8.14.2013

i moved my blog to mikeayoung.tumblr.com // you're missing a lot of videos that my friends say involve me doing too much intense staring // also you're missing posts like this one

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"You have those friends who will agree they should make a movie about themselves and then those friends who will be strangely resistant." — Ira Windshield

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"All your favorite turning
players, up, as mediocre
coaches. Old man! Old man!" — John Vegetableman

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"The contemporary proliferation of stories and narratives and Facebook newsfeeds proves to us how atomic our experiences are, how unwhole and part, instead, of the vast dust, but this generally has the ricochet effect of making us more fiercely announce ourselves, declare our memoirs, “everyone has a story to tell.” Ironically, our emotional reaction to being one among many is to fearfully insist on our oneness. Whereas Shakespeare’s characters—faced with a much-expanding world and a similar sense of losing their own importance—recognized the liberation of floating above their feelings. Seeing their sadness as part of the vast experience of sadness, the sadness dust. If there’s one thing history is good for, it’s for proving that your feelings are just examples of feelings. Tweet that shit. Also see: you’re not the waves, you’re the ocean, and everybody’s the ocean. It’s worth asking if this is just a way to escape the idea of "deeply" held and "deeply" felt and "deeply" examined "feelings," but it’s also worth counterasking if all that presumed depth just represents one model, and if there might be an alternative model of lifting out of yourself and seeing yourself constellated and suffused into all feelings everywhere and allowing yourself the wonderful "feeling" of being a pure observer, which feels like knowing yourself in the world versus just knowing yourself." — Italics Calvino

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"Ain’t an hour of night people usually call
I used your old birthday card to kill a bug on the wall
If I let you up, will you let me down?
Ah forget it, your breath it just runs me around

Two lonely bodies that shudder with proof
Trying not to be drastic or stupid or blue" — Cities Van Sandt

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"I wasn’t born to stare out of this attic
Like some pensive ad for drugs that fix your head
I have seen the quarry where the sculptor cashed in
Drove his riding mower over the edge

I don’t sleep as well on buses as I used to
The novelty has faded quite a bit
I think every sunburn’s melanoma
I no longer care about my zits

Time I think it finds me in my shoulders
Time I think it drags me by the eyes
Remember o remember what it felt like on the boulder
Leaping and presuming water down there in the night" — Stephin Luck

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"Sitting with a tissue to your nosebleed
Waiting for a bus beneath a flag
Some asshole on a unicycle scolds me
Pretending that his sweat don't make him gag

The work will not take place in a montage
won't feel like a montage when it's done
The work will not take place in a montage
It's just a way they fake to place a song" — Stuart Murmarina

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"Horatio was paid sixty thousand American dollars a year to sit in a corner and think about barbecue sauce. Any corner was fine. His sponsor was not strict. A corporation that grew with a modest consistency that resembled a teal-colored wall phone five years out of date, Horatio’s sponsor offered a hummably vague range of services under the mesh of what they called “efficiency granularization” and “resource demarcation.” They had screens that listed words from Horatio’s thoughts. Of the sixty thousand American dollars they paid him, they wrote off 103% in tax categories that overlapped research and charity. On Fridays they made sure he’d A) been in a corner and B) thought, in this corner, about barbecue sauce.

Horatio’s job often took him abroad. Not at first. At first, he visited only American ...

*Korean bbq, chinese bbq
*is ketchup bbq sauce?

" — notes from a new story by George Seenders

4.12.2013

youtube automatic captions turned "thought to whisper them to you" into "cartoonists managerial"

NOÖ [14] is live! It lives! I already said the following on HTMLG, but I will say it again:

There are book vouchings and a list of every book some chucklehead read in 2012. Read NOÖ [14] if your back feels like a shipwreck, if you ever coated Omega 3 capsules with peanut butter, if your body used to like swings and probably still does, if you’ve ever eaten Doritos at breakfast, if it cheers you up to think of Benjamin Franklin inventing electricity even though he lived alone until he was dead, if you like staring up at things that can’t see you below them, looking for a man who tells three lies a day, cooking when you get nervous, gazing spiritually toward the Macho Man, taking turns letting and being let down, afraid to fall asleep on buses, your car on fire in the snow, the screen a scroll, kissing like confusion at the supermarket, Treat Yo Self, (feeling you get in a ball pit), talking in a flashlight lit pool, talking later about creepshots, talking about keeping each other when storms come, tracing dead mouths, selling that brain painting, parabolas the shape of manic depressives, your Soul a scrap of lightning, crappy knowledge, searching the floor for a diamond four, stepping into the rain like a film, dying in a fortlike structure, or the infinite pi of sun.

In more personal news, I updated the list of some readings I'm gonna do later in the year. Come let's bite our fingernails and spit them at each other.

4.01.2013

something futuristic monks will consider annotating with explanatory footnotes and instead dismiss with a cluck

When I bought a humidifier right before the hardware store closed, the guy said "The season's almost gone for those." And he said "You know you should really update your blog." And I said "But I don't want to have to post a giant thing about AWP and how it was great to see everybody and to thank Jon and Molly for letting me crash and Juked for tabling with me and Tyler Gobble for being amazing and Jordaan Mason for getting nerdy glasses so America would let him into the party and the 12 Good Readers for being 12 Amazing Readers and Adam Robinson for convincing me to sing at the Literature Party even when I couldn't talk and to Christy Crutchfield for singing with me, and to a million other people, and I am feeling stressed out just thinking about trying to express how I love to see everyone and high five them even when Boston is sneering snow at me and I get laryngitis, and shit, dude, NOÖ [14] isn't online yet, and I was trying to wait—" and he opened the humidifier with his teeth, which were retractable knives, and he started scratching at the humidifier with his knife-teeth, and I was like "Shit, dude, I already paid for that," and he said "Remember how you used to think that middle aged woman with the flute case who always was walking the opposite direction from you when you walked to high school next to the train tracks and the cowboy hat store and the house where the cute Mormon girl lived—remember how you used to think the flute woman was a time traveler from the future who had paid to go back in time to see you walk to school?" And I told the dude, "Shit, dude, don't tell my blog that, that's embarrassing." And he said "Well, you were wrong about her, she just had flute practice really early, but Google is secretly a project started by a time traveler that is dedicated exclusively to making sure you survive and always get guacamole on your tacos and make blog posts every three months or so." And I said "Like in a Terminator sort of way?" And he said "More like in a Jingle All the Way kind of way." And I said "—" and he said "Your credit card is declined."

So I guess I should tell you a few things. First off, a sad thing. Red Lightbulbs closed up shop after a lot of glory. But they went out on a mustard packet of glory too, so at least there's that. Thanks to Russ Woods for including a few poems of mine in the last issue, and thanks to Russ and Meghan Lamb for starting RL in the first place. If I ever own a lot of rooms, at least one of them will be lit by a red lightbulb, I promise. My poems in the last Red Lightbulbs are about bro gaggles, wrist tattoos, everything rendition vs. everything experience, a good life if you don't weaken, and that time when the grocery store stopped carrying the cereal you bought every week because "sorry sir, no one ever buys that kind." There are literally a million other wonderful people in the issue. Do check.

Moving on to capitalism, namaste to Alisa Damaso for asking me to gibbleg about having a job and spitting up blood sprinkles in the same hours. There are never before told secrets about Mr. Glitchy, the heroic computer virus I invented in 2nd grade. There's a story about the last cab I took at AWP. There's something heady I said about "self-abandonment" and some freaky shit about molasses. Plus it's an article about a lifestyle, not me, sheesh, which means you'll get to read about lots of other cool peeps like Chelsea Martin's boo, the laid-back/kick-ass Ian Amberson. That photo to the left is of Ian, not me, because, uh, guys, that helmet? C'mon.

After AWP came APRIL, an amazing Seattle literary fest started by a bunch of smarty-pants folk. Deep thanks to them (Tara Atkinson, Willie Fitzgerald, Kellen Braddock, Frances Dinger, and Aidan Fitzgerald) for being amazing and putting everything together. I was excited to write "reverse fan mails" for their fundraiser, one very silly about a guy stuck to his toilet and one of course about lesbian astronauts and Star Trek action figures and Facebook stalking and love. Can't stop, won't pop. The other great thing is Richard Chiem was sweet enough to table for Magic Helicopter Press at the APRIL Small Press Fair, and you can see a picture of him looking all genius-statue and selling books in the sexy smoky darkness.

Flavorwire, which I usually feel sort of cheated by since it's neither a flavor or a wire, made me feel aw-shucks ^ shucks by putting me on this list of "10 Millennial Authors You Probably Haven't Read Yet." Lotsa mighty fine folk on that list. Thanks to Emily Temple and Flavorwire for the nod. I don't care what anybody's nonchalant uncle says: I feel excited about all the new adds of Look! Look! Feathers on Goodreads!

BTW, if anyone is just finding this blog from that list and is reading this and is wondering why I don't have a more professional/easily navigable website, it's because I have a lot of old coffee cups under my lamp instead. For example, I don't have any professional headshots, so the picture I am putting here is a picture of me making a weird face with Chelsea Martin—another Millennium Falcon that could've been on that list—and Jacob Perkins, all of us holding Chelsea's books in the sweet new space Mellow Pages in Bushwick, the walls of which are covered with Mill Enema authors. Jacob and the wise'n'bearded Matt Nelson (and the shadowy behind the flannel scenes "Jon") run the fuck out of this place, and I love them and their mossy Pacific Northwest ways.

Spinning the map all the way to the Atlantic Northeast, I would be remiss to exclude the gloriously re-arisen Notnostrums, now hosted at Flying Object, which just put a new issue out. They published a stand up routine by me and some tug-your-lip-so-good poems by all stars galore. For example, everybody loves "Kelly Brutal" by Shannon Burns and now it's your turn.

If you want to know what makes me blush, Michael Filippone talking about me and America and reading "The Peaches Are Cheap" makes me blush. That video is really long but it has like an hour of good books in it, and plus Michael Filippone is really good looking—I mean, I think? I have been told before that the men I think are attractive are not the men women think are attractive, but c'mon, this dude is good looking, right? The professional coffee cups under my lamp agree with me.

The next thing on my list to talk about is NOÖ [14], but like I told my humidifier salesman, it's not done yet, so I will instead show you a picture of Ozzie Smith sitting with Werner Herzog. Werner says: "The only thing that is lacking is the dinosaurs here, to eat every fan’s heart." Update: obviously this did not really happen, drr—good work Robert J. Baumann for fooling me. But also making me very sad because I wish this had really happened.