Drucking Funk

2005-01-17T02:33:00.000-08:00

American Racism

Is America more racist/bigoted than ever? Or was it just hidden for a while?

Comments enabled for everyone, so feel free to offer your 2 cents.

2005-01-15T21:22:00.000-08:00

2005-01-15T20:03:00.000-08:00

Women's Health-Large Dildos, can Harm your, er, Nether Regions
This is actually a very funny article (a short story, really). Pay attention to the end.

The Other Hollywood

Cheshire's punk legend, Legs McNeil, writes the history of porn in America

Website and E-Book Solves the Puzzle of Interracial Dating Destroying Double Standards

As defined by Merriam-Webster, a double standard is “a set of principles that applies differently and usually more rigorously to one group of people or circumstances than to another; especially: a code of morals that applies more severe standards of sexual behavior to women than to men.” While this typically applies to women in the sense that double standards do not permit them many of the same freedoms and inhibitions in relationships, double standards play an unfairly large role in many people’s assessment of interracial relationships.

2005-01-14T23:20:00.000-08:00

2005-01-13T17:12:00.000-08:00

Read These:Billy Bathgate by E.L. Doctorow

Welcome to Hard Times by E.L. Doctorow

Chicago Loop by Paul Theroux

Black Sunday by Thomas Harris

Bluebeard By Kurt Vonnegut

Time's Arrow by Martin Amis

A House for Mister Biswas by V.S. Naipaul

Cotton Comes to Harlem by Chester Himes

2005-01-10T22:41:00.000-08:00

A Blog Portal for your promoting and networking pleasure.

2005-01-10T02:25:00.000-08:00

ALL THE JOYS OF BLOODY VENGEANCE
By
WR BULL (Part 3)

You come to my house today? My house? Talk to my woman?
Who tell you to come? You come to my house, you mus' be mad. You goin' learn something tonight. You don' have nuttin dere. She don' wan' see you. She don' wan' know you. You are not nuttin'. You undastan'?

He slaps him with the gun and then holds it to his head, needing to see fear in Neill's eyes. Neill gives it to him. Slides off the bed to his knees on the floor and begs for his life. He even tries to piss himself but it won't come. Instead he has an erection. He promises never to come to the house again. The piece de resistance? He offers to blow the man. He is so sorry, so terrified that he is willing to humiliate himself. He watches for confusion in the man's eyes. The moment when he is so distracted by this that his brain loses contact with his trigger finger. When it comes his hand comes up with the scalpel and plunges it into the man's crotch. Then he stands, slicing upward as he does, and reaching out for the gun. No problem, both hands go down to the crotch. Other guy doesn't even know what happened when he sees the gun pointed at him. Big Black is on his knees on the floor, in shock, wondering if what he thought just happened, really did.

Behind the gun, the world is a better place.

He fires once and misses. Instead of running, the other one falls to his knees as well. He walks closer and fires into the younger man's right eye.

The other is bleeding profusely and sweating. He looks up at Neill but doesn't see him, his face shiny and gray. Doesn't see anything except for the fact that his penis has become detached from the rest of his body. Neill puts the gun against Terry's new boyfriend's forehead and blows his brains out.

He steps out into the night. The air is cool and there are no sirens. It is clean, the rain having just fallen and he has a gun now. The smell of gunfire and blood in his nostrils he takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one. Menthols. Ah, the joy of bloody vengeance.

Cigarette smoked, he sets out to go kill his ex-girlfriend.

THE END.

2005-01-08T13:04:00.000-08:00

ALL THE JOYS OF BLOODY VENGEANCE
By
WR BULL (Part 2)

Before too long it was December and his uncle let him go. The days were moist and hot, the continuing existence of the people around him, their satisfaction with the shit life of wanting more shit made him disgusted to a point of madness and only the weed could bring him down. But when there was no money to buy weed he thought about murder and the release of it. They felt like cockroaches though. Like going into your kitchen at 3:00 in the morning and seeing a bunch of them huddled there on the floor over a crumb of bread, even though you are barefooted you want to kill, and kill and kill.

He did not carry a knife, instead, he carried a scalpel.

He finds himself one evening with a need to talk to her. So he goes to the house, which is not far away. He stands at the gate and calls, hello? Hello? An old woman, presumably the boyfriend's mother comes out and asks him who he wants, she is friendly,or at least not unfriendly. He says he wants to talk to Terry for a minute, she says, oh. Then who should I say is calling? He says tell her Neill. She goes in quickly without saying anything more. Terry comes out and comes to the gate, looking like she was preparing to tell him to fuck off. He says, Hi. She asks how are you? He lies, Fine. She says, Look, I need you to go. I'm sorry. He sees that there is no more love, he sees that she never loved because love doesn't go away like that, even after four years. He sees that he needs her so bad he will have to kill her dead.

He walks away. She calls to him, says something that he cannot hear, but its tone is apologetic. He says fuck you.

They kick down his door in the night like the badasses they imagined themselves to be. Big Black Boyfriend and his posse of one, Smaller Black Boy. Neill woke up without jumping, without his heart beating fast. Too many late night searches, too violent many attempts to get him to suck cock by imagined badasses. At the back of his mind as he turns the light on is the fact that he does not care. When he sees who it is and that they have brought a gun a part of him smiles.

(END OF PART 2)

2005-01-08T02:52:00.000-08:00

Stuff for the content-challenged Blogger, add-ons and such.

2005-01-07T04:40:00.000-08:00

ALL THE JOYS OF BLOODY VENGEANCE
By
WR BULL (Part 1)

He was scarred in all kinds of new ways, new souvenirs, deeper and uglier than the ones he went in with, missing a tooth, smoking more than he had before, but he came out, came back home unraped, unbeaten, and less afraid than ever. He got a job with his uncle, working as a clerk in the mornings answering the phone and working the cash register. He got a room in Delford, a rough-drawn haphazard little town, no straight roads anywhere. He bought weed and sat by his window in the evenings and smoked and planned.

Oh, how he hated the world. He wanted to kill and kill and never stop killing. He wanted to walk into restaurants and dump a bucket of gasoline on somebody and set them on fire. He wanted to get a gun and fire tight groupings into walking bodies. He wanted to strangle, to decapitate. Thing was, now he could do it. Prison had given him the key to the hole where the animals were kept. Now all he wanted was for somebody to set him off.

There she was sitting on the veranda swing, the Great White Goddess in all her glory. She would see him standing behind the tree and imagine he still cared, still the little loser who loved her and couldn't find anybody else who wanted him. He was the one she had wanted when she still thought he was stronger and blacker than he turned out to be. Yeah man, she got herself a real nigger now, big and black, and this one has money. After prison in Tennessee Neill found that the voices in his head are almost always African American. She was there on the swing looking happy like he had never been in her life and he wanted so much to kill her. Not slowly though, fast and bloody and hard. What did that say?
(END OF PART 1)

RUM PUNCH By Elmore Leonard

2005-01-06T01:56:00.000-08:00

Mystery By Peter Straub

2005-01-05T19:56:00.000-08:00

Dennis Lehane's Shutter Island has something of a dramatic plot twist about two thirds of the way through, if you don't already know. I would be lying if I claimed to not have enjoyed this book. I liked the thrill of that moment when the gimmickery didn't feel like gimmickery, when I was genuinely surprised. That's rare for me, not that I'm smart or anything, just cynical about literary devices and tricky writer shit.

The story itself is about a pair of federal marshals arriving at an institution for the criminally insane to investigate the disappearance of an inmate, Rachel Solando, who is there for having drowned her children. This prison/mental hospital is on an island. It follows a line of interesting, if not particularly alarming, twists till about 3/4 of the way in we hit up against the stonewall of the big surprise. I won't spoil it for you. There are links to Amazon here. Don't be a hater.

I have two points to make about this book:

1. It strikes me that pretty much anybody (especially if they have a quirky personality) could be committed by their family should the family so desire. Think of any of the people you know over age 25 and let us say that you heard that they had been sent to a mental hosptital. Would it be that hard for you to come up with a reason? Something that you could think back to and say, ah, yes, I should have seen it coming? Look at those ugly pictures he has on his blog! What normal person would enjoy such things! I knew he was fucking nuts!

2. The surprise is not the kind where the writer has been thinking of this all along.If you've ever written a short story or a novel and tried to be cute with your endings, you know that surprise endings are fucking hard to pull off. The way it happens most easily, is for the ending to surprise you. You're writing along happily and then it hits you: what if I did this? Or this? I suspect that that is what happened here. You can see the narrative building the suspense in one direction, and then you can see where the lightbulb goes on.

2005-01-03T05:49:00.000-08:00

There is no way to like violent pulp and not like Stephen Hunter's books. These are guys' books if there ever was such a genre. Unlike Tom Clancy, the king of the guys' book, Hunter does not shy away from extremes. His heroes are a little deeper than Clancy's chise-jawed stalwart. The Swaggers et al are very matter-of fact about killing and Hunter is in no way ashamed. Much like Dennis Lehane (whose SHUTTER ISLAND I will look at shortly) he writes his protagonists as tortured with guilt and old sufferings. It is an easy way to get the reader on the side of the man who is going to kill more than a few bad guys before the novel ends.

Hot Springs is neither Hunter's best or worst book, it is simply typical. His hero is Earl Swagger, the father of the hero of a couple of his other books, Bobby Lee Swagger. He is war-hero still haunted by his abusive childhood and his younger brother's suicide. He is requested to join the war against Owney Maddox (based on a real-life gangster who did, in fact, run Hot Springs, Arkansas after WWII, it's a name similar to "Owney Madden"). Needless, to say, the pages of the book start to smell like gunsmoke and sound like the tinkling of spent shell before you're halfway through. Swagger manages to have a fistfight with Bugsy Siegel, drink countless bottles of bourbon, and kill countless hillbillies as well as father Bobby Lee.

This book is not what I would call "quality fiction", it's sort a cross between Dirty Harry and Forrest Gump, now that I think of it. It is raw, violent, male-bravado pulp with no other merit than to keep you turning the pages, but it does its job very well.

2005-01-02T00:44:00.000-08:00

Jebnit
IFYOUMESSWITHMEIWILLKILLYOU
broken
DeadBolt-Bulletin
vulgarmonkey
Avast30

2005-01-01T21:39:00.000-08:00

You read a novel and it changes you. Readers are different from the rest of the world, readers of fiction in particular. The love of stories is the sign of an internal life, an ability to relate to concepts and to empathize, it shows a personal layer beyond the apparent. The enjoyment of words on paper separates you from the rest of the world for whom reading is a tiresome necessity, a chore to be done in order to pass tests or to find out what is in this can.

The vast majority of human beings concern themselves only with what is practical, what is likely, what exists, they do this and are content. They are unable to see beyond necessity and desire. In this respect they are not unlike dogs. Their aesthetic is basic, this matches that, they like paintings that are like photographs, they like the smell of English Leather. This girl is pretty because she has big eyes and long hair. They like TV because you can understand the stories that are on TV, the soap operas are like gossip, the actors spit emotion at you and you don’t have think to get anything. For TV you don’t need imagination. Imagination distracts you. You sit and suck at Hollywood’s teat and numb your mind.

The Other Hollywood: The Uncensored Oral History of the Porn Film Industry

2004-12-30T03:30:00.000-08:00

Last of the Breed By Louis L'amour

THE BOY
Eighteen months before when his father had been in his bed on his back, dying, the boy would come to the window and talk to him. At the time Egan hadn't liked it, the old man wasted his strength trying to hide his fear and swallow groans so he could smile and talk nonsense. Egan wanted, at times desperately wanted, to tell the boy to f*ck off and leave his father alone. Of course, then the old man would have cried. He cried at every little disappointment then, after years of it never even entering Egan's mind that his father so much as had tear ducts. He saw his father cry over a spilt cup of yogurt, apologize to tears to Egan for having shat himself. In the night Egan would hear sobbing and lie awake thinking about mentholated tobacco and how as soon as the old man was out of the house he would smoke until his throat closed with phlegm. He would drink every night for the rest of his life.
The boy talked to himself. Seven or eight years old and nobody to talk to over there but his grandmother he would spend his holidays playing by the fence, having loud conversations with himself in the hope that Egan's father would hear and respond. He always did it when he wasn't busy. Always sorry for somebody.

Last of the Breed By Louis L'amour

He left in the dark with her in the mornings. She waited with him at the bus-stop, staring back at the people who stared at them while pretending not to. Stared at the ones who did it frankly, mostly women. Sometimes she would kiss him as the bus appeared at the corner and then step back to avoid the crush. After that she would walk back to the house. It worried him that she would get raped one morning.

Last of the Breed By Louis L'amour

The boy loved her and she loved him. Those first days in January, he stared over the fence at her as if he had ever seen a white woman before, his jaw slack with simple astonishment, as if he were ready the fling himself over the fence to her.

Last of the Breed By Louis L'amour

"They broke into you house looking for him. About two hours after I left to go to work."
The television set that they had removed, and brought back for some reason sat on the armchair, the antenna wire hanging down the floor like the arm of a sleeper.
"He's dead." She was crying, but her mind was the oiled gun that it always was. "Three hours."
They had only one "he" in common. Three hours for what, he wanted to know. He didn't ask, though. He had the idea that it was surgery or resuscitation. He stood looking at his returned TV that he would have to hook up again and let the shock cut into him.

Last of the Breed By Louis L'amour

2004-12-29T15:48:00.000-08:00

2004-12-29T10:04:00.000-08:00

Don Quixote

Egan hated nurses. They were working class sociopaths, little barmaid sadists. Nurses had made the last days of people he had loved miserable, full of shame. His father had been afraid to call someone for his bedpan. He thought about it all as he sat looking at the white pantyhose draped over the back of the sofa. Was this one different or were the memories fading enough for him to betray them? With that not answered he got to thinking the next thing: if she left the pantyhose there, he would want to take them up and press them to his face. I am a sick and twisted little man, he thought.
Don Quixote

Then she came out the bathroom and sat down on the sofa, across from him. She took the cigarettes from the pocket of her uniform, never once moving her eyes from his face. It was a stare that demanded, albeit very calmly, very logically, he tell her something or take her into the bedroom so that they could have sex on his bed. The eyes, big and green made it clear, that the sex, if they were to have it, would be very good.
Egan decided that they should talk instead.

Don Quixote

2004-12-29T05:35:00.000-08:00

Where over 50 million new, used, rare, out-of-print books are just a click
away, online @ abebooks.com

I saw them coming and my jaw dropped for a second before I realized that I must have been hallucinating, and then dropped again when I realized that I wasn't, that the women, about forty of them, black, naked, coming from the river were real. It was on the dirt road that leads up to Malcolm Fuggit's house, to fix his computer, help him print out manuals for something he was building on that ancient printer. The bodies were the same, it seemed to me, brown flab and stretch marks, dimples and dry skin, showing as white ash. Their heels protruded in that sway backed way of people who spent their childhood walking barefoot. They walked on the rocks heads up faces forward in two columns of twenty. Like slaves being loaded onto a ship, too broken to need chains.

I stared, no one stared back, faces forward all the way. I thought of where they might be coming from, what this was, all things defied my imagination. The day was hot and still, the air dusty, all around us were the orange orchards at Fuggit's Estate so that no was near that could see, except maybe for an orange-thief or two, and I didn't see any.

I stood watching the departing regiment of black buttocks waddling and jiggling through the dust, and decided even though I was only five minutes away to call Fuggit, I needed a sane resolution to this immediately.
The phone rang eight times before he came on.

"Fuggit..."
"Boy, run, go get tha police, do na' come here, please..." The old Scot spoke in a voice that was more groan than anything, breaths and weak struggling.

Shutter Island

It was at about that time that they turned, as I stood listening to the old man wheeze. I realized the futility of running even then, but I had no choice, it was a response to the wildly bared teeth, the blood red gum. They charged at me as a group, but to or three sheared off to cut me off should I try to run back out to the main road. The only logical option was to run uphill, to Fuggit's. I dropped my backpack but held on to the phone.

They crashed though the dead limbs and through the dense branches I the orchard like wild dogs after some fleeing helpless thing. My mind hung itself up on the absurdity of this, and trying to reconcile the facts here. Man running from army of naked women. I charged through the orange trees my hand up, finally out into the open on the road again, I ran in the direction of Fuggit's house, slogging up the hill, I could hear the footfalls and skittering gravel behind me, and another sound, a rattle-whisper, a far bleating. It was Fuggit yelling into the phone.

I held to my ear.

"The stick, boy, use the stick!"
"What?" I asked, confused, terrified of the teeth and blood red gums.
" Ye kna not wha' manner of creatures with which ye deal, use tha stick!"
"I don't under..." But then I did.

I turned suddenly. This did not stop them, they charged up the hill intently, their eyes wide, their teeth still bared.

I unzipped my pants.

They slowed. When I whipped it out they stopped, transfixed, staring, helpless now, like vampires before a crucifix. I stepped to the first one, stepped close. It took only one thrust as she stood apparently horrified, then exploded, a small cloud of dust and flame.

Forty Thrusts later I stood alone on the road. I zipped my pants up, went back to where I had dropped my backpack then went up the hill, hoping that there were no more left at Malcolm's house.
Where over 50 million new, used, rare, out-of-print books are just a click
away, online @ abebooks.com

2004-12-19T09:25:00.000-08:00

(Paying) Flash Fiction Market listings available at: Marketpimp

2004-05-03T11:36:00.000-07:00

Blog Traffic

The most traffic I have ever received in 2 days on any of my sites is when I mentioned Catelyn Faber's name (Katelyn?). Basicallly the only way to increase blog traffic is to have a bunch of sensational topics on your blog, Bob Kerry, Rush Limbaugh, Michael Jackson, Kobe Bryant. Same for any website. Other topics to increase your traffic are Filipina penpals or Asian mail-order brides. Lists of porn actresses names can do it as well, Jill Kelly, Ginger Lyn, Jenna Jameson, Asia Carrera if you want to go old school. You can mention "high-paying affiliate programs" or pay per impression, or pay per click. Sprinkling words like anal, fisting, lactating, scat, virgin, underage, pre-teen, illegal, rape, incest, torture, will all do it for the sickos. Freeware, free phone cards, military penpals or dating for the not so sick.

2004-05-02T17:59:00.000-07:00

What's love gotta do with it?

This column is often concerned with the evolution of sexual behavior and sexual anatomy, but instead of attributing everything to sex, for once let's accept a view like that of Bertrand Russell."Love," he said, "is something far more than desire for sexual intercourse; it is the principal means of escape from the loneliness which afflicts most men and women throughout the greater part of their lives."

2004-05-01T01:09:00.000-07:00

I Thought About You Tonight

I thought about you tonight, and the fact that I said I loved you even though I am not sure. At least not in the way that you mean if you're not bullshitting me, which you probably are. But I prefer to think not. I have lusted for you, I have wanted to kiss you. You are a very easy woman to fall in lust with, but not love. The woman you are replacing who I was in love with, was at her core extremely practical, not romantic at all, thta is why when she said she loved me (lying) it meant something. You on the other hand, fall in love too easily. I do love you though, just not in a way that I am certain I would want to have kids with you. And yet I do not want to live without you. If your last lover came back I think I would be more relieved than anything.

2004-04-30T02:57:00.000-07:00

Girls Look at Me When I Smoke

Girls look at me when I smoke. I do not smoke for attention and I don't usually do it in public unless I'm out for a time longer than 3 hours. I won't say that I'm ignored by the opposite sex normally (becuae that would mean that I'm a loser and I would never admit to that), but the minute I take out a cigarette suddenly I'm an object of fascination. Is it glamour? No, I don't look like James Dean, nor do I look tough doing it, unfortunately. But they stare. and the whisper among themselves. Obviously, I prefer to think that it's done because there is some attraction thing going on, that they are not environmentalists, concerned about smog or what I'm going to do with the filter when I get done. I think the thing is that nothing fascinates a woman more than a man who is not interested in her, and smoking conveys a kind of indepence, and I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-you-think attitude. It's not exactly toughness, but it conveys a rejection of things feminine. There is pretty much nothing a man can do short of having sex with another man that can send the message of I don't need you quite as easily. I am not saying that having sex with other men is easy...necessarily. That's for another post, thank you and good night.

2004-04-29T02:07:00.000-07:00

How to Drink Good

A certain vodka distillery has made too money off those damn coolers, if you drink those it doesn't mean anything! My kid, if I had one with my wife, if I had one of those too, could drink soda with vodka in it! You are still a little girl of you have to have sugar with your alcohol, hence the necessity of you reading this article.

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, otherwise known as the wasteland of my sobriety, I used to gag when drinking scotch. A wise man instructed me on the hidden secrets of the drunken masters, a wise man who will not be credited here, lest he ask for money in order to pay his bar tab. Because I happen to like you I shall now pass on a drop from the fount of his knowledge, open your virgin, teetotaller mouths, be ready to recieve wisdom, little ones!

All alcoholic drinks taste like shit at first unless they are so nauseatingly sweet that the disgusting aftertaste of alcohol is hidden in the disgustingness of too much sugar. There are some people, men mostly, that will tell you that they liked scotch or vodka the first time they tried it, Always remember that men are liars. Unless their mother's food tasted like acetone. The human palate will always, and I mean, always, gag on introduction to the chemical whose presence is made evident by what is essentially not a taste but a smell and a physical sensation. Even wine is slightly bitter on first taste after a long ride on the wagon. At least it gives an impression of bitterness, that is your brain approximating.

Alcohol is so unpleasant to consume that your brain has execute that series of gymnastics and exercises in denial that fall under the layman's term, "acquired taste". It needs practice, your brain does. Hence My Method.

As I wrote at the beginning of this article, I once gagged on scotch. hence it holds a special place in my pantheon of alcoholic beverages. I once threw up after drinking a bottle of sparkling wine too., when I was 15 or 16., Proof that anyone can "acquire tastes".

What you need for my lesson is a 2-liter bottle of Coke, preferably chilled, and a glass of something that you can't stomach, say vodka or rum, or whiskey or bourbon. It doesn't matter, this works for all kinds of hard liquor, and really any kind of soda will do. Take a sip of the lquor and follow it up quickly with a sip of the soda. It is best if you have one glass in each hand. What you want is to swallow the soda before your brain has a chance to fully register the sensation of alcohol at the back of the throat, thus stifling the gag reflex. It also keeps the alcohol for causing undue stress to your innocent little tummy. Water doesn't work as your chaser because it doesn't hide the alcohol completely. This also works for a seasoned drinker who has run out of the good stuff and is left with, say, gin, or Guinness. Gin is easy to drink if you don't mind the Windexy taste, if you do, kill it with something else.

So there is it is, a method for making hard liquor more palatable to young 'uns. I've done my good deed for the day. Goodbye.