“

Retail. Fucking retail. School? School. Hoop earrings? Hoop…earrings.

In order to scale the full spectrum of my cacophonous existence, filled with anti-misogynistic imagery (I won’t burn a bra, though, sister) and uber-swag denim, you’ll need a couple 4x4s - hell, a steam roller to boot.

It’s not like I want to schlep wares to the automaton suburbanites of the mall; I’d rather be schlepped to. It’s not like I crave the smell of watered-down Jack n’ Coke on Joe Ed Hardy’s (or Abercoolguy and Fart’s) lips as he’s ordered a double ‘shroom and pineapple on his pie; I’d rather the pie be in my stomach, releasing carbohydrates, and causing the serotonin to make me forget I ever had laundry to be done.

I just want….

No, really, ladies and gentlemen, I just want pizza.

”

— Pg. 2 from Tortoise Frames and Red Lipstick

5:56 am  •  14 September 2011  •  1 note

“

…only because in the early 60s, 10 years after the construction of the Lakewood Center shopping mall (in fact, known as the prototypical “American mall”), a 19-year-old George would “cruise” Lakewood Boulevard in his older brother’s 49’ Mercury Eight - a bulky, full-size custom that was rattle-canned black. These cruise sessions led neighbors and pastors to believe George was sort of a rebel, a thug (or at least as thug a baby boomer teen could get).

That simply wasn’t the truth.

Custom-fitted snugly into the dash of the Mercury was a FM receiver with the “seeker” function ready for the local pop station’s out-of-date, but never unappreciated airing of Motown, Stax, or whatever overseas rock n’ roll presumably filtered out of its own country. It was in the passenger seat of his brother’s clunky speedster where the famous frontman cut his musical teeth.

”

— pg. 10 from A Different Set of Jaws: The Rise and Fall of The Excitement’s George Elston 

11:45 pm  •  13 September 2011

terencejames:

I’ve been thinking about doing this for awhile. Basically, it’s a blog where I post passages from fictional (or hell, maybe non-fictional) books that don’t (or will ever) exist.

Check it out :)

http://booksthatneverexisted.tumblr.com/

6:32 pm  •  13 September 2011  •  1 note

“

…but when Agatha held the fork as to mimic an egg beater, a sense of legitimate, violent rage brick-walled me into disgust, the kind of “holy fucking shit, that weed must be from the Middle East” shock that vied for my gag reflex’s attention.

Who is this bitch, and why is she taking culinary liberties in my kitchen?

Of course she would criticize my collection of Hogan’s Heroes VHS collection, my unruly fandom for former Portland Trailblazers power forward, Detlef Schrempf, or even the way I HATE touching ANYTHING right after cutting my fingernails. Maybe it was some repressed mommy issues, stemming from the week we spent in my mother’s hometown, Montmartre, where every morning she’d make me and my brothers egg tartines whiles we read Tin Tin comics. All I know is I’m standing in the middle of my kitchen—boxers n’ all—shooting eye lasers at a women making omelettes with a fork when there’s an egg beater in the drawer an inch away from her belly button.

God, that belly button is sexy.

Who needs eggs?

”

— pg. 18 from Sex With Pretty Pianos

6:07 pm  •  13 September 2011  •  14 notes