Attention all hot air balloonists

Lightning is effing scary. Last night Abby and I watched part of a special called "When Lightning Strikes" on PBS. I tried to find a link to it, but couldn't.

However, this article can work up some decent paranoia for you. I am never going outside again if it's cloudy. Grand mal seizures. Eep.

Did you know that negative ions can rid your body of toxicity?

Me neither! But then I saw this truly disgusting commercial about foot pads that you wear overnight, and when you take them off in the morning, it looks like your feet pooped in them. Voila--no more heavy metals!

I am so going to buy them because I am a complete sucker for all as-seen-on-tv products. Also, then I can use the foot pads in Art. Not sure how yet, but I'll work them in.

P.S. How was everyone's Christmas? Yeah, mine too.

Dearest Poisonous Glitterati

Everybody knows you can get Jack Morgan's new chapbook, Dearest Children of the Revolution, I Am Pleased to Announce my Resignation, yes? I just got mine in the mail, and these are a few of my favorite lines:

Children are easy to kill.

They're softer than gold.

i like pictures, i like chairs

our missed connections friend and general compatriot neil kubath has posted some of his photographs on slide.com. this chair photograph is my favorite. i also really like the church one and the self portrait at the end. although, i'm pretty sure he doesn't really smoke and just has that cigarette in his mouth to make him look cool. it worked. he looks hot.

so what do you think? the artist would appreciate feedback of any kind. i would appreciate it if your feedback was absolutely absurd. but that's just me.

oh also, i like the song on his slide show. it is called "human thing" by the be good tanyas. also, i just discovered that french singer soko and i love her. also, gingerbread coffee creamer is delicious.

samuel beckett was a looker

dear glitterati and friends,

meghan austin is in failbetter! it is an excerpt from her book of short stories, soon to be published by penguin classics and featured on the oprah show. meanwhile, i like that samuel beckett quote that failbetter took their name from. but then i thought, was samuel beckett a looker? because if he wasn't, then everything he said no longer matters.

turns out, he's pretty awesome lookin'. AND his fashion sense is inspiring. i sort of expected him to be filthy and dressed in rags, like his character in molloy. not at all. he could totally dazzle the red carpet.

but my he smoked a lot,

k+

Holiday re-branding proposal

What if we changed our name from Venom Literati to Venom Glitterati, just till 2008? It would make us all feel sparkly.

I wish Christmas were funner

Christmas is also my birthday, and when I was little, the two had to be separated (Jesus' birth (and Santa) in the morning and my birth in the afternoon) because I would get sick with excitement.

Yesterday, I was watching this old woman walking through the snow toward Jewel, and she was going so, so slowly that probably most of her waking hours were taken up by getting groceries, and I thought three things:

1) How awful that this is going to happen to me someday.

2) How awful that I am now able to process the idea that it will happen to me someday when not so long ago I thought maybe aging would be nice, or at least okay.

3) Maybe it actually is kind of nice. You wake up, and you go to the grocery store, and that is your day.

I've never been someone to spend my birthday bawling in the bathroom. Maybe because Christmas has been distracting enough that it's interfered with my ability to self-obsess. It's going to need to get funner, though, because I'm getting better and better at thinking only of me, me, me.

Reggie Bush: the Ultimate Celebrity Crush

Wait, I was so wrong the other night when we were lamenting our lack of celebrity crushes. I DO have a new celebrity crush. It is my first crush on a professional athlete since Joe Montana. I don't usually have athlete crushes, except for like five seconds on foreign tennis players whose names I can never remember.

Backstory: Football season=my boyfriend becomes attached to the couch, covered in this ratty-ass Ohio State blanket he's had since birth. This blanket must also remain on the couch, much to my chagrin, during the entire season, which is like, half the year. (This was part of an effort to "compromise" by two people who hate compromise.)

I have a problem that whenever my boyfriend is home I want to hang out. I don't want to read books or do anything smart or productive. I suddenly have no identity. I just want to do whatever he's doing, which, during football season, means lay around and yell at the TV. You can see where this is going. I have been laying around watching football all the fucking time--and I had to find a way for it to be entertaining, because most football games aren't.

Then one day an angel sent down Reggie Bush. He's a....wait while I look this up...running back ...for the New Orleans Saints. I don't give a fuck about his athletic resume, but he did win the Heisman...sometime recently. The important things about Reggie Bush are as follows:

1. He is smokin' hot. You can witness this in Subway commercials where he is shown half-naked in a lawn chair biting into some giant, meaty sub. They also show him lifting weights, which is way less hot than watching him bite the sub.

2. He really has transcended from athlete-celebrity to just-plain-celebrity. There is a rumor that he's dating one of those fucking Kardashian people, and another rumor that he's dating Ciara. Either of those are disappointing. But they make him a true celebrity, which is better than just an athlete-celebrity, and definitely better than a lame-comic-book-celebrity like Dr. Manhattan, my previous celebrity crush.

3. He is currently injured...something with his...knee? Which means anytime you watch a Saints game, you get constant closeups of his face. I think they should put him in a lawn chair on the sidelines and just leave the camera on him, because it would be way better than watching a Saints game.

4. My boyfriend is totally jealous of my crush on Reggie Bush. Anytime the Subway commercial comes be, he says, "Oh, there's your boy, there's your boy," or "Oh, Reggie, oh Reggie, you're so hot," in a mocking tone. This is the most awesome thing of all. I think he'd try to kick Reggie Bush's ass if they were in the same room. And that would be totally hot to watch my boyfriend get his ass beaten by Reggie Bush.

I hate the Merriam-Webster word of the year

It is w00t. Supposedly this has something to do with Julia Roberts as well as that l33t speak thing the kids do.

Hail Sarah, Full of Grace

The other day I realized I get embarrassed for other people in situations where they should really be the ones who are embarrassed. Or else neither of us should be.

For instance: If someone says something, and I don't understand what they said and need them to repeat it, I feel embarrassed. But, if I am in the same situation on the other side (the one saying the thing that can't be understood), I am also embarrassed.

In future, I am going to be filled with grace. No one will ever feel awkward in my presence. I will make others feel at ease, and I will also feel that way. It is going to Change My Life.

By the way, I am already incredibly physically graceful. I am like a cross between a martial arts expert and a leopard and a beautiful ballerina.

if you have writer's block, too...

you can read this New Yorker article, subtitled: Why Writers Stop Writing. Kathy and I are reading it right now, in unison, rather than working.

I totally have writer's block. This article will make you want to puke all over people like Trollope and Joyce Carol Oates, if you don't want to already.

I'm not done with it but maybe it will make me feel better.

Space is neat

I have been changing my wallpaper every day to a new Hubble telescope photograph. They make me happy. Maybe they will make you happy, too.

Jury duty

Samuel Johnson is Indignant is not our next book because I think we'll like it. However, I am going to write about my jury duty experience yesterday in the form of Lydia Davis' story "Jury Duty" as homage.

Q.

A. The smoking room had been converted into a "quiet room." There was better furniture in that room, like a sofa and a full-sized desk that made you look like the king of jury duty if you used it. Except nobody used it. Probably to prove they weren't better than anyone else. I thought about using it, but didn't want to draw attention to myself and encourage others to speak to me.

Q.

A. I did not utter a single word throughout the day to any of my fellow jurors. Once, when someone asked me a question, I nodded.

Q.

A. [nods]

Q.

A. These two older women talked for six hours straight. One looked like Cloris Leachman. Maybe not six hours straight. I don't know if they went to lunch together.

Q.

A. Well, it was the middle-of-nowhere suburbs, so there weren't many options unless you had a car, and since I was silent I hadn't made any friends with cars or otherwise, so I was stuck going to the Off Track Betting palace across the street. Old men love the ponies. I thought about asking one of them how it worked, but my attractiveness points shoot up in the suburbs and several of the old guys were staring at me open-mouthed, so I didn't want anyone to think they had a chance.

Q.

A. A portobello mushroom and spinach salad. I think the dressing was steak sauce.

Q.

A. I know! Like it's not like they tell you not to drink during your lunch break, but when it's two hours long and the only place within walking distance is this OTB place, it's really hard not to drink. They probably feel like they shouldn't have to tell you.

Q.

A. Diet Coke.

Q.

A. Whatever. It's over now.

Q.

A. Stop asking me questions. I have to make up for all the work I missed yesterday.

Q.

A. [Silence]

Have You Noticed I Love Lists?

This is all I got. List of ten unrelated items from my life:

1. My semester is over. My students won't be able to eat my life for another 6 weeks or so. Also I will finally be free on weeknights to watch bad television.

2. Speaking of which, I watched I love New York 2 last night. I was sad that the entertainer got the boot. Yes, he lives in his mama's basement, but clearly he was the best possible candidate. Plus I hate that Buddha guy.

3. My car got towed yesterday so I ate popcorn and brownies for dinner. In bed. It did not make me feel better.

4. Why don't people who go on mass shooting/suicide sprees try killing sucky political figures instead of random Nebraskans at malls? a) they would be more famous, and b) sucky political figures, even if they don't die, will have to live in fear.

5. I don't like writing things these days.

6. Christmas is stupid this year. I have gotten nothing in my stocking as of yet. Also I am obligated to go to a stupid going away party for someone I don't like on Saturday, which I am upset about.

7. What is this newish book by Kurt Vonnegut? Did I make that up? I should have married Kurt Vonnegut.

8. Who can Venom Literati jointly marry? I still like the idea of going on a reality show as one unit. I wish we were hotter (ie: had bigger tits) because we could all just become Hef's bunnies. I guess we could get each other fake boobs for Christmas.

9. I bought Love in the Time of Cholera last night. It will be lovely. My ex-boyfriend hated Marquez. No one who hates Marquez should be trusted, loved, or fucked. Yalls better love you some Marquez. I bet New York loves her some Marquez. As for Buddha, I don't think he can read.

10. Some of the Metra ticket-takers are hot. My standards have plummeted into the toilet. Remember when you used to think you could do Everything and then some? Do some of you still think this? Because I want to think this again.

How do you breathe? I don't understand.

If you're feeling particularly nerdy or cold, or, you know, like attacking someone in extreme weather, then this is the product for you.

Finally, a novel we can feel conflicted about and avoid finishing

As the self-appointed board of directors for Venom Literati, I have to take the hopes and wishes of the people in mind when I force you to read some new book which you will like but feel guilty about liking with such abandon. I listen to the people. And the people are so tired of being pleased; they want to dislike some things. So I propose we read Chris Adrian’s 700 million page book The Children’s Hospital in this, the season of novels the same thickness as the snow drifts (Don’t worry, there’s more clumsy figurative language to come in this book! There’s one particularly cringe-worthy metaphor about a peeled banana).

Here are my reasons why you will feel happily conflicted about this book.

1. The author went to Iowa, and it clearly ruined him.

2. The point-of-view is very workshoppy, with sections in first and a close yet annoyingly knowing third-person. The first-person section is narrated by an extremely stupid angel voice. I’d suggest skipping all of that.

3. It is too large to read anywhere but balanced in your lap above an electric blanket.

4. I’m a sucker for hospital novels (Lanark, Secret Rendezvous). If you skip the first-person sections, there’s some dialogue that’s not bad, not bad.

5. At least it’s not Proust.

6. I’ve only read about 100 pages. I don’t really know what else.

Hate the sin, not the sinner

Also, it doesn't help that Kathy threw out her neck/back and is now lying at home staring at the ceiling instead of sitting across from me.

I resent your injury, Kathy, but not you.

People I selfishly resent

1. Megan's students

2. Meghan's students

Yeah, yeah, I understand you're, like, the future, 1. and 2., but when you're eating Megan's and Meghan's lives, the Venom Literati blog is a lonelier place. And I am selfish. So there.

Meeting Minutes: The Revisionist

Um, yeah. Actually we didn't take any minutes, and we barely talked about the book because we all really liked it and didn't have anything to complain about. Also, we may have done some drinking.

Next time, we need to pick a book that isn't good. Or at least, we need to pick a book that we aren't all pretty much guaranteed to like. Something controversial. I don't know what this book is. Suggestions are appreciated.

sorry for snake

dear literati and friends,

i have been meaning to tell you something. i have been very cold. also, sorry for snake is out! it was published by jack morgan and sarah mumolo. i like them both. everyone knows how we feel about jack morgan. i really like the poem in it by tao lin. and i like jenny drai's poems. and i like the other poems as well. if poems were electric blankets i would have told you about this much sooner. you should read it! borrow my copy or order it from stormy petrel press. it is only 4 dollars.

here there or in the air,

k+

"They were entrenched in so many contracts it would take the dexterity of a contortionist to escape."

i like this paragraph in The Revisionist:

"The seeing-eye dog walked around and around her legs. Her clothes unwound and floated into a spiraling vacuum above her head, created by the peregrinations of the seeing-eye dog. Her hair unfolded in a fan formation. Her pupils spilled open, submerging her retina in black ink. The seeing-eye dog continued his circumnavigations. The woman gradually floated into the air. She revolved in a tight catatonic orbit, forming the central axis of a wider concentric circle whose outer limit was delineated by the circling seeing-eye dog."

when the sun starts setting at 4:15 i feel angry and sad. i do not know what to do.

Sometimes the best way to get something out of your head is to just talk about it.

Lately, I’ve been reading a lot about marauding rats. They’re decimating the population of seabirds on Alaskan islands, causing famine in an Indian state by eating tons and tons of flowering bamboo, lying dead in the corner of the steps of one of my favorite local lunch spots. What’s next?

Once a former roommate of mine had a rat as a pet. While I was staying elsewhere in the summer, it lived in a terrarium on my headboard. Its name was Aurora. It was white. It died before I came back. I was glad it died. That does not make me a bad person. I just do not approve of rats as pets.

Rats are most scary when they’re masquerading as pets, or as mice by concealing their naked tails in shadow. They are trying to make you trust them. You should not trust them.

Here is something else about rats that is just terrifying.

So Many Mirandas

Friday, we meet.

In preparation, we must choose a ridiculous and somewhat awesome celebrity (or demi-celebrity) to invite to the meeting, and we must write a letter to Miranda Mellis.

My vote for ridiculous demi-celebrity is the recently ousted Domenico from A Shot at Love With Tila Tequila. He probably doesn't have much else to do.

Here's a beginning to the letter:

Hey Miranda,

Do people ever call you Randy? Somehow I doubt it. But who am I to think I know you just because I read your book?

Please continue in the comments.

*exciting new column* meghan's favorite thing at Quimbys this week

This week at Quimbys, I purchased an exciting video called Yoga for Indie Rockers, which I thought was pornography. It was an actual workout video. The people in it look like vegan west coast porn stars, but they are doing yoga. Maybe it's a two DVD set and I'm missing something. I guess I would recommend this video for a workout. My cats liked it. I don't know about Pilates for Indie Rockers. It just seems dirty.

happy holiday from alby the albino deer

An important holiday message from Alby the Albino Deer: the original Sesame Street from 1970 is out on DVD and you should watch it with your whole family as you contemplate life in the inner city and how much more depressingly exciting television was back when all the writers were totally stoned.
Also: meat is murder, kids., especially in this article written by my friend Novella. Happy fucking holidays!

From instant famemaker to hobby (and possibly failure)

I spent the weekend with my family. Like 40 hours in, I realized that we were chatting in a very surface-y way, and--feeling the need to make a real connection with my blood--ran through the list of things that matter to me that we could safely discuss.

I settled on this book I'm working on. Previously, when I have brought up my writing, there has been rampant speculation among family members about exactly how famous and/or rich this new work will make me: When will it be ready? Who will publish it? Will it be turned into a movie?

Not this time though. It was like, "Yeah, yeah, we're all working on books--difference is, none of us had a crazy pipe dream before. Yours must have died by now though cuz I ain't seen a blockbuster with your name on it."

I'm paraphrasing. It was actually mostly silence and then my dad started talking about his own writing, which is done in isolation. I am his audience.

At first, I was all like, "Hey, wait! I'm an actual writer! A real-and-true one! I'm working on a book that I will send to people, seeking publication!" That was in my head, of course. And then I was like, "Wait just one more second...this is nice. Pressure's off." Also in my head. Aloud, I nodded.

And now, both of those thoughts are engaging in fisticuffs in my head.

friday nights make me want to die

I think Friday nights make me want to die. Last Friday, for example. What did I do? I spent Friday night shopping for a frickin' love seat, eating KFC for dinner, watching Basic Instinct because I had never seen it before, and falling asleep early. Here are further details on why it made me want to die:

Love Seat Shopping: We went to those two godawful liquidation furniture stores on Clark Street where everything looks nice but in reality is flimsy and cheap. At the first store no one would help us. Marshmallow (G's new nickname; you can imagine how much he loves this) said it was a race thing, and probably it was, so he was cranky after that. I said, "Oh, Marshmallow, don't be cranky," which obviously didn't help. At the second store the salesman tried to bond with us by comparing our kittycat to his kittycat. Then he tried to connect with us further by showing us a rug that was the size of our entire living room and featured--yes--a gigantic portrait of a lion's face. He really thought we should, and would, buy this rug. All of the love seats there looked like they had been dragged up from the basement of a high school party. Every time he showed us one, I said: "No, I hate that one" without feeling bad at all. He also tried to show us a puffy purple chair that was like a throne, and also several futons, which he seemed to be implying would somehow substitute for a love seat. Then his boss came out from the back room where he probably lives, and said: "You like love seat. You buy love seat right now. You take it right now. Right now." He sucked even worse than the first guy, so we went back to the first store and ordered one from the racist salesman for too much money.

KFC: We got a bucket of chicken and a gigantic bin of mashed potatoes and another gigantic bin of macaroni and cheese. I love KFC mashed potatoes because they taste like paste--I really think this makes them delicious because it makes the gravy seem gourmet. The cheese sauce is also frickin' amazing because it is orange as a sunset or a popsicle and obviously super-artificially colored and flavored. The receipt said that I could win 1,000 bucks if I called in and did their survey, so I did it because I know no one ever does those surveys and I was certain I would win, just like how I think I'll always win the Little Lotto because I don't think anyone would play that either. I didn't win anything, though, and it made me way angrier than it should have. Especially because I gave them a perfect score on everything, which should not have been the case.

Basic Instinct: This is my new favorite movie, I think, except for the ending with the icepick under the bed, which ruins the whole thing. I had somehow never seen it before. I'm sort of scared that I think it's awesome, because I have a feeling that it's probably a really bad movie and everyone knows this except me. If it were in French, and subtitled, it would be even better. It is the only movie I've ever liked Michael Douglass in, although I still can't figure out why anyone would ever want to fuck him. He looks like a game show host.

"The moon orbits around the earth every 27.3 days, until 1976, when it becomes memory."

i just read the november issue of elimae. good. here were my favorites:

Astronomical Society of the Pacific by Jimmy Chen
Houses by Merida Gorman
i feel even smaller than my 4 foot ten frame by Prathna Lor
The Anaesthesiologist by Jefferson Navicky
Captions by Scott Garson

i also have a poem in there.

hey guess what? the nonstop grey rainy cold weather is making me want to die! other things make me want to die too! i wish something exciting would happen!

i am going to quimby's tonight to buy my copy of roy orbison in cling film. let me know if you want me to get you anything.

you. i'm talking to you.

"The satisfaction is unparalleled by anything in my previous existence."

This is a fascinating book about a man who, along with his terrapin Jetta, repeatedly and completely wraps Roy Orbison in cling-film. I have thankfully given away the plot of the entire book. It’s touted by the narrator as, “the only book about wrapping Roy Orbison in cling-film you’ll ever have to own.” They have it at Quimby’s on the front table. You can read several of the stories at Ulli’s Roy Orbison in Clingfilm site.

Here's a review of the book that uses the author's real name (not even wrapped in a transluscent layer of clingfilm, because wrapping himself in clingfilm would be against his nature!):Review of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm novel

the winner of the lame poetry contest

apparently bruce springsteen can't be bothered to announce the results of the lame poetry contest, so i'm taking matters into my own hands. here is the winning poem:

Steve McQueen is Smokin' Hot

But not as hot as your mom
Because your mom is hot
Also, Steve McQueen is dead which
introduces other factors like

maggots and
exhumation

and deep sea diving. Also, nuclear power
is not to be trusted especially when
in the hands of children. Never ever
open packages wrapped in

swiss cheese and
barbed wire

and sealed with boogers. Steve McQueen
died of a heart attack following surgery.
I die of a heart attack when I look at him.
And then I drink tea through my nose.

Tea anybody?
Tea?