Public Service Announcement.

It seems you dorks will wear




get



get it?

(read a book)

jmz

Ghosts in my House.

Sometimes I might say to Dallas, let's invent a fake author, and say that he's a legendary ancient historical figure, and then say we found all of these writings (that we really wrote ourselves) and then people'll be like dude, that's fucked up, where'd you get this stuff?

And then I remember Ossian.

(jellz)

For the Boys

Everyone in Winston has a nickname except me.

One Version

The morning starts, always and forever, like this: Rising from a sheetless bed, covered in bunches of shirts and socks, stepping over strewn unconscious bodies and through a steamy, human smell. No one who lives here really lives here. The kitchen scum is eating every inch of counter surface, and the fruit flies thrive enough to have a burgeoning middle class. Towers of wine and whiskey bottles line the counter walls, crumbs belched from the toaster are grit between my toes. My one respite, a stainless steel holy grail--metaphorical, very physical--a screw-together stovetop espresso machine is hidden in a cupboard meant for stencils, rope and extension cord. It is the only article in the house that is both cleaned and polished regularly. I step up on my toes, I reach, I grab it. From another drawer containing a forgotten mini-cassette answering machine I produce a pound of coffee and a grinder. The beans are sent, whirring around with the edges of the turbine, chewed to pieces as they spin. The first metallic, drilling sounds of the morning reach the--now groaning--living dead, scattered over couches and sleeping bags throughout the house's first floor. Bodies shift and shiver, pillows are clung to in defense, the lolling, muggy quiet begins again as my mechanical work is finished. The finely ground substance is funneled into the small chamber, the end of a bottle of water dribbles into the bottom of the pot, just enough. I can see my reflection; baloonish, bent, on the shiny round surface of the chalice as I screw together its pieces until they click. I place it neatly on the stove, turn the gas to light, and nothing happens.


RJ's new book "Deathcamp" is out. The party at family was a blast. You should buy a copy now it's beautiful.

jams

So.

How much weight can you hold,

stomping through the bitter climes
of a barely known soul?

Sunday

RJ has a book opening at Family this sunday (aug 5). We (brother reade) and Mike Runion are playing. Why's everybody all on John Fante? Henry Miller's better on a bad day. (Quiet Nights in Clichy crushes Ask the Dust Easy.)


Shots fired.

yams

This summer

Daytime:

equal parts Yerba Mate, Fresh Squeezed Cali Oranges, Sparkling Water.


Nighttime:

Fresh Squeezed lemon juice, Very Berry, and 1 1/2 oz chilled vodka.


boom.


If you're around on sat, the barbecue in Silver lake should be fun.


james.

What you Tolkien 'bout, willis?

J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis had a literary group together, called "The Inklings". I'm going to re-instate it. Who wants to be down with "Tha Inklingz"?

Required summer reading for "Tha Inklingz":

The Remains of the Day (Ishiguro)
Mythologies (Barthes)
Dark is Rising (Susan Cooper)
Giovanni's Room (James Baldwin)
The White Album (Joan Didion)

and the "firestorm" of modern religious critiques, The Satanic Verses (Rushdie). Congrats to Sir Rushdie on his once-again Bachelorhood. In his honor we revisit this 600-page banger.

I been gone. I been chastized. Many things happened. I'm officially back from the dead. With a new album. PS, it's evolution summer. Mutate!

Jams F. Kennedey.