Hey Mc, now that you´re a novelist you should read that book i mentioned in June called About the Author. No really. its good. by John Colapinto. Just a suggestion, anyway. I dont normally suggest books but its a real page turner even for me who rarely turns very many pages in a book.
Also, I finished my Masters thesis today. 700 pages and titled "Creating Web Communities with Open Source Software". Check out the web site at www.xefl.com. just launched today. Now its time to get back to Pax Acidus lifestyle. Tomorrow is the rock and roll wedding on ecstasy and then its Paris and Stockholm for some post nuptial romping.
Burnt Roof of Mouth
Burnt Roof of Mouth
dude, looks like your mysql server is down..
Burnt Roof of Mouth
Is it ready yet? I'm dying over here....
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mccutcheon
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Burnt Roof of Mouth
Rock and roll wedding bells to you Sloth. Yeah I read About the Author and I also read the book Brett suggested The Frog King. Both good reads. Brett- the book won't be ready for at least 9 months. sorry. these things go slow.
Burnt Roof of Mouth
i was out of town, so i couldn't reply to mc until now. anyway:
i think the artist can write about anything he wants. 9/11, chicken soup, soccer -- it doesn't matter what an artist writes about.
what does matter is whether it is done well. whether it is sincere, true, valid, without cliché.
for example, the rape of manhatten as a deus-ex-machina would be a gyp, and an insult to the victims to boot.
there are plenty of 9/11 clichés around that have to be avoided. obviously, the ny times series of obituaries in which each and every wtc victim is a hero, a kind and loving person, a shining example for us all -- well, these are obituaries and have to be written that way. but a novel mustn't be like that.
another common cliché to be avoided is "after 9/11 everything changed for us all". it is a cliché because it is not true. perhaps everything changed for americans but as for the rest of the world, here's a news flash: civilians, and not just professional solidiers, tend to get killed in warlike situations.
but what am i talking about, anyway? mc wrote one of the finest treatments of 9/11 i have ever read, in "sex begins in the mind". so i don't think he is likely to fumble the subject matter if he deals with it in the pizza guy book.
and there is a lot of merit in writing about topical things -- it takes guts. i am still waiting for the definitive novel about german unification. i am still waiting for the definitive novel about the sex industry...
i think the artist can write about anything he wants. 9/11, chicken soup, soccer -- it doesn't matter what an artist writes about.
what does matter is whether it is done well. whether it is sincere, true, valid, without cliché.
for example, the rape of manhatten as a deus-ex-machina would be a gyp, and an insult to the victims to boot.
there are plenty of 9/11 clichés around that have to be avoided. obviously, the ny times series of obituaries in which each and every wtc victim is a hero, a kind and loving person, a shining example for us all -- well, these are obituaries and have to be written that way. but a novel mustn't be like that.
another common cliché to be avoided is "after 9/11 everything changed for us all". it is a cliché because it is not true. perhaps everything changed for americans but as for the rest of the world, here's a news flash: civilians, and not just professional solidiers, tend to get killed in warlike situations.
but what am i talking about, anyway? mc wrote one of the finest treatments of 9/11 i have ever read, in "sex begins in the mind". so i don't think he is likely to fumble the subject matter if he deals with it in the pizza guy book.
and there is a lot of merit in writing about topical things -- it takes guts. i am still waiting for the definitive novel about german unification. i am still waiting for the definitive novel about the sex industry...
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mccutcheon
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Burnt Roof of Mouth
welcome bacl did you get the photo? can you use it? I can send another or more or whatever you need.
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<Jack Chiefton>
Burnt Roof of Mouth
martino's right, again. write about whatever you want, but keep it real and lively! i'll buy a copy in nine months as well.
Burnt Roof of Mouth
why thanks, jack.
mc: the photo is hilarious. of course, publishers have the last word about pictures so if you had scans of some other ones it would be useful if you sent them to me. otherwise, for the moment, it is fine.
translation of "valentines day" is slow but steady and should be ready next week.
i had a rockin day in paris last week and wrote a (probably too long) story about it which i will post today or tomorrow. been quite busy and am boarding a plane again tomorrow so my visits here will be seldom...
mc: the photo is hilarious. of course, publishers have the last word about pictures so if you had scans of some other ones it would be useful if you sent them to me. otherwise, for the moment, it is fine.
translation of "valentines day" is slow but steady and should be ready next week.
i had a rockin day in paris last week and wrote a (probably too long) story about it which i will post today or tomorrow. been quite busy and am boarding a plane again tomorrow so my visits here will be seldom...
Burnt Roof of Mouth
just posted the story at "travel". please do me the favor of reading it and telling me whether it is interesting, folks.
it was certainly fun writing that story, but not even close to the fun i had experiencing it...
it was certainly fun writing that story, but not even close to the fun i had experiencing it...
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mccutcheon
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Burnt Roof of Mouth
Today is a big step in my literary career. No, I didn’t sign a ten-book deal worth twenty million dollars. A female fan said she loved my writing, she said she read it all, stayed up all night with me and as a gift she sent me a hot topless photo of herself. Who says I’m only in it for the money?
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mccutcheon
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Burnt Roof of Mouth
Remember I said I want Burnt to be timeless and not trendy? well that is bullshit. I just want entertainment. so what if they never teach it in the highschools. Here is a part for the greatest Frenchman ever.I'm in the mood. --
Brit hurries out with two bottles of wine, a small boom box and some compact discs. She jumps in and gives another address. We drive past the one Paris skyscraper.
“That’s Montparnase.” She says.
“Kinda stands out in this city. I like the Eiffel Tower better,” I say.
“Me too. Everyone does.”
The taxi stops outside of a cemetery. Brit pays the cabby, and as she scrounges in her purse for money the cabby winks at me. It’s a conspirator type wink, like man to man sign language. He is letting me know that I am going to get some and he approves of my choice.
“Is this the cemetery where Jim Morrison is buried?” I ask.
“No, that’s Cimetiere Du pere-Lachaise. Chopin is also buried there along with lots of other famous writers and stuff.”
The cemetery is mostly deserted. I’m no longer aware of much and consciousness seems daunting and coming at me punchy. It must be late afternoon by now. The cool weather now affects me. I feel the winter chill through my whole body. I rewrap my scarf around my neck. I guess many people don’t go to cemeteries when it’s cold. I think it must be more of a summer activity, which is weird to me since death seems the winter part of the cycle of life.
I grab the bottles of wine and follow Brit. She sits down cross-legged in front of a gravestone covered if fuzzy stuffed animals and empty bottles of wine. She puts a compact disc into the boom box. The music sounds like sixties lounge music and at first I think she must be kidding, it’s too kitsch to be cool. But as the music plays I get into it. I don’t understand the lyrics but his voice and cheesy little tunes grow on me and it becomes a very sexy musical experience.
“What do you think of the music?” She asks me.
“It’s growing on me.”
“It’s just so fantastic. Serge drank himself to death. He would always do duets with the most beautiful women. It didn’t matter how good they could sing. They just had to be sexy.”
“Yeah you said. Sounds good to me.”
Brit opens the first bottle of wine with a Swiss army knife. She takes a pull from it and hands the bottle to me. Brit puts two cigarettes into her mouth and lights them both. When I’m done taking a gulp of the delicious red wine she hands me a smoke. We sit on the ground sharing the wine and listening to Serge Gainsburg songs. Brit takes out a joint; she uses a metro ticket at the end as a filter. She smokes and I think.
Sitting in the cemetery, surrounded by cold gray granite has a sort of tranquil temperament. I look at Serge’s grave and the way he is missed, and then I look at the other gravestones. Maybe being familiar with a cemetery is a way to get closer to death, allows you to no longer fear it. That might be what grandpa is doing. Making peace before he leaves.
After the wine is drunk I’m almost gone. There has been too many highs, too many experiences and too much to see. I have a hard time taking it all in. Also I realize that I haven’t slept much in the last twenty-four hours. I need to get some rest and I also need to get the cheese.
“Let’s go back to your hotel,” Brit says.
“Okay.”
Now that I’m in the grip of the come down and my body is weary and cold I just want to be alone. I want to get into that big bed all by myself and get a few hours sleep before I have to buy my cheese. Brit’s been so good to me I don’t say anything. We swagger to the edge of the cemetery and hail another cab.
Brit gives the address and I drift off to sleep along the way. The next thing I know Brit is nudging me and we are getting out at the George V. I instinctively put my tongue in her ear. She grabs me around the waist and half carries me into the lobby. I openly grope her, putting my hand up her shirt, pulling her bra taunt, fondling the flesh of her breasts.
I keep trying to make out with Brit as we pass reception.
“Sex is the only way to avoid death!” I yell. “Sex, sex, sex! Serge Gainsberg is God!”
On the way up to the room I see people staring at us with disdain. I am making a wasted spectacle of myself. And I don’t care. I see a few old fuddy-duddies giving us the ‘ oh I never!’ One of the bellhops comes to steady us.
“Fuck off sir” I yell. “Sir, fucking, sir!”
Up in the room I have nothing left. I need to collapse.
“I have a tape we can play,” I slur. All of a sudden the ghost of Serge Gainsberg has possessed me. I’m an inebriated randy French motherfucker.
“Okay,” agrees Brit.
I put on some of Raz’s music. I want to suck on Brit’s tits. By the time I turn around Brit is already passed out on the bed, on top of the sheets with her clothes and shoes on. I take her shoes off and then I undress and get under the covers on the side she isn’t laying on. I try to jack off but can’t get hard. I give up exasperated. I think I will never get to sleep. Then I pass out. For the second day in a row I fall asleep before the first tune is finished.
Brit hurries out with two bottles of wine, a small boom box and some compact discs. She jumps in and gives another address. We drive past the one Paris skyscraper.
“That’s Montparnase.” She says.
“Kinda stands out in this city. I like the Eiffel Tower better,” I say.
“Me too. Everyone does.”
The taxi stops outside of a cemetery. Brit pays the cabby, and as she scrounges in her purse for money the cabby winks at me. It’s a conspirator type wink, like man to man sign language. He is letting me know that I am going to get some and he approves of my choice.
“Is this the cemetery where Jim Morrison is buried?” I ask.
“No, that’s Cimetiere Du pere-Lachaise. Chopin is also buried there along with lots of other famous writers and stuff.”
The cemetery is mostly deserted. I’m no longer aware of much and consciousness seems daunting and coming at me punchy. It must be late afternoon by now. The cool weather now affects me. I feel the winter chill through my whole body. I rewrap my scarf around my neck. I guess many people don’t go to cemeteries when it’s cold. I think it must be more of a summer activity, which is weird to me since death seems the winter part of the cycle of life.
I grab the bottles of wine and follow Brit. She sits down cross-legged in front of a gravestone covered if fuzzy stuffed animals and empty bottles of wine. She puts a compact disc into the boom box. The music sounds like sixties lounge music and at first I think she must be kidding, it’s too kitsch to be cool. But as the music plays I get into it. I don’t understand the lyrics but his voice and cheesy little tunes grow on me and it becomes a very sexy musical experience.
“What do you think of the music?” She asks me.
“It’s growing on me.”
“It’s just so fantastic. Serge drank himself to death. He would always do duets with the most beautiful women. It didn’t matter how good they could sing. They just had to be sexy.”
“Yeah you said. Sounds good to me.”
Brit opens the first bottle of wine with a Swiss army knife. She takes a pull from it and hands the bottle to me. Brit puts two cigarettes into her mouth and lights them both. When I’m done taking a gulp of the delicious red wine she hands me a smoke. We sit on the ground sharing the wine and listening to Serge Gainsburg songs. Brit takes out a joint; she uses a metro ticket at the end as a filter. She smokes and I think.
Sitting in the cemetery, surrounded by cold gray granite has a sort of tranquil temperament. I look at Serge’s grave and the way he is missed, and then I look at the other gravestones. Maybe being familiar with a cemetery is a way to get closer to death, allows you to no longer fear it. That might be what grandpa is doing. Making peace before he leaves.
After the wine is drunk I’m almost gone. There has been too many highs, too many experiences and too much to see. I have a hard time taking it all in. Also I realize that I haven’t slept much in the last twenty-four hours. I need to get some rest and I also need to get the cheese.
“Let’s go back to your hotel,” Brit says.
“Okay.”
Now that I’m in the grip of the come down and my body is weary and cold I just want to be alone. I want to get into that big bed all by myself and get a few hours sleep before I have to buy my cheese. Brit’s been so good to me I don’t say anything. We swagger to the edge of the cemetery and hail another cab.
Brit gives the address and I drift off to sleep along the way. The next thing I know Brit is nudging me and we are getting out at the George V. I instinctively put my tongue in her ear. She grabs me around the waist and half carries me into the lobby. I openly grope her, putting my hand up her shirt, pulling her bra taunt, fondling the flesh of her breasts.
I keep trying to make out with Brit as we pass reception.
“Sex is the only way to avoid death!” I yell. “Sex, sex, sex! Serge Gainsberg is God!”
On the way up to the room I see people staring at us with disdain. I am making a wasted spectacle of myself. And I don’t care. I see a few old fuddy-duddies giving us the ‘ oh I never!’ One of the bellhops comes to steady us.
“Fuck off sir” I yell. “Sir, fucking, sir!”
Up in the room I have nothing left. I need to collapse.
“I have a tape we can play,” I slur. All of a sudden the ghost of Serge Gainsberg has possessed me. I’m an inebriated randy French motherfucker.
“Okay,” agrees Brit.
I put on some of Raz’s music. I want to suck on Brit’s tits. By the time I turn around Brit is already passed out on the bed, on top of the sheets with her clothes and shoes on. I take her shoes off and then I undress and get under the covers on the side she isn’t laying on. I try to jack off but can’t get hard. I give up exasperated. I think I will never get to sleep. Then I pass out. For the second day in a row I fall asleep before the first tune is finished.
Burnt Roof of Mouth
Hey Mc, if you like 'Frog King' you should give 'Patrick Robertson' a try. Another first time authour, Brian Hennigan. It's short but I laughed out loud on many occasions. The main character is such an ass. I really related to him.
Burnt Roof of Mouth
as coincidence would have it, i spent sunday night in one of my favorite hotels in paris, the l'aiglon, which is on raspail but overlooks montparnasse cemetary. in fact our fourth -floor room gave a spectacular view of the autumn leaves, the rows after rows of tombstones, and a sickle-shaped piece of the moon.
as coincidence had it, i made a total fool of myself when we went for dinner to la coupole which is around the corner on boul. montparnasse, a giant, 600-seating loud but luxurious place. i got drunk and stupidly agressive and spoiled it for just about everybody. it sucks.
no product of chance is the fact that the above pizza boy chapter is a swell piece of writing. finish the novel and get happy...
as coincidence had it, i made a total fool of myself when we went for dinner to la coupole which is around the corner on boul. montparnasse, a giant, 600-seating loud but luxurious place. i got drunk and stupidly agressive and spoiled it for just about everybody. it sucks.
no product of chance is the fact that the above pizza boy chapter is a swell piece of writing. finish the novel and get happy...
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mccutcheon
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Burnt Roof of Mouth
Martino I nedd your help. check your email.
Burnt Roof of Mouth
can i read it mc?