A$$ = Cash

"A$$ = Cash (Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Let My Booty Do All The Talking)
by Kristen Henning

BACK COVER:
You ever heard of music called Grindcore? Well, you can reinvent that whole genre with this book. You can grind your butt so wild and good that the local boys will think it's music.

"Oh, was a symphony? Or...was that just some girl's fine booty?"

And then BAM! You're there. Mayor of Grindtown, USA. Governor of the dance floor. Ambassador to men's crotches everywhere. When the neon lights come on and the sweat starts pouring, you're the goddamn United Nations! Pulverizing the joint chiefs of chief joints. Ride'em, ride'em, ride'em, PEACE.

But what, are you doing this gig for free? Well, sometimes. Sometimes, you just have to believe in the faith of charity work and let them boys get a little preview before the show. But those drinks will come like you're the only cowgirl with a short enough gun holster to really hold those guns that the boys think are theirs.

But baby, those guns belong to you! Those six shooters will be all-night shooters if you play your cards right down at the saloon. Without a bar tab, with the piano player trying to catch a good view.

Sorry, boys, these drinks are on you. But maybe we can switch drinks for a fast-talker, maybe some slow dancing after some faster drinks. You don't even know what's happening right now, do you? Well, guess what? You're already down to your underwear! Just now, I did that.

Works like a charm, this train with a caboose doing more work than the engine. Let that engine rest at night and let the caboose run 'til it's red. The rails won't end, hell no. Unless you want them to. Then you're the conductor, conducting a symphony and a train all at the same time.

Bam. 8 drinks and you're the new queen of Bootytown. Who's the king? Don't know, changes every night. Wooooooooooooooooooooo!

Whisper techno songs, shake that ass down every flight of stairs, never ever pay for a drink and read this goddamn book.

Ladies, I'll see you on the dance floor.

Gentlemen, you'll see me on the dance floor.

The Last Girl In Las Vegas

"The Last Girl In Las Vegas"
by Violet Kawecki

AN EXCERPT:
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Kevin asked.

"No, and I don't think I ever will. I don't think any of us ever really find what we're looking for," Kiley said.

"You know that's not what I meant, Kiley."

The fountains were now playing a new song, with greens and pinks, a few yellows. Kevin leaned farther over the rail, his fingers still not touching the water.

"This town just seems so small, without anything to offer a girl that doesn't feel like pushing glam. Jesus, you have to wear heels to bed just to sleep in this town," Kiley mumbled with a anxious shrug.

"Kinda more of a city than a town," Kevin said with a cough.

"No way. This place is absolutely a town. Come on, a city is a functioning landscape of modern civilization," Kiley turned around to point at the glowing sky of bulbs and sprockets. "This place is one character shy of being a goddamn amusement park. It's a town, a dying town, rotting within its own sparkling walls. Men wear suits without underwear and the women wear bow-ties without shirts in Las Vegas. It makes no sense. This town makes no sense. God, I figure the whole place will just be a ghost town with in the next century."

Kevin chuckled, turning himself around to lean against the bar too, "Every city will be a ghost town in the next century. Everyone's got a bomb ready to go off. I think even Egypt does."

"You know what I mean though, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's just ironic that this place was built up because of the bomb industry."

"Yeah, I feel like there's still a burying haze from the nuclear testing, even today. That's what people come for, the high. The buzz of bombs. Win or lose, the bomb. Handcuffed in fur. Paid in full. God, I hate this city."

"I thought you said it was a town."

"Well, I say a lot of things," Kiley said, looking at her glimmering watch. "Come on, let's go."

The Lovely March

"The Lovely March"
a book of poems
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"The Shakes"
with shakes, with the shakes, with the shakes of jake kilroy.

The shakes came from the stereo,
dusty in the wall,
myself in place like a dirty rug.
Tie the room together, tie the loverbirds together.
Watch me, get a picture, let the nerves lessen,
shake, rattle and roll.
Isn't that how we played it the last time I saw you in a blue dress?

Goddamn these old pictures, the dusty bins of lovers,
the rattling of flat skeletons trying to claw their way out;
oh, how the hair stands up when I think of you,
how I ultimately want to take a hammer to the walls,
get the perfume off, get the scent out, it'd give me a new art.

And just for the record,
I never wrote you back because I thought the paper was cursed.

Instead, I...well...you'll never know, I guess...

The shakes...oh, you can see the black lines in the thinner air,
a plague of demons marching towards your kitchen,
just looking to drink all the milk you left out.
Just let 'em come, just let 'em drum,
just let 'em drink.
What else does it take to be a great writer?

Show 'em what you got, and they'll clap their bony fingers together,
leaving the air to be a faint stale taste of modern ruins.
The shelves aren't long enough to keep your boxes,
so I left them out in the rain and watched them collapse,
while I smoked what I thought was a pack by the stove.
I thought the rain would surely flood the garage.

And I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.

I scratched my arms for so long that it look like I had burned 'em,
a prarie wind couldn't have carried me home.
So I let 'em burn for everything that didn't.

Why not?

Burn it, baby, you better burn it, so you can sleep;
so I can sleep; so we can sleep;
burn it on the beach by your parents' house when you come home,
let it go to waste when you spend a winter's week here,
left without refuge, no call, as you'd rather sit in the dark,
than let me see you and bring up the charred remains of us.

"Like a gunshot," I'd say.

"Like hell," you'd say.

And then we'd kiss.

And then it'd fade to ivy, crawling up our skin,
like we were the statues on an east coast campus,
cracking and letting the sunlight do good damage.

The shakes get in me, when those dusty songs play;
god, leave me brutal, buried in a stash of postcards,
rattling the walls, kicking off the dusty scent of charred remains;
the sour taste of my own fingers won't do, rattling inside my mouth,
scared of the medicine it takes to rightfully rid myself of the shakes,
wrongfully, doubtfully, a new miracle sparking the sky darker,
you know I won't stop until I'm riding every cliche on wheels,
straight to your door, straight to everything that I want to knock,
let it go, let it go, let it go, settle, settle, settle,
let that dust burn in the next fire I set to already charred remains.
This former flame is growing.
Oh God, pretty soon, the post office will be on fire.

I have to stop, I have to stop, I have to go.

[five paragraphs missing]

I deleted half of this poem because I lost my nerve,
because I can't ever finish what I start.

I had a cigarette.

I smoked it so quick I thought I ate it.

I coughed up what felt like my small intenstine.

I rid myself of health.

I forever pray to false idols.

I won't ever sit in a church without shaking.

I tossed the cigarette in the gutter.

I heard the buzz I had been searching for,
as the cigarette sunk to the bottom of the dirty water.

I tried to count the stars but got dizzy. I came back inside.

I sat through another lightning storm that wasn't here yet.

I came back to finish what I had started,
wishing I had never gotten rid of anything.

I wish I was a better packrat.

I wish I meant more to my paper.
I wish this paper could achieve more.
I wish I could leave blank pages out in the rain,
and just wait for nature to be a real poet.

And instead of any new year's resolutions,
I just start every new year with a cocktail.

Chase tail, drive fast and don't listen to anyone.

Not a single philosopher.

Not a single wise man.

Not a single nomad.

Why?

Because they don't drink, they don't smoke, they don't lie, they don't steal,
they don't travel by their pockets, they don't don't chase tail,
they don't drive fast and they want to hear what the world has to say.

Well, that's not a religion I'm going to buy. I can promise you that.
I'll build a well and pour down all the milk the demons drank
before I let you convince me that I could use the well for wishing.

All coins have ever done is buy me more reasons to chase tail,
drive fast and not listen to anyone.
And drink. And smoke. And lie. And steal. And travel by my pockets.

Not wishing. God help me, not wishing.

Wishing is for boys, regret is for men.

Am I right?

It's not the guns, it's not the gambling, it's not the gin.

It's regret. That's a man's best game, isn't it?

Christ Almighty, why not die for our regrets?

The more, the merrier. The lore, the lighter.

But not for me anymore.

I've got a poem to finish.

I can't fly through your town anymore, I have to pull over,
I have to dig my feet into the grass of that hill,
overlooking the beach, overlooking the sunken ocean,
a well for wishing if I ever saw one;
last time I was there, a drunk driver almost hit me,
but I was listening more to ocean's waves, maybe my own traffic,
louder than the shakes of the road, I suppose.

God help me.

God help the shakes.

Give me more than prayer.
Give me more than bread.
Give me more than wine.

God never gets the shakes, I hear.
At least that's what the girls told me in school.
He doesn't even pray to a higher power.
And if he's not praying, why the hell should I?

What does Heaven have that Earth doesn't?

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry;
it always comes back to this plague;
a plague of whims, a plague of words, a plague of well-wishers.

You were on my side when this poem started,
but like any good verse, I've charrerd enough of the battlegrounds
to forget the war.

Let me just say this:
I will forever be sorry,
I will forever be a mess,
I will forever wish you were here,
I will forever wish that years haven't passed
I will forever fear old age,
I will forever fear the quiet moments,
I will forever create destruction,
I will forever create,
I will forever tell you what you already know.

And the real reason I never listened to the philosophers,
the wise men or the nomads was because none of 'em ever got the shakes.

And that's the truth.

Quitting

"Quitting: the only thing more rewarding than succeeding is quitting"
a wealth of knowledge shared
by Jake Kilroy

BACK COVER:
Did you actually buy this book or did somebody hand it to you 20 seconds ago and now you're considering maybe using it as some kind of sexual object?

Well, if you bought it, you're off to a bad start. Buying means beginning. Shopping means starting. No, sir (or madam), you need to be the laziest son of a bitch if you intend to quit as much as this book tells you to.

Even now, you're still reading this, but I suppose to need to learn how to quit in order to quit. Or quit now and you'll be ahead of this book. But what will happen years down the line when your kids are in school and your wife works hard? You'll want to quit then. Maybe have a nervous breakdown. Maybe eat some pills like cereal and finish it all off with a bourbon tank and a firearm aimlessly hitting the night sky. Or morning sky. It's all about to you, quitter.

Quitting's easy. It's trying that's the hard part.

If I Win At The Oscars, I Will Eat My Freakin' Award

"If I Win At The Oscars, I Will Eat My Freakin' Award"
by Mickey freakin' Rourke

AN EXCERPT:
Oh man, you hear what happened on Thursday? They're gonna give me a freakin' award. I swear to God, man, if I win, I swear I'll eat my award. Why? Because America wants me to.

Or maybe I want to.

I don't know. Sometimes, I think I'm America and sometimes, well, maybe I just got punched in the head a few too many times. I slow sometimes, you know?

'Cause remember when I left acting to become, like, a boxer? Oh man, good times then. I drank and fought. Or maybe I didn't drink. I don't know. I slow sometimes, you know?

I was offered a part in Pulp Fiction. Bruce Willis ended up taking it. You know why I turned it down?

No, seriously. That was a real question. Why would I have turned it down? Huh, maybe I'm just slow sometimes, you know?

Oh man, I am freakin' hungry. You got a live snake? Nah, I'm just kidding. I'm Mickey freakin' Rourke. I played Marv in Sin City. I'll eat your whole goddamn ostrich farm, if you got one. No? Ah well, that's ok. Why? Because I'm Mickey freakin' Rourke, and if I say that's ok, you're ok. Ok? Good man. Shit, what we got to drink in here anyway? Some cereal or something? I'm thirsty too.

Remember 9 1/2 Weeks? Oh man, that movie was so freakin' unreal. It was like...a documentary or something. I don't know, man. It was probably really hungry then. The movie, I mean. Or me. Sorry. I meant me. I was hungry like the movie am. Shit, this is getting harder, you know? Remember how I was a professional boxer for some years in the 90s? I think it hurt my head a little. Not a lot, but enough to, you know, make me all screwy. I slow sometimes, you know?

I swear to freakin' God, man, they give me an Oscar for The Wrestler, I'll freakin' eat it. No joke. I'm hungry, man. I'm hungry. Why? Because I'm Mickey freakin' Rourke, that's why.

5,000 People Laid Off

5,000 People Laid Off
by Microsoft

TAGLINE:
Yep, the company that made 4 billionaires and 12,000 millionaires out of its employees.

There Is No Freakin' Way That You Truly Believe The Premise Of This Show

"There Is No Freakin' Way That You Truly Believe The Premise Of This Show"
by The Cast of Gossip Girl

AN EXCERPT:

I mean, really? An entire show about fancy rich private school kids? You want to watch and stay updated with a television program where a bunch of sexy kids have cooler lives than you ever will? And then they complain about it?

Seriously, do you really care about private school with names like Serena van der Woodsen, Nate Archibald, Givgov P. Bexamis III and Humprey Von Tiddlie Toes? Ok, ok, so the last two names were made up. But some of us actors and actresses on the program have names like Leighton Meester, Penn Badgley and Chace Crawford. Ugh. Don't you hate our fanciness and all that is us?

And if you're going to watch it, then sure, we'll totally be in it. And we'll get paid a lot of money to do it. And then talk about how hard acting is as we grind up on each other in school girl outfits. Meanwhile, the boys have more Botox in their lips than a kiss between Melanie Griffith and Goldie Hawn.

But come on, one of us is 15 in real life. A hand job is still a cool thing at that age. But these characters we play are all like sexy lawyer vampire detectives. They strip and grind like they're all millionaire playboys and party girls. How do you not hate our show?

The freakin' webseries was called Tales From The Upper West Side. And these characters are in private school. An entire show about whiny rich kids sexying each other up and spending way too much money, and still it's not enough. That's the entire program.

Ok, fine. You know what? There's going to be a similar to show on The CW. It's called Sexy Fancy People That Are Better Than You And Still Not Stoked Enough. Here's a still from the pilot episode:

Actually, that was the pilot episode.

History Is Going To Burn Me Alive

"History Is Going To Burn Me Alive"
by George W. Bush

TAGLINE:
No. Seriously. Think about it.

Barack Obama, 1-20-09: Inauguration Day

Barack Obama, 1-20-09: Inauguration Day
by the people

AN EXCERPT:
Booyah.

Nope, I Don't Get It Either

"Nope, I Don't Get It Either"
by Ben Gibbard

TAGLINE:
No, seriously, I have no freakin' idea how I scored Zooey Deschanel.

The Really, Really Short Stories of Jake Kilroy

"The Really, Really Short Stories of Jake Kilroy"
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
Oh, So You're The Quick One
Written July, 2007.

Mary came home annoyed.

"Gerald, you didn't even try to mow the lawn," she said.

"That's because I was making hummus, Mary."

Ah yes. The hummus.

It would be a long night of fighting.

The End.

A Merrier Man

"A Merrier Man"
short stories
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:

This Is All If Anarchy Had A Heart
Written April, 2007.

Darby had only tumbled home from wherever he was a half hour earlier. Catherine entered like a socialite but had the eyes of an addict, ready to burn what she loved.

.

She took off her coat and rolled up her sleeves. Darby, meanwhile, kept scribbling endless papers on the coffee table, a half-empty bottle of rum keeping him company. His black shirt was his only means of decency and his jeans were broken more than his heart would be if he admitted to having one, locked inside his chest cavity.

.

“So this is how you spent your evening,” Catherine said in a stab observation.

.

“Yeah, this is what I did. What’d you do? Attend some god-awful social dinner where you had to talk about the Caribbean as a resort and not as a slave trade? Oh, do tell. What minority are we blaming this month? What car is in? What stocks did you buy? Do we have a retirement plan? Are we buying an island? Wait, let’s buy one in the Caribbean and steal a man there, too.”

.

“Oh, I see you’re drunk again.”

.

“Oh, I see you’re observant again.”

.

“You’re too pathetic to even call an asshole.”

.

“You’re too pathetic to even call me an asshole.”

.

“This is a fun game. Let’s play more like it where you're too much of a whiskey dick to get your own catch phrases. Hijack something worthwhile, like a nuclear sub. But my creativity, Darby? Come on, surely you’ve driven a limozine once. Remember how comfy it was when you were a decent man? Let’s watch you fall apart over this, lying, but all is reality when you’re a writer, right, Ambassador?”

.

“Catherine, I’d tell you to bite your tongue, but your tongue is the only thing I always like about you.”

.

“I’d club you with my heels, but they’re worth more than your life.”

.

“Oh, but how would you be a saint painter then? You’d be considered for assault and I’d recommend the Purple Heart, but I don’t think they listen to other heroes. By the way, I’m that other hero. You, you’re a scam in a nice dress. Lay me once and I’ll be your hero by daylight. A travesty, I know, but the life I chose when I decided to go rogue.”

.

“I’d beat you until your guys poured out and I’d paint them on the walls, so you can remember when you stopped having the guts to love, lover boy.”

.

Darby took champion swigs in the seconds after. He wiped his mouth and smiled.

.

“Love me then! Kill me then! The same? Fine! Beat the best out of me then,” he demanded.

.

“You think yourself a Polaroid Saint screaming blue into a red curtain? Fine. Then take my bruises and put them to canvas.”

.

“I’m not torturing you, Darby.”

.

“Ah, so you’re torturing yourself then? These paintbrushes serve as knives, eh? Well, cut me down to size and let’s see you be the bigger person. You can have whatever you take from me. You can have it all. Sweet and swell, well, watch me collapse like the Brooklyn Bridge when the saints finally when marching, when they finally played that fucking anthem and the streets were nothing but a swampy marsh of riot gear and sparkplugs to play the godforsaken songs we bent and broke on guitar the night before. I’ll be damned if I’m allowing you to be something less than a big fuckin’ explosion, Catherine.”

.

“Oh, look at you! Look at you! We sleep together a few nights this month and you think you’re the Devil’s underwear!”

.

“Catherine, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

.

“It means you let bad shit happen, you ignorant poet of a fuck.”

.

“You mean ignorant fuck of a poet, right?”

.

“No, I meant what I said. You’re a poet, with delusions of grandeur as lofty and lusty, but you’re ignorant like a third grader who just got bum-fucked on the playground, lost his marbles and now he’s trying to thumb his way through the hallways, looking over his shoulder. But you fuck like the man you should be.”

“How’s that?”

.

“Lofty and lusty, but with honesty and truth in the sheets. But hardly a good word to say about you by morning.”

.

“So I’m none of the adjectives I want to exist as. Fine, give me another bottle and I’ll love you right. I’ll love you in time and on time. And even when you’re being a bitch in the morning, talking upright citizens and how relationships are what ties this snappy world to its own belt, I’ll make you breakfast. Just so you can have something in your stomach other than pride.”.“Well, aren’t you the hard-worker then?”

.

“Listen, I just finally dragged my broken body home and I'm already drinking and writing fiction,” Darby said hardly above an awful whisper. He held his bottle of rum towards Heaven, nodded, and pleaded, “Be good to be, saints. Be bad to me, sinners. My sheets are itchy with lust and my heart is pulp. Dance the good fight, poets.”

.

“Jesus,” Catherine said with a sigh and matching shrug. “Could you be anymore of a senselessly damaged poet?”

.

“Yes,” Darby said with confidence, tilting his bottle in brutal admiration of Catherine, dancing a wink in his left eye and a sparkle in his right. “I could actually be senseless and damaged. Maybe even deranged. Then I’d have bookshelves of poetry and stories for the hapless wanderers that should be following me to the end of this flat world.”

.

“The world is round. It’s been that way forever. Stop being poetic.”

.

“The world’s flat because I fucking say it is. That’s what a writer does. Drink yourself silly, Catherine, and you’d never be serious again. Drink yourself serious and you’ll kill yourself. I promise you. You’ll off yourself like you were the martyr in the Macy Day Parade. You don’t have the guts to stay alive.”

.

“I’ve seen your guts. You crumble like pirate ships at war with just the sound of a blow job. I’d cripple you with just these two lips.”

.

“Yeah? Well, at least I'd get what I want.”

.

“You'd want more.”

.

“But I can live with less.”

.

“I can’t.”

.

“Yeah, I don’t know who I’m kidding.”

.

“Nobody. Meet me in the bedroom in five minutes.”

I'm Dane Cook

"I'm Dane Cook"
a book about Dane Cook
by Dane Cook

AN EXCERPT:
SO SHE'S THERE, WALKING AROUND, LOOKING FOR ME. IN A MUSEUM! JUST WANDERING AROUND. NO IDEA WHERE I AM! AND THEN ALL OF A SUDDEN, I COME OUT WITH A GUN!

[I make sound effect of cocking gun]

AND SHE JUST STANDS THERE AND I SCREAM, "ALL OF YOUR MONEY. NOW." AND SHE JUST STANDS THERE. LIKE A FUCKIN' IDIOT. SHE HAS NO IDEA WHAT TO DO. SO I WALK TOWARDS HER AND I YELL, "GIVE ME ALL OF YOUR FUCKING MONEY!" TOTALLY OUTRAGEOUS, RIGHT? I MEAN, THIS IS MY GIIIIIIIIIRLFRIEND. I DIDN'T GET LAID FOR A WEEK. DID A LITTLE DISCO THOUGH, RIGHT?

SO ANYWAY, SHE'S SCARED OUT OF HER MIND IN THIS MUSEUM. AND I WANTED TO DRIVE THE POINT HOME, JUST LIKE YOU DID WHEN YOU WERE A KID WITH GIRLS. THROWING DIRT CLODS AT THEM. "I LOVE YOU!" BAM! DIRT. IN. HER. MOUTH. I ALMOST KILLED A GIRL ONCE. SWEAR TO GOD. LOVED HER THAT MUCH. RIGHT IN THE NOSE.

HIT. HER. RIGHT. IN. THE. NOSE.

[I made punch sound and fling back like I punched myself]

CRAZY, RIGHT?

SO I PUNCH MY GIRLFRIEND IN THIS MUSEUM, WEARING ALL BLACK AND A MASK. SHE CALLS FOR HELP. I RUN OUT. STEAL THE SECURITY'S TASER.

[I make taser gun sound effect]

AND THEN I TAAAASER HER.

PRETTY FUNNY, RIGHT?

WHY IS NO ONE LAUGHING? DIDN'T I TELL YOU THE STORY LOUD ENOUGH? SO WHAT IF THERE'S NO PUNCHLINE? I YELLED IT. EVEN THROUGH WORDS. THAT'S THE FUNNY PART. ALSO, I MADE SOME SOUND EFFECTS AND FLUNG MY BODY AROUND.

HELLO? COMEDY, ANYONE?

The Dramatic Pause Of A Problematic Cause

"The Dramatic Pause Of A Problematic Cause"
essays
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"Anarcho Politico: The Manifesto"
Written January, 2007.

I'm no anarchist. This is merely a college student trying to educate himself.

And I conquered the world when I was 17.

I just want those things clear up front.

The press has a stunning sense of stylistic spinal leakage. When Iraq was starting to pour into magazines and newspapers, no periodicals went through the laundry list of question marks the world was shaking where the bottom dots were fists. New York City Journalists were hardly even sweating. But, somehow, militant peacemongers now, in retrospect, seemed to have had some idea of where this tornado was jumping. Their reasons may have been sketchy but their ideals were there. The reasoning may have been oddball but the ideas were strong.

Press corps aren't scavengers struggling to crawl out of a grave. Or, they damn well shouldn't be.

I countered the Bush Administration's tap-dancing tactics and frat boy force of military hellfire in my high school newspaper when I had my own article. And, even then, I was told to knock it off with the politic rants and the young revolutions by students. Friends were telling me they didn't care about some broken plan of war. I got letters telling me to move out of the country and I had students telling me to just trust the administration that our parents voted for. Every time I brought up Nixon as a counter-argument, I got, "Well, that was different." Every time I mentioned Vietnam, I heard, "Oh, come on."

If some wise-ass-punk-commie-beatnik-dreamer can see the worrisome state of the world at 17, how can big-city-know-it-all-critic-attended-Colombia-cocky-journalist not?

Why aren't there letters to the editor everywhere? Why isn't the world clawing at their journalists, begging to know what's going on? Sure, they're no longer gatekeepers, because gatekeepers only let the country know a little bit and can control it, and that's wildly impossible with the advancement of the internet, but are they even trying? Are they even holding pens while they burn alive? While the print industry burns (pun...I guess intended), these forlorn journalists might as well be junkie rock stars or burned out poets. They're nothing but potential.
Where is Woodword and Bernstein? Where are the citizens? Where is the anger, the sadness, the rage that won't settle?

Remember when I was pissed off all the time about politics? Where did my heart go? Every morning my senior year of high school, I checked the paper to reassure myself that there was something wrong with the political scheme. I saw the landscape that was burning in the distance. I saw the disease of war and I saw the malnutrition of peace. I told relatives at family functions that I was considering revolutionary as a fair occupation. There aren't enough anymore, I figured. Of course I'd keep a job as a writer, but I'd be a revolutionary first and foremost.

Well, somehow, I dissected my own heart and let it fight other causes, personal causes, over the years. I must have been sleepwalking when I did it, because I sure as hell don't remember giving up or giving in. I just woke up one day and I was on a good path to being a yuppie.

I miss the sick-to-stomach feeling I consumed when I was head over heels for politics. I miss being furious with capitalists I'd never met. I miss knowing why I was right. I miss knowing why the swallowing darkness of every tedious branch of hate was wrong. I miss having arrogant goals that didn't really include me, but the betterment of civilization and democracy.

And I'm not saying politics is honest, or ever has been. But there's a line that poets and civilians and working mothers and fathers that should be clear by now. It should be neon. The line should be the first thing you see in the morning. You should read the paper, read the comics, read the body count and know that the world isn't the same now as it was when you were in R.E.M. hours ago. The world and the shadowy hand shakes that have build it are moving more than ever. This is the worst era of political damage and ethical malpractice since the days of yellow journalism. I ain't kidding. The Middle East is your worst nightmare. Just so you know. Right, right, right, you've heard it all before. But you haven't heard it in the right tone, the right key, the right pitch. It's panic. Journalists should be putting exclamation marks at the end of every sentence and trying to get us out of bed and into the streets.

But, they're not. They're too afraid of Karl Rove and fearing that their careers might end like that old running cartoon joke where the disobedient character ends up as an eskimo transfer in Alaska. Well, whatever. Get your balls back. At least look like you're a real writer. Act like you remember what your name was before it was a byline. There ain't glory in the breakdown, but you are the glory in a revolution. And when you get shot by the capitol's best character assassin, I swear I'll salute you. When your metaphorically bloody carcass is awashed in Washington DC's gutter with poets and filmmakers standing over you curious, maybe the time bomb will go off. Maybe they'll be the freedom fighters for the next year. Die on New Year's Eve and you can be the saint.

We'll see new graffiti, anarchic and artistic prose that makes sense, like:

- The Middle East is the new Cold War.

- The last real savage was before Christ.

- The laundry list grows longer.

- The sun always sets on an empire in flames.

- You were always my favorite destruction, America.

Do it. Pen the fights, resurrect the poets, and dodge the bullets of the White House. This ain't a war anymore, some harrowing shit you read in the paper but see no pictures. This is the new Western Lie. I want you to know that you've been lied to for years, but, this time, they aren't even bothering to cover their mouths or hide underground. They're lying over TV networks, not underground networks. Can't you see that they have nothing to hide because you don't care? They are lying at you. How can you not want to bite off their lips? This is a bad plan that you're a part of. Where were you when they dropped the bomb?

Right. You weren't alive when they dropped the bomb. But here's your chance to do something heroic, and you're sitting at home. You're worrying about relationships. You're worrying about cereal. You're worrying about air-conditioning. You're worrying about where you'll drink tonight. You're worrying about someone not calling you back. You're actually panicking about too many clothes.

Well, get it the fuck together.

Go outside and see a brand new sun. It's calling your name, and you better be off this block by sunset. You better be somewhere where you're doing something, where you're actually saying something. Get someone to feed your pets for a week, have your mother check your mailbox, have your neighbor take in your daily newspaper, and lock yourself in a motel room while you write the manifesto. Don't drink heavily and don't sketch out all lucid on us. We're depending on you.

You need to reinvent the system. You need to put fire back in my heart. You need to challenge those city suits to a duel out in the middle of Time Square. Please. Please care about what they're saying behind your backs. This is the end of the line in coming years. This could be the last stand of poetry and the final glory of revolutions inspired by college students. If you want to know what the world thinks of this teasing lifestyle of weekend sex and workweeks of drinking, watch MTV. The world should know us by CNN. They should see us on CNN. They should see us waving new flags of new colors and new designs on CNN. We'll wear name tags with some inside revolutionary joke. We're confident, but we're still us.

This is the manifesto I promised you. This is what I said I'd write years ago when I conquered the world at 17. I'm an adult now, and I've seen the test of time because I actually took the time to test it.

Why does it seem that every just cause is a lost cause.

Wait, I've Got Something To Say...

"Wait, I've Got Something To Say..."
by Amy Winehouse

AN EXCERPT:
Agggggggggggggggggggghhh!!! Gup, gup gup! Meeeeee feeeeeeeeettttttttttt! They is lizahds! Owwwwwwwwww! Me faaaaaaaaaaacccccccccccccccceeeeeeee! It on fiyez! Whoy God? Oh Whoy? Whoh can help meeeeeeeeeeeeeezzzzzzzzzz?! Me body es the Deeeeeeeeeviilll!

At The End Of The Day

"At The End Of The Day"

a novella

by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:

He grabbed his suede jacket and stepped out the back door of the restaurant, hurrying to the car, concentrating on each planted move of his feet. The parking lot had been empty for an hour, long since the neon sign died.

She yelled again, this time from the doorway. "I get it. I broke your heart three years ago and this is your way of getting back at me. I come back here because I need money, but you see right through me. I'm here to ruin your life again. You got me. I'm back to hurt you. I fooled everybody else, but not you. You know that even though I'm about to get married, I'm here to cut you open again."

She waited for him to catch fire, while he waited to gather himself. He stood at his driver's side door with keys in hand. His eyes were closed and his hands were gripping the keys so hard that the metal should have melted.

He spun around. "What do you want from me?" he yelled back at her, moving towards her quickly. "What could you possibly want? You want a goodbye? You leave town for three years and come back one night and demand a goodbye? Who are you? Who do you think you are? Why do you think you deserve for everyone to be nice to you? When have you ever benefited someone where you weren't the one benefited first? I'd love to hear this."

"Oh, you're so right. I always try to put myself first. Now, why am I here again? Oh right, because my fiancé and I need money for our wedding. Could I have asked my sexually abusive father? Sure. Why not? That would have been easy. Give him some and he'll give me some. Then I could walk away clean, walk away without this between us, whatever you want to call it. I'd call it a big fucking gap, but you'll probably just call it my fault again."

"Still the same girl. The only way you've evolved is that your tits got bigger, and I'm just going to assume that the boob job is the reason you need money again. I wouldn't put cocaine pass you, but really, with your sharp mouth and low self-esteem, who knows what you'll say no to?"

"Fuck you. I came here to be fine with you. I thought maybe you'd be an adult. I can't imagine why I'd assume that. The only way you'd open up to me is if I broke your rib cage. And I'll put the fall of us three years ago on that, while you put it on me being with someone else."

"Someone else in front of me. You forget that it was in front of me."

"Whatever. I was drunk and it was my birthday anyway. It didn't matter. We were dead long before then. You just love technicalities."

"Not as much as you love humping on a pool table in front of your friends. I can't imagine what Christmas is like with you. I'm sure both you and the turkey have a ball getting stuffed together in front of everyone who used to respect you."

"Oh, that was beautiful. Have you been waiting to say that to me for three years? Kind of lacking there. I won't complain though. I never have with you, not even about the sex."

"Why would you complain to me? I wasn't even a part of it. Remember? It was you and the jock model on the pool table. You must remember. I mean, you were just talking about it and it was also the night everyone started calling you a slut."

"First of all, we were just groping. Secondly, I think the best part about dating you was your wit, because it certainly wasn't your punctuality or generosity."

"Wow, I'm impressed with your new vocabulary. College does wonders. When we last saw each other, you hadn't learned the word 'sorry' yet. But, that's ok, you've never been a quick learner."

"You'd be done with a girl in the sack faster than I could even say the word 'sorry'."

"Oh, I know. You're a ridiculously slow learner. Remember how long it took you to try and stay loyal? Actually, are you even there yet? Because if you are, I could call all the guys you've fucked and we could throw a big celebration right here in the parking lot."

"Or we could call all the girls you've fucked and I could just stand right here clapping for myself for an hour."

He actually laughed. "I've missed that mouth of yours. No joke. No insult. I miss that sharp wit of yours."

She sighed heavily, "I'll admit it. I've missed you, too."

Why Are We Us?

"Why Are We Us?: a simple look at who we are"
by Tyra Banks & Elmo

AN EXCERPT:
TB: And then she was all, "Oh yeah?" And I said, "Bitch, please. I ain't got shit to say to you." And she was like, "Whateva! You're not even rough!" And I was like, "Oh, no. You did not just say that." And she was like, "Oh, hell yeah, I said that." So I grabbed her shoulder and started scratching her! I had tears in my eyes! I was yelling things like, "I'm not fat! You're fat! I'll kiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllll yooooooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuu! I'll eat everyone that you love!!!!!!!!" And then-
E: Elmo's going to have to stop you there. That story is getting a little too scary for Elmo and his friends.

TB: Shut up, puppet! I'll eat yo feet!

E: Elmo doesn't like when you say things like that. It makes him sad and turn blue.

TB: Listen here, you little red asshole, with your spooky eyes and puppet arms, and those delicious looking limbs, I'm hungry. I'll eat you. I've never eaten a puppet, and I've never eaten a person. But that won't stop me one day! I'm crazy, if you haven't noticed! And I've got an appetite for chicken wings and fame! You listen to me now. I'll rip your heart out and serve it to wild animals. In front of you. I'll buy a castle just to put you in a dungeon!

E: Elmo thinks you need a nap. Or pills that mommys and daddys take.

TB: [random screams and yells]

E: Elmo is afraid.

TB: [eating an entire couch]

E: Elmo is uncomfortable.

TB: [eating a lamp]

E: Elmo says that this book may have been a bad idea.

TB: [eating unopened package of doorknobs]

E: Elmo says poor Tyra Banks. She's the only person to have more hands up her butt than Elmo.

Seven Pounds

"Seven Pounds"
the novelization
by Jake Kilroy

BACK COVER:
You have no idea what the movie was about, but damn, you wanted to see it, right?

Well, now you can read it. Like a smart person.

It had everything. Confusion. Selflessness. A man screaming into his cell phone in the rain. A wife-sort-of-character crying at some point. Someone saying that you can't screw up people's lives. Rosario Dawson.

I mean, everything.

Well, guess what? That's all the novelization is. It's all just the good parts. Nevermind all that stupid sadness and aimless flashback bullshit. No, sir. It's nothing but Will Smith's character yelling into a phone in the rain, "Do what you've got to do! You promised!" Then, at one point, Roasrio Dawson shows up and gets naked. More yelling. More naked. More crying.

Ok, so there wasn't really any wild crazy sexy nudity in the movie. But there is in the book!

Naked. Right. Next. To. Will. Smith. While. He's. Yelling. In. The. Rain.

How amazing is that? That's how you know it's good drama, if there's someone yelling into a wet phone with tits somewhere.

Yep. That'll be $39.95.

Am We Brandon Flowers?

Am We Brandon Flowers?
by Brandon Flowers

AN EXCERPT:
Look, the name of the book is a play on something I said a long time ago. How does no one get my wit? I am clearly Brandon Flowers. But it's a collective effort. So there's also a "we" perspective. I am Brandon Flowers, but we are all Brandon Flowers. Duh. God, how is everyone so stupid? How does everyone not totally think I'm witty? It's subtle, sure, but I'm obviously messing around. But messing around with the language we all speak. Don't you get it? It's all about how people can be persons and can a person can be a people. We are our own strength. Get it? Goddamn, I feel like I'm like the only amazing songwriter left. I'm like Bob Dylan if his mother was poetry and his father was a story. I'm so good that you're head would explode if you could actually answer the question of "Are we human or are we dancer?"

Don't you don't that this album was supposed to make or break us? So I did something drastic. I botched a quote by Hunter S. Thompson super wrong and made people talk about us. "Are we human or are we dancer?" is the best lyric you've ever heard. Why nobody wants to admit that is beyond me. I rule. I am smarter than you. I am Brandon Flowers. And so are you. I am Brandon Flowers. I am The Killers. I am fashion. I am Brandon Flowers. Look at how great my lyrics are. I'm a goddamn genius. I am Brandon Flowers. I am the glory of the almighty. Amen. I am Brandon Flowers. And I am human. And I am dancer.

Get it?

Bringing Down Rodriguez

"Bringing Down Rodriguez"
a crime caper
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
Kisbee kicked the front door down. Shots greeted them immediately. The brick tapped and cracked as the bullets pelted off the wall with a roar down the hallway. There were more of them than he had initially expected.

He waited for his team to come in through the windows. Kisbee rubbed his eyes. There was smoke everywhere now. Shots were no longer flying by his ear. Instead, they were being fired in all directions inside the loft. There was much more yelling now. He could hear the voices of Ryan, Atterman, Cruz and Nick. They were shouting orders.

The smoked thinned and the count of gunshots slowed down to nothing.

"It's all right, Captain!" Ryan yelled.

Kisbee pushed off his knees and entered the loft. His boots echoed down the hall.

"This all of them?" Kisbee said, looking around at the ten men rolling around in handcuffs.

"Well, of this outfit, yes. There's still Watterton Street and Coosly Drive, sir," Cruz said.

"How many men do we have here after departure?" Kisbee asked, still looking at the men on the floor.

"Well, once we load these guys up into the vans, we'll have 23 men ready to go from here," Cruz said.

"Then get these men-" Kisbee paused as he caught sight of a figure taking a ladder up to the roof in the distance. "Rodriguez!"

Kisbee was out the window and onto the lower roof before his men knew his sentence had ended. He was surprisingly agile in his old age, though he wouldn't admit the latter. Rodriguez was near the top of his ladder, squiting back at Kisbee gaining.

Rodriguez was a fast runner, but his anxiety gets the best of his decisions, Kisbee remembered. Rodriguez was out of sight, two or three stories above Kisbee, who was now at the ladder, already up a few steps when starting.

Kisbee reached the top and popped his head, making sure he wouldn't lose it in a gunfight.

"Rodriguez is unarmed!" Atterman yelled from the bottom, following Kisbee in pursuit, though much farther back.

Kisbee's sour face opened with a grin as he started the uneasy process of jumping rooftop to rooftop, his coat flapping loudly over the alleys several stories below. He watched Rodriguez do the same in the distance.

Every chimney was an obstacle, every jump was a free fall, every rooftop was a slide. But Kisbee moved like a cat, light and quick. Dashing instead of running, lunging instead of jumping, all while using his hands as feet and vice versa. He had never been so balanced.

Rodriguez was slipping. He was showing signs of panic. At least from a rooftop behind, he did.

Kisbee was almost laughing. He felt delusional. He would catch up to Rodriguez and all of this would be over. Finally. He would be able to sleep in for once. The last four months had been blistering to his ego. But no more. Not after today, Kisbee kept thinking. In every jump, he felt he was closer to closing the case. His body ached from a lack of sleep, but his soul was in flames every morning. Today was like therapy.

Rodriguez dodged to the left, prancing between chimneys and rooftop blocks. He was heading up another ladder. The building was mostly isolated, a bad move by Rodriguez because of his notorious panic.

Kisbee laughed an arrogant "ha" before making a final leap to the last rooftop before the ladder. A staircase lead down to the street. Why had Rodriguez not taken it?

Finally at the top of the ladder, Kisbee peaked his head over the final rung to see Rodriguez standing across the rooftop with a sly smile, hands and arms separated.

"You're faster than I thought you were, Harold," Rodriguez yelled, still with a grin.

Kisbee stepped onto the roof and stopped.

"I'm faster than most criminals. You're no different," Kisbee yelled back.

"How so?"

"They don't get away. You don't get away."

"Oh, but I am, you lofty gentleman! Unless you shoot me of course. But alas, you need me alive and I know this."

"How do you know that? Who says I can't just shoot you right now and watch you fall to your death? Watch you sleep there for the night as the rats feed upon you before we pick your body up tomorrow."

"My goodness, that is sick. Especially for what I haven't really done. But to answer your question, I know because my spy told me."

Kisbee felt cold. Could one of his own men really be a spy? The thought iced his body and scratched at his nerves.

"I call bullshit."

"You can call it whatever you want, but at the end of the day, I'll have the information I shouldn't. And you'll be the good cop that couldn't."

"You're going to jail."

"For what?" Rodriguez asked playfully.

"For what? For a long time! For the stealing, the murders! For everything!"

"Oh, I thought it would've slipped out by now. But, well, how do I put this? Ah yes. There were no murders. They were all faked."

"No murders? What are you talking about?"

"They were fake. You had everything to prove them real. But you're going to look pretty stupid for a detective bringing me in on the wrong charges. I don't care how much of a rock star everyone thinks you are, but I'm going to look good. Sure, I've done some stealing. My, how I've done some stealing, but I doubt you could swing an ax on me for it."

"I'll make sure it happens, so help me," Kisbee said with a grit of his teeth.

"How, dear sir, are you to do that?"

"With any luck, I won't have to to tell you. I'll just show you instead."

"Why, my good man, are you ever so lucky?" Rodriguez yelled.

"Just am. You, not so much."

"Me? Really? If I'm so unlucky and no different than any of your other petty criminals, why then, Harold, are you standing all the way across from me on this roof?"

"Because you're unarmed, not shooting and not trying to escape. I figure there's a booty trap between us."

"No, no, no, no, no. I'm not The Joker. I'm actually just waiting for my ride."

Kisbee felt worse. Rodriguez knew something he didn't. Rodriguez wasn't trapped. And there probably was no trap.

"What ride?"

A stealth helicopter appeared at great speed.

"Wow! I didn't know perfect timing could happen like that except for the movies! Did you?"

"No!" Kisbee screamed. His faced ached from anxiety, fear, anger and frustration. "Not this time! Goddammit, no!"

Kisbee sprinted towards Rodriguez. A rope appeared and Rodriguez grabbed on. Kisbee made a final lunge.

"See you around, lucky man!" Rodriguez said with a wave, as he floated over rooftops.

Kisbee cried furiously out of frustration, while Rodriguez and his laughter disappeared into the late afternoon sky.

Happy New Yeaw!

"Happy New Yeaw!"
by Joey

AN EXCEWPT:
i may onwy be 6 but i can keep twying to wish you a happy new yeaw! wook at how cute i is wiff my funny spe-wings! i bet you totawy wuv me! i so cute!

Happy New Year!

"Happy New Year!"
by Father Time

BOOK SLEEVE:
A season of grief, a season of woe,
we see the relief, we see the warm glow,
we always feel pain, but come back with cheer,
a wild unknown ahead, so let's ring in the new year!