires, all of them! You are now Buffy. Enjoy your killer new body and your new body of kills. We love you. Everyone loves you. Just like the famous actress and amazing author Jennifer Aniston! You two are kindred spirits! And hopefully, you won't trick her, just like every other man! You are good to her! You love her! You would never leave her! Together forever!

Foooooooooorrrreeeeeeeeevvvveeeerrrr!

365 Rules That I'm Making My Ex-Husband Guy Ritche Obey When He Has The Kids, Even Though I'm A Far Worse Parent

"365 Rules That I'm Making My Ex-Husband Guy Ritchie Obey When He Has The Kids, Even Though I'm A Far Worse Parent"

by Madonna

AN EXCERPT:

Rule 209: The kids must be reminded that America is evil every night. London is the best country.

Rule 210: No socks. They have gremlins.

Rule 211: There must be some form of Madonna mascot at every holiday recognized in every country. We're cultural and the Lady Madonna should be there, even if She is not.

Rule 212: Moscow will no longer be recognized as a city.

Rule 213: Any lotion used must be made from the spit of the worms from Dune. Yes, they are fictional. Figure out a way, Guy.

Rule 214: All of the Lady Madonna's gold records should be on display whenever any female guest is over. The Lady Madonna inspires all women everywhere.

Rule 215: Let the Lady Madonna's children have unibrows! The Lady Madonna will not accept society as a standard of any form!

Rule 216: No one will talk about the Lady Madonna's arms. Nobody! She wants them to look that way!

Rule 217: No more milk! It is the evil production of massive corporations!

Rule 218: The children must love the Yankees.

Rule 219: The Lady Madonna no longer acknowledges the number 220. It displeases Her.

Rule 221: The Lady Madonna changes her good mind. Milk is fine again.

Rule 222: If the kids ever love Guy Ritche more than the Lady Madonna, they should be replaced as children. Warn them. The Lady Madonna loves Her glory more than her children. They should be reminded that though She loves them, She will put them on the streets. Madonna giveth, Modonna taketh, Madonna wears gloves for every reason possible. Her hands are too brittle for this world. In the afterlife, She will be rewarded in hunky men dressed as diamond-encrusted demons, because even in the afterlife, the Lady Madonna is edgy. Edgier than God. Kaballah will protect the Lady Madonna against the Incredible Hulk. Actually, no, Marvel is not good enough for the Lady Madonna. It shall be Mortal Kombat vs. DC Universe vs. the Lady Madonna. The Lady Madonna has a hard time defeating Baraka and Deathstroke simultaneously, but She will learn. The Lady Madonna invented video games.

Circus

"Circus"
by Britney Spears

AN EXCERPT:
I'm doing ok. Look, I'm thinner now. Doing great, making progress. I'm seriously fine. Yeah, I remember when I was chunky and crazy. But that was before. This is after. I only eat cheese grits now. Not cheese grits with onions and whipped cream. I only wear cowboy hats on weekends now. See? See how I'm doing better? I'm fine. Totally fine. Nope. No problems here. Some owls are in the attic, but isn't that like everyone's house? No, seriously, I'm not crazy anymore.

Yeah, I remember when I shaved my head. But there was a parasite eating my ears.

Yeah, I remember when I dented that car with an umbrella. But the car was a funny color and told me that I was supposed to kill my mama, and I love my mama!

Yeah, I remember when the theme of my wedding was pimps and hoes. But that's because I was drunk on cleaning supplies for nearly three years.

But that's behind me. Have you not seen my new record? It's called Circus. Just like this here book! Get it? Because my life is a circus! Pretty smart of me, huh? Ok, well, I didn't come up with it. But I would have if somebody let me do something with my life. Everyone's holding me back from being me. I could be a great artist if only someone would let me have a paintbrush. But they say it's too sharp for me.

They took my kids away because I fed one a tablespoon of knives. So what? Kid has to learn some time. I did. I learned what life was when I was 14 that time I snorted coke off of some dude's sweaty loins. I've been there. I've had hard times. But I'm better now. I lost my virginity to a circus clown who told me he was a cashier. I've been lied to all of my life. I've always lost it. But I have it now. I'm doing better. I'm doing great. I can do a back flip in my sleep now. See? An insane person couldn't do that. Right? Right.

I had a great day yesterday. The world was a funny color. But I did amazinifty! No scars, no bruises. The sun sang to me. I opened a car door, and no damage! I went to the grocery store in a tutu with boots and a hairnet made out of whistles. Doing fine. Bought some oranges. Doing spectacular. Cashier asked me why my shirt was on fire. I said, what shirt? She laughed and then called someone over. Apparently, I was wearing a shirt. And it was on fire. Then I cried because I thought of the circus clown that I thought once loved me as a cashier.

Damn. I miss my old life when I was a mouseketeer getting drunk every Friday night. I miss Justin. He at least thought I was decent. And I was decent back then. No, I was better than decent. Men wanted me. I was every boy's fantasy. But nobody wants to see their fantasy eat chocolate cake for breakfast and chain-smoke for lunch! I'm sorry I drank my dinner! Vodka, you'll always love me. Right? Right, old friend? Oh god, you won't leave me. No. You couldn't. You're not like the cameras. You need me more than I need you. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Keep it together. Ok, ok, ok, you're doing better. You're fan-freakin-tastic now. Go, go, go gadget love!

I can't stop crying. Froooooooooooom laughter! Teehee. My wounds are jellybeans!

Hi, I'm Britney. I don't think we've met. What are you into? Girls with disorders and issues? Man, you should meet this me I know. She'll love me. And you. That's what I meant. Oh god, I'm doing it again. Oh no, breathe, breathe, breathe. Let's start over. Shazam!

Chapter Eleventy: New Beginnings...

I made waffles today. Made 'em plenty good with healthy ol' maple syrup. Accidentally dropped my gum and a loose tooth in the batter. Speaking of batter, Kevin hit me once. Or, well, I was yelling so hard I fell down. Same thing. But I'm doing amazing now. Men treat me good. Men treat me like a woman. They buy me the chicken now. But I'm the bacon lady! Get it? Oh, we're having such a wonderful time, friend! Things are great. Comeback of the year, right? Love me. Please love me. Oh god, please love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me.

Check Out How Deep I Am Now, Look How Simple My Needs Are

"Check Out How Deep I Am Now, Look How Simple My Needs Are"
by Kanye West

AN EXCERPT:
I am the most modest man that's ever been.

I am...the greatest...at..you know, humility. Before me, there was no humility. After me, there will be no modesty. I am the most humble man of all-time. Girls love it. They love it about me. Have you ever looked in the mirror and said, "Kanye, you are so humble and people don't appreciate that about you" and then sold a million copies of your album? Do you know how hard it is to be this humble when I work so hard to be so great?

Sure, everyone says that I brag about being the biggest hip-hop artist of all-time, but that's only because I am the biggest hip-hop artist of all-time. That's fact. That's not opinion. How am I bragging if it's the truth? A book's going to say it one day. A history book. Did everyone get on Dr. King's case when he said he was uniting people? No. And I'm a lot like Dr. King, now that I think about it.

I am bringing people together, by music and by example. I'm just like you. I mean...did you not hear 808s & Heartbreak? I am the black Phil Collins. I am the black Peter Gabriel. You know what? I am the black Genesis where I play every instrument and write every white song for every white fan. That's right. I can change color. I am a chameleon. You can't see me right now, but I'm purple as I write this.

Now I'm orange.

Now I'm a dinosaur.

Now I'm an ocean.

Now I'm a light year.

I aaaaaaaammmmm space.

So I guess I'm only like you when I choose to be, when I feel like morphing. That's right, I can morph. Have you heard 808s & Heartbreak? It's like nothing you've ever heard. A rap star singing. You didn't think it was possible. But I made it possible. I can do anything. I can fly.

Hold up.

I just flew.

Ever seen a white man fly? Nope, Superman doesn't count. Because he's not real. And I'm realer than real. I'm you. Sometimes. Look, I'll make up something right now...

I've got the organs, I've got a heart, I've got my heart broken. I've gone to work, I've felt the hurt, doing my best to not feel worse when I left the rest smoking.

Did you like that? Of course you liked it. Because I can write about love as good as I can anything else. Especially humility. Do you see how calm and collective I am now that I'm releasing 808s & Heartbreak? I'm like a whole 'nother person. You probably don't know who I am sometimes. I'm Kanye. Kanye West. Maybe you've heard of me and the things I've done. I've written about religion, politics and love. Has anyone ever done that before me? Probably not. I'm writing about love now. Love you couldn't even understand.

But it's so simple that it's complex. Can you understand that?

I've got simple needs now. I'm deep now. Give me all those awards you owe me now.

Everyone Seems To Not Know I Killed 2 Women

"Everyone Seems To Not Know That I Killed 2 Women: Revisiting August 5, 1987"
by Matthew Broderick

BACK COVER:
Matthew Broderick has always appeared mild-mannered, right?

He's been a teacher, a general, a Nuclear Regulatory Commission scientist, and at some point, he played a video game that like...helped the Navy or something...I don't know...there only seems to be five people on Earth who think that WarGames was overrated...but were you aware that Broderick faced a prison sentence of up to five years once for double manslaughter?

Don't worry. He didn't go. Ferris Bueller's Day Off had just come out the year before, so everybody still freakin' loved him.

I mean, why wouldn't you love Matthew Broderick? Didn't you see The Stepford Wives remake? Hello...? Ever heard of a little something called The Producers? Yea, that's the Broadway play you always talked about wanting to see but never actually had any plans of going. Mel Brooks had to write one of his films into a play for you to finally think that musicals weren't boring. Right, right, right, you're sooooo cultured.

Which is why you're reading this book, you class act, you.

In this thrlling defense over 20 years later, beloved actor Matthew Broderick takes you to Ireland, but not for sight-seeing. No, sir. He wants to tell you what went down on August 5, 1987.

He finally wants to tell you about the time that mediocre-at-best-actress Jennifer Grey and he veered their rented BMW into the opposite lane of the road in Enniskillen, County Fermanaghand, and smashed head-on into a car driven by a mother and daughter, who both died instantly.

Oh sure, everyone wanted to know why he was driving on the wrong side of the road two decades ago when it actually happened, but Matthew Broderick wasn't ready then. And he'll speak when he's ready. Got it? The guy was in The Cable Guy, for crying out loud.

So what did he tell people in 1987? He said, "I don't remember the day. I don't remember even getting up in the morning. I don't remember making my bed. What I first remember is waking up in the hospital, with a very strange feeling going on in my leg."

Like it was nothing. Like he was making eggs and accidentally bumped his knee during a hangover. You wouldn't know he just caused the deaths of two innocent women in Ireland. He was smoother than Warren Beatty in Bugsy. Oh, you never saw it? Well, that's probably because it was missing a certain actor...oh, Matthew Broderick anyone?

Surely he was going to prison, you're thinking.

Nope. Not Matthew Broderick. Ol' tricky Matthew Broderick instead paid £175 and left the country as politely as he entered it.

And now you've got the book that tells you how he did it.

Life & Death of The Party

"Life & Death of The Party"
a social guide
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
Chapter 9: Drinking Too Much & Blaming Your Friends

Your friends suck. I mean, right? They take you to this party, they offer you free beer, you drink too much and they totally let you call the host's girlfriend a "rabbit whore." And then, they scold you. Oh, talking monkey is so sorry! He never let it happen again! Bananananana?

Sure, sure, your friends were trying to cover your mouth and tell you to stop talking, but they were also the ones that brought you and gave you beer.

And I'm sorry. I didn't realize that I was signing a contract upon coming to this box social. I was under the impression that it was a party and the host's girlfriend was, in fact, a total "rabbit whore." And no, I have no idea what a "rabbit whore" actually is. Shut up. Anyway, the point remains: don't give me free alcohol and then try to put me on lockdown. That's like giving King Kong a whole handful of Ann Darrow and then trying to take him down like a vet with a nuke.

In fact, I'm sick of this entire conversation. I'm just gonna nod my head until it falls off or drifts off. Or until I'm lucid enough to pee in the salsa. Salsuck, methinks!

You know what? Just for that "rabbit whore" getting on my case about the whole rabbit whordeal, I'm stealing her birth control pills.

I'm outta here.

What the hell? Unhand me!

I said, unhand me!

Thanksgiving

"Thanksgiving"
a collection of quotes

edited by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
Thanksgiving is an emotional holiday. People travel thousands of miles to be with people they only see once a year. And then discover once a year is way too often.
- Johnny Carson

Thanksgiving Day comes, by statute, once a year; to the honest man it comes as frequently as the heart of gratitude will allow.
- Edward Sandford Martin

Thanksgiving, after all, is a word of action.
- W.J. Cameron

Thanksgiving Day, a function which originated in New England two or three centuries ago when those people recognized that they really had something to be thankful for, annually, not oftener, if they had succeeded in exterminating their neighbors, the Indians, during the previous twelve months instead of getting exterminated by their neighbors, the Indians. Thanksgiving Day became a habit, for the reason that in the course of time, as the years drifted on, it was perceived that the exterminating had ceased to be mutual and was all on the white man's side, consequently on the Lord's side; hence it was proper to thank the Lord for it and extend the usual annual compliments.
- Mark Twain

Thanksgiving was never meant to be shut up in a single day.
- Robert Caspar Lintner

An optimist is a person who starts a new diet on Thanksgiving Day.
- Irv Kupcinet

There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Thanksgiving Day is the one day that is purely American.
- O. Henry

On Thanksgiving Day we acknowledge our dependence.
- William Jennings Bryan

Thanksgiving is America's national chow-down feast, the one occasion each year when gluttony becomes a patriotic duty.
- Michael Dresser

I love Thanksgiving turkey. It's the only time in Los Angeles that you see natural breasts.
- Arnold Schwarzenegger

Happy We-Stole-Your-Land-and-Killed-Your-People Day!
- Al, from the film "Sweet November"

A Lion In Washington

"A Lion In Washington"
a diary about eating donkeys and elephants
by Ashley Ayres

AN EXCERPT:
Washington, DC is not just stomping grounds. It's a watering hole sinking. It's a feeding ground with scarce nutrition. You could set the trees on fire and those closest to the ground wouldn't notice. The ash could look like rain in the off-season anyhow. Hunting isn't good for those with a briefcase. They'd rather outsource it.

That's where I come in.

Well, not yet anyway.

What's black, red and white all over? It's not a riddle or a joke. I'm telling you as nicely as I can that this city is damage. It's beautifully settled and unsettling beauty, all aglow when the right holiday comes around. Otherwise, it's slow cars and faster hands. Move in, every poster says. This city is yours...technically, the government mumbles. It would take an anarchist to paint faces here, spouses whisper to one another. Ah yes, you with the prettiest eyes, America.

Black eyes, red eyes, white eyes. Soulless vs. heartless vs. gutless.

Paints an awful picture, doesn't it? Well, thank goodness that art doesn't sell as well here as it should. You have to spit at the wind overlooking the river to feel anything, something close to a kiss. Dodged a bullet, you think. Ironic for a president's stay, you laugh.

Well, I'm a character assassin with the longest smile. Want to hear a worse joke? I'm the John Wilkes Booth of spiritual killing. And I make a killing. First order of the highest order, you know.

Pay the good man and you'll never have to pray to the bad god. I play middleweight.

And I love every second of this blurry black, red and white town. No matter how I try to sell it blue.

Empire Boys

"Empire Boys"
a novel about those coasting on the East Coast
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"Mahty, I ain't neva been so showe 'bout breakin' an enterin'. It just...well, I don't know."

"Listen, dey call you Jimmy Bones fuh a reason, right?"

"Yea, but dey...ok, they're gone. How are we really doing this?"

"We're going through the basement window. We'll go up the basement stairs. They won't see us coming. Here's a bat. You knock over anyone who moves."

"Wouldn't that be everyone?"

"Not the ones I already nailed with taser shots. They're shaking and shifting like the last kids in a bad dodgeball game."

"That's the best analogy you got?"

"Listen, Jim, I'll kill you dead. Right now. How's that?"

"Fine, fine, fine. Empire Boys, eh?"

"Never been another mutiny that could play the orchestra too."

"Should I grab a knife?"

"Why would you? You've got brass knuckles and a bat. You're stronger than a cheap blade. Besides, your wits are sharper than the Devil's horns."

"Ok, that one was good."

"Any last words before we pledge our allegiance to weapons?"

"Sure. You're like a brother to me, Martin."

"I wanna hear better last words."

"I'll be the last man standing even if I'm not the last one dead."

"Nah, something more spiritual."

"My knuckles may be broken, but my spirit will never be."

"That wasn't spiritual, Jim."

"Ok, ok, ok...I am the last revolution, the last graveyard, the last willing spit of God."

"Good. Another one."

"The angels will play their trumpets when we stop harping."

"Another one!"

"May God bury us in the last century of Earth!"

"Another one!"

"Their blood is the most unholy of rain and I am the most ungodly of heroes!"

"Another one!"

"Never another grave, never another reason for Heaven to doubt our intentions, never while the Devil isn'thot enough to touch or torch our souls!"

"Another one!"

"The pale horse of death is no match for the paler horse of man!"

"Another one!"

"This bat is my glory, let the Almighty carry my hands swiftly, challenging my enemies to challenge their own god."

"Keep going!"

"And through any valley, I am tall. Over any mountain, I am humble. I am aware of my own bones, breakable and able to break. I am in control. I am God. I am the Devil. I am sin. I am sainthood. I am ordained. I am the luscious taste of evil. I am the Mardi Gras in winter. I am New Year's Eve on fire. I am all encompassing. I am all destruction. I am here for eternity and hear lifetimes, all congruent, all more harrowing than the last. I will march forward, upward, never seeing any sky, praising my own damned livelihood underneath a broken windowpane, raining down on my spine, never feeling ultimate pain. I will never doubt you or myself, and I will surely never misjudge character. You are true, I am truth and there will be skulls rattling above and below, no doubt in Heaven or Hell, I will walk the fine line between, burying all who oppose us. I will fight, I should wreck, I can kill, I might bury. By morning, I will be an angel or a saint with blood on my robes. Yea?"

There was a long pause.

"Well, how was that?" Jimmy asked.

"Good Lord, Jim, the death sentence of the Countess Markiewicz wasn't even that harsh. I don't know what some of what you said meant, but goddamn, Jimmy! Good show! Now let's wreck and ruin!"

Then they charged the stairs.

Clean Camping

"Clean Camping"
a guide to politeness in the wilderness
by Nicky Clark

AN EXCERPT:
Listen, I'm not saying you have to love nature. I don't. I think nature is like a bad boyfriend, constantly inviting you into his lush softness and plush beauty, but then he starts putting marks on your body that make you itch. Pretty soon, you're sleeping in a tent, freezing to make breakfast. Even making coffee becomes a difficult and defying effort.

But I like swimming. So I guess...that's like a good New Year's with the boyfriend on his best behavior. But if it's winter, it's cold. Just like a bad boyfriend. It stings you. It wears on your heart. It hurts your privates.

Somehow, you'll make it to the top of a great mountain, and you'll think, "I did this. Me." And on your proud march down, you'll notice how much nature helped you. The rock was perfectly sloped, the ground was perfectly solid and the insects were perfectly calm. Should you thank nature? No. Nature can go suck its own egg.

Before you realize what you're doing, you're kicking any plant that even remotely hangs over a path, you're swearing off hiking and you're actually punching trees.

"Hiking boots! Attaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!" you scream in a god-awful melody that only the birds can hear. Nobody's around for miles. The relationship is not doing well.

"Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen!" you scream as you miss men now. At least they never gave you bug bites, at least they never made you pee in an outhouse, at least they never made you carry your own stupid water bottle because the river had scat in it.

"I'll kiiiiiiiiiiilllllllll yooooooooooooouuuuuu, naaaaaaattttuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuure!" you wail, panting and undressing as you run down the hill, tripping over your own feet, cutting your legs on branches you didn't see and thinking only of eating honey.

But you still want to preserve nature. It's here to stay, in all of your apathetic and unruly delusional moments speeds. Kill, kill, kill! Save, save, save! You're fighting against yourself and your better instincts.

Well, keep it clean and maybe you won't have to worry about your impact, chuckles.

Stop throwing your beer cans. You suck.

Stop leaving candy wrappers. You suck.

And stop saving the whales. They suck.

No, seriously, find something better to save, jerks.

A Mask, A Miss, A Mistress, A Mattress

"A Mask, A Miss, A Mistress, A Mattress"
a collection of one act plays...and things
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"Toasts"

We all raised our glasses, filled with different liquors, wines and spirits.

"To what then?" asked the bushy eyebrowed man.

"To travesty," said the girl in a slinky red dress.

"To divine comedy of man," said the rosy-nose burly mate.

"To forgetting," said the lanky insurance salesman.

"To education," said the grad student.

"To the mystery of saints," said the sinner

"To the charm of sinners," said the saint.

"To the harrowing culture of heroes," said the service man.

"To colorless collars," said the gas station attendant.

"To answers," said the scientist.

"To wandering," said the nomad.

"To style," said the fashionista.

"To wit," said Oscar Wilde.

"To the quiet upstarts," said George Orwell.

"To undying love," said F. Scott Fitzgerald.

"To swallowing a gun faster than this drink," said Ernest Hemingway.

"To cooking your brains before dawn," said Sylvia Plath.

"To being a crazy bitch," said Lenny Bruce.

"To Lenny Bruce being a dickhead," Sylvia Plath replied bitterly.

"To trust," said Julius Caesar with a laugh.

"To blasphemy, foreplay and arrogance," I said.

They all stared at me.

"Oh, ok...to charming bad decisions and neglecting your conscience," I said.

They continued to stare.

"You know...Sylvia over there got two things," I said.

"Yeah, but she's accomplished something. Mr. Kilroy, have you ever even read The Bell Jar?" asked the college professor.

"Yes," I lied.

"And?" he asked.

"And I'm with Lenny. To Sylvia Plath being a nutty twat!" I yelled.

And we drank.

Lenny cheered and clapped after he set his glass down.

I really do hate most of the attendees at these dinner parties.

Loving & Lusting (In The City)

"Loving & Lusting (In The City)"
a collection of poems
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"Her Mixtapes"
it might just be that the world is looking to hate jake kilroy.

She told me once that she set her stereo on fire and threw it out a car window.
And from that day forward, I promised to never made her another mix tape.

Two months later, she made me a mix tape.
That Christmas, I gave it to my grandmother to tape over for NPR.

On New Year's Eve, I kissed her.
And the next day, she set my heart on fire and threw me out a bedroom door.

A year later, she kissed me.
The next holiday, I made her a mix tape and broke her stunning heart.

On Palm Sunday, she left a mixtape in my mailbox.
But on Easter Sunday, I knifed a note to her door.

The note read, "Forget holidays, forget mixtapes and forget your lover."
She saw me the next day.

She yelled, "You're the only lover I've had for months."
I said, "I know, and I'm a bad person. I've been making mixtapes for others."

"Other women?"
"Well, men don't fall for my musical trickery."

A month later, she said, "Don't get drunk and kiss me on holidays."
I said, "Then it wouldn't be a holiday, would it?"

She was mine for roughly seven months after that.
Then I started writing her poetry.

She'll probably read this and throw up.
And if I captured it on a mixtape, I'd be more honest than the others.

For the record, I blew up my car radio once, back when I had nights to drive,
before the liquor store stops and late hours hook-up drops.

I pulled bikinis off swimmingly in pools and danced skirts off with hands,
all the while listening to a mixtape she made me some Thanksgiving.

But I've got no rapture to part with, no sainthood to ordain.
I've just got a car bench seat where I can drank whiskey sorrowfully.

And I always listen to her mixtapes.

How To Seduce Everyone

"How To Seduce Everyone"
a guide for the ride
by Eyvette Min

PREFACE:
Dear reader,

As I write this, it is 6:32 a.m. and I have a martini in one hand and a boy in the other.

Did I just get up or did I just get home? Is it going to be a wildly fantastic day or was it a fantastically wild night? I suppose it's the age old question that has nothing to do with old age; it has to do with your fevers, what makes your body clock tick like a timebomb during a weekend on the town.

Which are you taking home, the taxi or the man? Here's a hint: one saves you time and money. One's fare and the other's fair. Drop that F. Now what are you: "are" (concrete and stationary) or "air" (free and angelic)?

Nobody paying fare is playing fair, girl. Didn't they teach you that as soon as you learned how to paint your fingernails and wiggle your tush? Oh my, have you been paying for you own meals? Well, let me tell you, I haven't paid for a meal since Jack-In-The-Box was serving kangaroo meat.

You have the answers. Now you just have to make those boys question themselves.

Ah, these questions, these challenges, these wonders, these battles...so alarming and charming, like a book of poetry set on fire and put out to sea to die.

Health vs. wealth, property vs. luxury, nature vs. nurture, strawberries vs. cream....

Why not have both, I say?

I can exercise all right and exercise my right, I can have my stake while having my steak, and I can have my wilderness with my wildness, all with some strawberries & cream, of course.

Boys are easy, not flimsy. Girls, well, we're another war. And we invented the rules, just so you know; scrawled in lipstick and vodka. Maybe finalized by a scream down Fifth Avenue in a limo.

This is your time, your night, your life. I mean, who else is gonna dance for you?

Ever seen a hot tub before dawn? Well, I'll tell you, it sparkles, like a glistening bath of diamonds. Sugardaddies aren't just candy, darling. Sometimes, they're sweeter.

And, if you must know, after midnight, I often drop the "ward" and keep my wardrobe down to a slim minimum....a sliminmum? Wow, that's a mouthful.

Which brings me back to boys being easy.

You can always have it good by being no good. But remember the three Cs: classy, coy and celebrationious.

Fine, ok, that last one's not a word. But I'm sure if you dropped your lip gloss and bent over to get it in front of Webster, he'd make anything you said a word. You could be a word, but you're more than that; you're a phrase, a sentence, an essay, a novel, in fact, you're the whole goddamn language, really.

So, here's your new motto, ladies (cherish it):

You don't have to be easy to have it easy. You just need to make it look easy.

Work it and you'll never work again.

Well, you have to read this book and I've gotta jet (am I leaving or did some nice young man actually buy me a jet? I suppose you'll know the answer by the last chapter).

So, I'm off, even when I'm dead-on.

Ciao,
Eyvette

p.s. Yes, I did make it so that Chapter 15 smells like Strawberries & Cream. That's the sexy chapter.

Smokes

"Smokes"
a novel
by Jessica Getty

AN EXCERPT:
The city was shades of gray, streaming yellow lights above and cliche, a plane in the distance made noise of the bridge. Marie took a long drag of her clove and watch the smoke drift up her face and fade into the city skyline. A boat sounded.

"All adrift, we have to shift, never taking what we're making, a dry smile for the miracle mile," she said with a sigh, reciting a line from a poem she had written for Daniel some years ago, back when she actually wrote poetry instead of reading and hating it. Poetry is for the hopeless, she would tell herself, keeping her senses clean.

Her shoulders slumped, a pale comparison to the staunch buildings, uptight and magnificent, a glory for those who stand, not reserved for those who sit or sleep.

Patrick appeared behind her, stumbling out the window.

"Why'd you leave the party?" asked Patrick, as he took a seat next to Marie.

"Had some dreaming to kill," said Marie.

"That's hardly inspiring."

"Wow. Nothing gets by you, eh?"

"Ah, there's that charm of yours," Patrick said with a small laugh. Marie smiled too.

"Patrick, what should become of us? What are we supposed to be doing? What are we supposed to be accomplishing? Aren't we supposed to be martyrs by now or something?"

"God, no, I don't want to be a martyr until I've long given up."

"Then that's not a martyr."

"Just because the history books never wrote that a martyr begged for his life doesn't mean that he didn't," Patrick said with a gloating smile. "I'll see you back inside."

Patrick slipped inside the window and returned to their friends. Marie took a long drag of her clove and slumped over her knees a little more, her legs dangling off the roof, some eight stories up on a hill. What if she were to fall? What if she were to fly? Is there any different in the beginning stages? No, not really. All it takes is one jump and one leap of confidence.

She'd probably be able to write good poetry after the hospital stay. She wondered if the nurses and doctors would let her smoke if she were dying.

God help Heaven if it doesn't have a smoking room, she thought.

Marie smiled. That was a good line. Maybe she'd write a poem tonight, as soon as her guests were gone. Or maybe she'd jump. Either way, whether in Heaven or Hell, at least it's not limbo.

She felt sick to her stomach. She took a final draw of smoke, filling her lungs with the waves of gray, watching the fog roll into the city from the bay. She stood up and headed back into her apartment, but not without one final look at the city. She wished that someone had been playing a saxophone for the moon. It was too pretty. Maybe a tuba it for the bay. Maybe a french horn for the car alarms. Maybe a clarinet for the birds. Maybe a trumpet for the lovers with their shades pulled, waiting for the morning to come and their day to change. In a city, there are no musicians that want you to hear free music. They just slip up from time to time, playing what they want, forgetting there are others around.

And maybe that's all it took for her to write poetry.