Dark Suburbia

Jeffrey Combs is the shiznit

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 00:05:12 GMT

Back in fall of 2006, that odious series "Masters of Horror" pooped out a second season of largely horrific (in the bad way) episodes featuring the usual lame-ass vampire/killer-klown/suburban hell/insane immortal 18th century Masonic cannibal-president cabals I've seen a million times before. Ok, well, that last one wasn't something I've seen before, but the producers, writers and directors managed to pound the spark out of even the most faintly original ideas. The one singular exception to all that mess was Jeffrey Comb's stupendous performance as Edgar Allan Poe in "The Black Cat". Oh, don't get me wrong - the script was horrific. The writers took a little of every single one of Poe's most famous works, and mashed it into one bluberous, 70's-style casserole of a story. But Combs? He fucking nailed Poe. I've never seen anything like it. I knew he was a good actor, and I've always secretly felt that he could be a great actor, given the right material. Well, this wasn't even mediocre material, but Comb's took that shit and completely transcended it. He was Poe. That's all there is to it. He WAS Edgar Allan Poe. It was fucking magnificent.

And after I saw the episode, I thought, what a shame. Like, ten people in America will see that, and people in LA should be bending over ass-backwards giving Combs his own series on HBO or Showtime, but nothing will come of this. No one will remember this.

Well, I was a little right, but I'm happy to say, I was a little wrong.

I wouldn't have known about this (who knew I should be Googling Mr. Combs?), except Mike Mignola over on Facebook wouldn't shut the fuck up about it, about what a great performance it was (it's been extended several times, including through December). Despite my jealous hissy-fit of rage, thank you, Mr. Mignola. And I realize it's kind of a long-shot, but I'm praying to every Elder God in the universe that Combs takes this to Manhattan next year, or at the least, that someone films it, so I can see it someday. So to you Combs fans on this f-list, this is a heads-up. In the meantime, I suggest you get your hands on a copy of "The Black Cat". Never mind the shitty plot. Just sit back and watch an under-appreciated artist at the absolute top of his game.

The KillLOLing of Brian Keene

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 22:36:07 GMT

The KillLOLing of Brian Keene
by
Livia "Bitchypants" Llewellyn

I remember about two years ago, in Nick Kaufmann's Livejournal - we were all raking some 4theluv writer over the coals because he'd done what so many newbies and wannabes had done, which was to pick a fight with Brian Keene so they could get some attention and get published and become one of the big boy/top dogs in teh genre. A fight that no one can apparently win, evidently - the man is like Thunderdome - one wannabe writer in, no wannabe writer out, and it never fucking ends. And I was all "oh, well, I guess if I ever want to prove that I'm one of the 'bad boys' of horror, one of the dick-swinging 'pros', one of the members of your sooper-awesome cabal/coven of five-cent-a-word writers who control the entire publishing industry and keep all the hard-working plain-talkin' average joes like me locked out, I guess I'll have to pick a fight with Brian Keene, lol!"

And Nick Kaufmann was all "YES, BEYOCH, YOU WILL. LOLEVENTYONE!"

So, cut to last week, when I emailed Bill Schafer of Subterranean Press, asking him when he was going to finally publish "Her Deepness", the novella I sold him back in April. And do you know what that S.O.B. said to me? He said, "I can't publish it. You're not a professional horror writer - I only publish pros." And I'm all, "what about the two stories from me that you published already?", and he's all "yeah, but this is an entire fucking novella, and I can't publish something that long by some fucking newbie that no one's ever heard of and you know that, so what exactly is your damage?", and I'm all, "well, goddamnit, who do I have to fuck or kill to get that novella published?", and then he said "OMG YOU KNOW WHO, BITCH" and I was like, yeah. I know who.

I know who.

So, I did fuck that one dude who's maybe a writer or something, I never got his full back story, but he's really cute and he blogs a lot which is kind of like writing, but apparently that wasn't the dude or the thing Schafer was talking about, so I realized I had to kill that asshole Brian Keene.

Sigh.

Let me tell you - Pennsylvania is a pretty big-ass state with evidently a whole metric fuck-ton of "writers" and "authors", and I got lost a few times, and I'll admit I accidentally killed a few guys who kind of looked like that cocksucker Keene, so right now I have to say apologies to anyone who comes home to your dog or kids or grandma licking brains and blood off the kitchen floor while the bloated corpse of your faceless, bullet-riddled husband lays rotting nearby. But I should have known better - I mean, if it could be that easy, then a wannabe would have killed him years ago, right? Ok, yeah, maybe I knew they weren't him, and I just like killing dudes. So sue me. Anyway, all those dudes gave me clues that led me to other dudes who finally led me to Keene, last night. Yeah. I saw him. He was sitting on his front porch, scratching his crotch, sucking down cheap beer and muttering shit about markets that pay only in recognition, how he just wanted the man to leave him alone so he could enjoy being a publamished writer, how Shocklines could go suck his big fat one, and crazy talk I don't even want to repeat, because I'm a lady. I raised the shotgun - it was so easy...

Wait a minute...

It was too easy.

"No way that's Brian Keene," I said, lowering the shotgun. "Brian Keene doesn't pee his pants."

"Not anymore I don't, bitch," a voice said, and something large sailed across the lawn. On the porch, the dude's chest exploded in a spray of blood, along with most of the fucking house. I whirled around.

Brian Keene stood before me, dressed head to toe in black leather, smoke pouring from the end of his RBR-90 mm M79 "OSA" rocket launcher, every inch the big-dicked, bad boy pro horror writer I'd heard him to be. I almost swooned. "Holy fucking shit," was all I could manage to say--which kind of pissed me off, since I'd planned on saying something way cooler, like "eat lead and die, cocksmoker", or maybe just "SNAP, you've been SERVED!".

"Holy fucking shit is right," he replied, and spat out his cigar as he sent another rocket exploding into the burning rubble of the house. Timbers flew into the air, and sparks showered all around us like the Fourth of Fucking Ju-ly. "Took me five years to hunt this one down. One of the worst "luvvers" I've ever seen. He infected thousands, getting them to believe they can actually write horror. He was gonna infect you, too."

"Yes, but it wouldn't have took," I snapped. "Like, I can actually write,"

"Oh, really?" Keene stared at me, his stony face devoid of any human emotion. I turned away, shaken to my very core. Within the roiling clouds of fire, the writer I mistook for Keene danced and howled, not yet dead.

"Damn, watch that wannabe go--how can he still be alive? He's funny--I'm totally going to blog this."

Keene reloaded the launcher as he spoke in deep, even tones over the crackling flames. "They keep going 'cause they just don't know when to stop. Wannabes and luvvers keep writing, keep submitting, keep ramming their turgid, bloated, rotting words down the greasy pie holes of any fucktard who calls himself an "editor" or "publisher" because he has access to his mommy's computer and knows how to take the bus to Kinko's. And that shit get vomited online and gets blogged or MySpaced or, what do they call it now, tweeted and twatted, and some innocent kid who might have had some bit of talent gets all caught up in the lies and the false glamour, and before you know it they've caught the bug too, and they're clogging up the industry with hundred-thousand word short stories about skull-fucking, baby-eating, Nazi rape spiders from Chicago or some such shit, I don't know, I can never read all the way to the end."

Keene stopped talking and grabbed my arm, looking so sad and forlorn that I almost felt sorry for him. "I tried, you know," he said. "I tried to give them advice, I tried to help them find the way. I tried to save them. But they didn't listen--they turned on me. They'll turn on you, too, kid. And then, when no one's left and the genre is gone: they'll turn on themselves. I can't let it get that far, though. I have to save the genre. I'm the only one who can."

He let go of my arm, and rose, shouldering the launcher again. In the distance, the wannabe shrieked and gibbered, and I realized with a start that the woods around us was moving, coming alive. "Go on, kid. Take your little gun and get out of here. They've heard him call, and they're coming. It's a shitstorm of self-publishing gonna rain down tonight. You don't want to get caught in the middle of this. You won't make it out alive."

"But, I came to kill you! If I don't kill you, I'll never be a professional horror writer!"

Keene aimed the launcher straight at my head, laughing hard. I felt like a damn straight fool--who was LOLing now, right?

"Yeah, sure, I'm trying to save the fucking world here, but go on," he said, "go ahead. Take your best shot, little girl!" He pointed the launcher away, raising his arms to the sky. In that moment, for all his strength and indestructibility, he appeared more lonely man than horror god. My will dissolved.

"Awe, fuck it, I can't kill you with this thing," I replied, kicking at my puny, sissy-boy gun. "You were right. I'm no bad boy. What was I thinking? I'll never be a big ole dick-swinging pro. I'll never be a horror writer at all. I'm totally facepalming right now. Yep, soooo embarrassing."

Keene could have laughed again, but he didn't. I'll give him that. "I know it hurts, kid," he said, placing an almost friendly hand on my shoulder. "I know. But you're not the problem. Go on, run home, put on a pretty black corset and write some urban fantasies, get a paranormal romance series going, something like that. No offence, but this is horror. This ain't no place for a woman. This is the real motherfucking deal."

I watched as he shot another giant pointy rocket into the liquid-hot hole of the fire. I'm sure it was a metaphor for something wonderfully filthy, but I was too dejected to really get a good LOL out of it. All my life I'd wanted to be a horror writer, right after wanting to be a movie star, a disco dancer, and an astronaut-princess. What meaning was there to my life now?

"Hey," I said as I picked up my backpack, "I know this sounds really stupid considering I did try to kill you and shit, but I just wanted you to know that I read The Conqueror Worms a couple years ago, and I really liked it." Keene only shook his head, but I pressed on. "No, really, I thought it was one of your better novels. I loved how you juxtaposed the rural, feral horror of the first half of the book with the epic, almost Lovecraftian qualities of the Baltimore scenes--sort of like showing how different environments, both geological and manmade, can give different shapes to a horror that would otherwise be beyond man's comprehension, beyond his definition of what horror is."

"Really?" Keene lowered the launcher. "I hadn't thought of... yes, I did try and do something a bit different with that novel. No one got it, though. Of course. Everyone just wanted more zombies. Very frustrating."

"I can imagine--readers want you to try something new, you try something new, and--"

"Exactly. It's ridiculous."

I pulled a worn copy of the book out of my bag, and held it out. "Please? I'd love if you could sign it. After all this--it'd really mean a lot to me. Inspiring, you know."

"Well, I--what the fuck. Sure." Keene lowered the launcher to the ground and pulled a pen from his long black duster, motioning for me to give him the book. "Anything for a horror fan, right?" He grabbed the cover. I stood back as he opened the flaps... and screamed, the fingers of his flesh melting into pale bubbling strips over the cheap cardboard.

"HA!" I shrieked. "That wasn't your real book, that was a copy of my dark Lovecraftian erotic science fiction poetry with accompanying clip art, printed up by Lulu with a cover that looked eerily similar to yours!"

"No, God no, I'm tainted!" Keene dropped to the ground, raising his hands into the spark-filled air. His flesh was melting down his arms, and bits of leather peeled away, revealing white bones. "I tried to help you, I tried to teach you, and you befouled me! I'm tainted with the turgid, purple unsold words of a punk-ass bitch!"

"Help me? Teach me? Fuck you, you pompous professional cocksucker! You can't teach me jack shit!"

Keene lunged, and his boney hands caught my ankles. Sweat poured down his face as he began to drag me into his ghoulish embrace--probably to kill me, I do not think he wanted to hit that, if you know what I mean and I think you do. "Wannabe," he half-snarled, half scream-shouted. "Just another pathetic fucking wannabe, that's all you are! WANNABEEEEEEE!"

"Wannabe? Wannabe?" I reached into my backpack and pulled out my real weapon. As Keene's melty eyes glanced upon it, he fell back, his face pleading for mercy. But it was too late. Too. Fucking. Late. I rose my weapon high, and brought it down.

"TAINT THIS, BITCH!"

My nine-hundred-thousand word, thousand-page trunked horror manuscript formatted entirely in single-spaced ALL CAPS Haettenschweiler (on both page sides!) hit his chest like the giant shit bomb I'd written it to be: Keene's inhuman howls filled the air with more spark and heat than Centralia's mine fires, as page after page of poorly-written dialogue between one-dimensional Mary-Sue's and thinly-disguised TV characters burned through his clothes and directly into his flesh, right to his very heart. He collapsed to the scorched earth, his body twisting and writhing in unbearable pain. Paper ash floated into the air like delicate spring blossoms, blackened with the heat of his destruction. Slowly Keene's limbs melted, and blood from the broken hull of his torso sprayed into the air, dotting my face like a veil of rubies. Still he kept screaming, shouting out words I couldn't comprehend. The ancient secrets of his publishing cabal, perhaps? The names of editors I could easily pressure into sending me anthology invites? A pithy blurb for a yet-unwritten novel? I'd never know, but: it didn't matter. Finally, the horrible sounds subsided, the flesh bubbled away into the ground, and all that remained behind was a pile of ruined leather, a few charred bones, and his oddly fully-intact skull, jaws open in a silent, endless scream.

"Wictory!" I shouted to the treetops. "I can haz professional horror writing career! I'm the fucking top dog--I'm the baddest goddamn baddass writer in town! Eleventy-fucking-ONE!!!1!"

The trees and the wind answered my cries with soft rustling. I lowered my hands. From the shadows of the forest, they emerged, slow and steady. Wannabes and luvvers, shambling and lurching, holding up poorly photocopied 'zines, printouts of e-published poems and stories, trailing strands of flaming bulletin board threads from their rotting toes. Great. Just great.

"Oh, ok, you want some of this now?" I scrambled for the rocket launcher, and hoisted it to my shoulder. Yes, yes, shut up, I had no fucking idea what I was doing. "You want a piece of the top horror bitch? You want to mess with my giant swinging girl-dick? You want to fuck with a pro? Come on, shitstains! Come and get some! Come and get--hello? Helloooo. I'm right here, people! People?"

They poured around me as I stood frozen to the ground. Ok, no, I didn't try to launch a rocket, I couldn't find a fucking ON switch to save my life. What the fuck is up with that? It's never this lame in the movies. Anyway, it didn't matter, because, like I said, they poured around me, completely ignoring my newly-won professional badassness. They all walked past me, frottaging me with their snack-bloated bodies and slimy author comp copies that they had to pay full price for and their faked bibliographies, they poured over me like a big-ass river of Horror Fail '09, all heading directly to the still-smoking remains of Brian Keene. And that's when I realized--that's when the true horror came right up and surprise butt-secked me like I'd never been surprise butt-secked before: the wannabes and the luvvers didn't want me, because I still wasn't a professional horror writer, because I didn't have what they wanted, because the toasty remains of that asshole Brian Keene still had the only thing that wannabes and 4theluvers ever lacked, ever needed, ever craved...

BRAINS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fuck it. So I joined them. Lollerskates!
*\o/* *\o/* *\o/* *\o/* *\o/*

The End
...or...
IS IT?

Support The Shirley Jackson Awards

Kill Brian Keene In Your Blog Day

My first houseguest

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 15:38:51 GMT

Way back in July, justinhowe posted that he needed a sitter for October, for a small black & white cat named Pirate Jenny. I thought about it briefly, then dismissed it, seeing as how it was Covered In Ants & Bees! season, and I couldn't imagine subjecting any animal to a couple of weeks in this poophole of an apartment. Plus, I thought I'd be going home in late October, so that was that.

Cut to a beeless, antless, travel-less October, and, well, you know exactly where this story ends:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/43288330@N00/sets/72157622489533887/

Pirate Jenny is a very teeny but fluffy cat, who has the amazing ability to stretch her body out to over half my height (that's her Maine Coon genes showing). She can also squeeze under bookcases with only 3 inches of crawlspace, as I found out approximately one second after Justin let her out of her cage this Saturday. Pirate Jenny was not amused at her reduced living conditions, and spent most of Saturday, and a good portion of Sunday, hiding under various pieces of furniture. I can't judge - I do the same thing when I have writing deadlines.

Anyhoo, as you can see by the meager Flickr set, she's warmed up to the possibilities of having a complete stranger be her total bitch for half a month, and has set about declaring most of the apartment off-limits to me, including: my office (now a litter box, but it was pretty much that anyway...), half the kitchen (the half with the awesome counter space and views of the Jersey City Powerhouse District), the space by the fridge where her food bowls are, and the bed (but only during the day). Luckily, I have a small space in the living room with my leather & wood chair (which turned into her scratching post this morning), a portable writing desk, and my laptop. She also lets me use the bathroom, which I appreciate, since I really didn't feel comfortable using the litter box, or kitchen sink.

Our day/evening routine seems to be this: she sets up watch at the window by the counter, while I tap away at various WIP's. We have a break every hour which consists of me sitting on the yoga mat on the carpet, scratching her head and neck while she rolls around and around, occasionally hooking her claws into my legs. Morning routines are evolving - she still gets a bit spooked by things like drawers and the fridge opening, although she's training me to do things slowly and quietly, so as not to startle her. Also, she bats my face if I get too close while looking directly into her eyes, and any touching of the belly (hers) results in some martial arts-style activity with her claws and feet - although, this morning her paw-pummeling took on a distinctly playful air. She's sort of like Bette Davis, but without the profanity. And even though I'm like Joan Crawford, but with extra profanity, I think we're getting along quite well. However, if anyone's limp body is left on the beach in the next couple of weeks, you can bet it'll be mine.

An important PSA from the Ad Council

Sat, 26 Sep 2009 00:33:46 GMT

And my flist goes IN. SANE. (sort of)

Wed, 23 Sep 2009 00:12:00 GMT

Three posts, all within the hour, over this:

Recent Sales, from Publisher's Marketplace:

Sarah Gray's WUTHERING BITES, a retelling of Wuthering Heights in which Heathcliff is a vampire, to John Scognamiglio at Kensington, in a very nice deal, for publication in September 2010, by Evan Marshall at Evan Marshall Agency (World).

Fuck that noise. I've decided I'm going to rewrite Anaïs Nin's Delta of Venus, and pack it with so many vampires, werewolves, zombies, cephalopods, and steam-driven fuck machines, people's eyes will MELT DOWN THEIR FACES when they read it. I may even throw in a face-hugger or two, and they won't be hugging any faces, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

Do you think I'm joking? No, I'm not. I mean, really, would you rather read some boring old "classic" updated with vampires and zombies, or filthy, saucy, classic French erotica updated with vampires and zombies? (Hint: if you say the first one, I'll cut you.) I can do this, easy. I'll type out all the original stories in the book, and then every morning I can take half an hour, pick a story, and insert things. Many things. Oh, and there will be insertions of things like there has never been thing-insertion before in the history of the human race or classic fiction rewriting.

And then I will sell it and pay my electric bill and eat BBQ until I pass out. VICTORY.

Man, I feel so much better now. Anyone have a cigarette?

What I've been doing...

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 19:16:51 GMT

THE ELECTRIC LASH

BEING AN ALTERNATE
ACCOUNT
OF THE MOST TERRIBLE EVENTS
OCCURRING IN THE
FORMER
PACIFIC NORTHWEST TERRITORIES
DURING THE YEAR OF OUR LORD
1897

taken from
original documents
smuggled from beyond the
Great Northwestern Aetheric Barrier
and transcribed
by

MISS LIVIA LLEWELLYN

AETHERIC WHITEFIRE

March ___, 1897

This account starts as all accounts do, with fire and blood and the electric thrum of the universe, barreling down through the darkened glitter of the skies onto the shark-toothed yaw of world. That is, to say, it started during an electric storm of most wondrous and large proportions, with my mistress, Lady Yysabelle Llanaghen naked on the rooftop of the Xerseis Club, holding great thick rods of copper, married via wires and cables to dark and complex machines, in her hands as she screamed to the crashing storm above, imploring it to strike its secret energies through the rods into her flesh, imparting and imprinting upon her all the great mysteries of the unfathomable universe. Below her waist, the base of a thick copper member, attached to yet more coils and wires, protruded from her black-haired Mount of Venus. All about us, the shabby tenements of the Lower East Side quaked and shivered, melted in the dagger-cold downpour of rain. Other female members of the club danced and shouted, also naked and outfitted with various accoutrements of metal and wire--more metal and wire, it seemed, than made up my own automaton body. I sighed and struggled with the seal-skin umbrella, then finally gave it up to the stubborn wind. It saild up, higher and higher, veins of lightning plummetting into its slender skeleton again and again, imparting the wisdom of the universe into the poor unsentient object even as it rose beyond the rooftops of the city, beyond the East River, and out of sight altogether. I smiled--rather, I bared my teeth in the semblance of a human emotion. Fly, little umbrella, I whispered, as my mistress howled like an animal, as the women gathered together in a seething mass and rubbed themselves against various vibrating implements until they wilted like late spring flowers before the summer sun. Go up, give in, and be free. Give in. That is how you discover the light behind the dark. You stop fighting. You let go, and you give in.

But I am slightly ahead of myself, like a selfish lover performing for naught but themselves. You do not know who I am, or who my mistress is, or why she does what she does: which all leads to why she did what she did. Let me explain.

In the year 1879, I was brought to life in one of the great secret factories of the Midwestern lands of America, an automatom with human features and limbs, but neither male nor female in aspect. Born of both man's clever hand and the howling contractions of a two-headed, six-legged cow in the vast stockyards encircling the great city of Chicago like a filthy bridal veil, my wet and dry aspects were married in arcane alchemical ceremonies until I sprung to sentient life. My carapace was buffed and polished, each aspect and surface of gleaming metal brought to a brilliant sheen, then I was dressed and transported via private steam train to the great and sprawling metropolis of Mannahatta--which you, Fierce and Bold reader, know as New York City--as part of a private Scientific Exhibition for men and women of both Vision and Means. It was there, in a vast underground hall, under glass mosaics of dead gods and goddesses, that Lady Llanaghen cast her eye upon me, and bid her husband, a secret titan of industry and transportation, to purchase me for their sprawling mansion, as a plaything for my mistress during her long, childless days and nights.

And plaything, O Fierce and Bold reader, I most certainly was.

additional chapters

POLYPHASE POWER SYSTEM
MAGNETIC ARCS
HELICAL COIL RESONANT TRANSFORMER
PLASMA BREACH REACTOR
SPARK-GAP OSSILATOR
PSYCHOTRONIC MAGNIFYING TRANSMITTER
WIRELESS TELAUTOMATON
JOVIAN PLASMA TORUS SIGNALS
DIRECTED ENERGY WEAPON
THE ELECTRIC LASH
EPILOGUE

Also!

Mon, 25 May 2009 20:26:01 GMT

I rarely talk about dreams, because they're usually not interesting to anyone except myself. However, last night I dreamed I was getting married to...someone that reads this Livejournal! (No, Nick Mamatas, it wasn't you!) I probably had the entire dream within the space of ten minutes, but in dreamtime, it was like fucking forever - and a complete nightmare. There was some extended, complex sequence involving catering and food that had me weeping like a child, and my sister showed up in some kind of nightmare glittery disco queen outfit that totally clashed with my wedding dress, not to mention the fact that she looked about a billion times more awesome than I did; and there were hijinx involving hotel reservations, and so we all ended up at some labyrinthine monstrosity of a building where the toilets kept following me down the hallways and the elevators took me to basements filled with staircases going nowhere except lower into the earth. All this while I was dressed in this big-ass princess-style wedding dress and flowing veil, mind you - I can't tell you how hard it is to run from evil sentient toilets when you're wearing a hundred pounds of cheap tulle and lace. The groom was totally cool about everything, though, and kept me from committing numerous dream-murders against the rest of the party. Although, I noticed he disappeared when I was trying to pack everything up after the ceremony. All my clothes wouldn't fit in the luggage: I woke up SCREAMING!

Oh, and there was something involving my old orange cat Sandy fighting a blubberous Jello dessert with cream cheese and pistachios, but it's simply too horrific to fully recount. Suffice to say, the dream just confirmed my intent to never get married, and live a sin-filled, Jello-free life instead.

How long does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?

Mon, 25 May 2009 18:34:25 GMT

The answer is: the same as the number of months it takes for a bunch of motherfucking amateur asshole construction d00ds to finish doing the most basic and minimal improvements to a shithole apartment, which is to say IT TAKES FORFUCKINGEVER.

AAARRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!ONE!

This has been going on for almost three months now. Constant fucking construction at random hours of the day and night, constant drilling and sawing and hammering, and electricity and water going on and off with no end in sight. They're drilling into the ceiling now (i.e., my fucking floor), presumably to hang lighting fixtures and/or to hang the framework for the dropped ceiling tiles. The water is off. Why????? [::insert all-caps bitch-snark here::] The entire building is shaking. Happy Memorial Day, people! This is how we honor those who died for our country here in Jersey City: by turning on power tools and drilling the shit out of falling-down tenement buildings.

Right now I'm sitting on my recumbent bike, watching Terminator 3 (because it's LOUD - something loud and stupid with The Rock will be next - Doom, perhaps!) on my laptop that's sitting on this shaky table tray. Yes, I'm blogging from exercise equipment. Because the metal frame is so heavy that it only picks up minimal shaking from the drilling. It's either that or sit in the bathtub, and Herbert is in there, with a showercap and a martini. Lazy fucker. I'm drinking beer and eating bbq potato chips. While blogging. And watching shit movies. On my exercise bike. DON'T JUDGE ME, FUCKERS! I've already done four miles. Rawr.

Something New Yorker area people might be interested in

Wed, 13 May 2009 23:14:43 GMT

From tomorrow through June 14th, the Park Avenue Amory is going to be home to a big-ass, awesomely weird interactive art installation by Ernesto Neto, called anthropodino. On June 2, Shen Wei Dance Arts is going to perform what they call a "improvised movement" response to the installation. I don't know if anyone else is interested, but I'll thought I'd let people know I'll be there. I mean, you don't have to pretend you know me or anything - you can nod once to me before you run away through the giant balloony skeleton limbs. I promise I won't follow. Maybe...

Sick post is sickly

Sat, 09 May 2009 23:56:46 GMT

Naples 07
Originally uploaded by Livia Llewellyn.

Back from Naples. Not much happened - I twittered (tweeted? twatted?) about a few things, and took some extremely boring photos (I only got out of the hotel once in six days.) Didn't get swine flu. Ironically, I got a massive cold, and my head almost exploded, Scanners-style, from the pressure in the cabin on the flight home. I thought a Cenobite was hacking its way out of my head - I couldn't stop sobbing, and I scared a bunch of passengers and most of the airline attendants into thinking I was having some kind of psychotic episode. lol. I've mostly recovered, except for a deep hacking cough and a voice that sounds like Bea Arthur is haunting my vocal cords. I have nothing else to blog about, so here are some illuminating links:

The Art of Penguin Science Fiction

some thoughtful Amazon reviews of an awesome wolf t-shirt

Swine flu map

Sun, 26 Apr 2009 21:39:47 GMT

This post is for myself more than anything else, so that I have it bookmarked in a place I can access from both work and home computers.

http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&t=p&msa=0&msid=106484775090296685271.0004681a37b713f6b5950&ll=32.639375,-110.390625&spn=15.738151,25.488281&z=5);

I'm traveling down to Naples, Florida next week for our company's annual sales conference. I'm not that fond of air travel to begin with, and I tend not to be overly-paranoid, but... this time around, I really, really, really wish I weren't going. Spending three hours there and back crammed in a giant metal petrie dish the breathing recycled air of several hundred strangers has never been conducive to my health, even in the best of times and circumstances. I plan to be medicated to the gills, lol. Also: no sardine-packed PATH commuting to and from work next week, or for the rest of the the summer. I can walk the extra blocks and take the light rail, now that the weather is warm. No need to be underground, until I have to be.

The deep bullshit before the plunge

Mon, 20 Apr 2009 23:59:38 GMT

A(n ongoing) conversation lifted from Facebook:

livia_llewellyn is experiencing "writergasm" - the moment when you've just thought of a stupendously PERFECT story/novel idea, but haven't actually started writing that shit onto the page yet.
livia_llewellyn It's kind of like falling in love with someone from a distance: all sooper-hawt fantasy, no pesky reality. :D
txtriffidranch I like to think of it as the vacation you see when you're first scheduling the time off, not the reality of missing credit cards and mosquitoes the size of RC aircraft.
livia_llewellyn Exactly. I'm looking at the pretty travel brochure, not realizing that when I'm on that beach, I'll be broke, sunburned and doubled over from dysentery.
nballingrud Yeah, as soon as you type "Chapter One," it all goes to shit. Happy writing! :)

My story is now live at Thaumatrope

Sun, 19 Apr 2009 19:02:06 GMT

Vermeer Blue

In case you're wondering, it took me about two hours to write that. Yes, go ahead and laugh...

Just in case you think Susan Boyle is a one-hit wonder

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 14:19:30 GMT

...this clip of her singing "Cry Me a River" should change your mind. The clip and accompanying article are here. OMFG. Talk about torch singing - GUH. I will buy every single CD this woman ever comes out with.

The Rumpy-Pumpy Post

Thu, 09 Apr 2009 01:15:02 GMT

I've just received a copy of The Imago Sequence from imago1, who inscribed it with the promise - nay, the SACRED VOW - that his next collection would contain "20% more rumpy-pumpy...minimum". I'm making this public only to make sure he is held to that promise, and that all of Mr. Barron's stories contain at least 20% more rumpy-pumpy. MY EYES: ON U. [::makes serious stare-face::]

In case you're all wondering, and I KNOW YOU ARE, my first collection will be 100% chock full of non-stop rumpy-pumpy. My fiction puts out! But you have to get it drunk first. I'm just saying...

My SHORT STORY COLLECTION, LET ME SHOW YOU IT!

Mon, 06 Apr 2009 15:16:35 GMT

I just signed and mailed off the contracts for my first short story collection, to be published by Lethe Press sometime in 2010. The collection will include all of my published erotica and some original stories, including a steampunk erotica novella titled "The Electric Lash". Heh.

This will be my first book in print. I'm very, very excited. Here are the old-timey skeletons again - I didn't think I'd use them again so soon, but what the fuck. EVERYONE DANCE!

Sale!

Fri, 03 Apr 2009 14:37:54 GMT

Subterranean bought my 20k horror novella "Her Deepness" (the first in my Lovecraftian-industrial alternate-Patagonia quartet - I'm currently working on #2). Actually, technically Bill accepted it in February, but I had to keep my mouth shut until now, and OMFG THAT WAS SO HARD because I am by nature a blabbermouth, and this was my first (and so far only) sale of the year. No word on when it'll be published.

BTW, much thanks to kellysarah for looking over the various geological/mining terms I used in the novella, and not laughing too hard at some of my very laughable mistakes.

And now it is time to dance.

This morning I discovered mice in my apartment.

Mon, 30 Mar 2009 13:13:38 GMT

I would really like for all this to be over with. But I'm just too tired to bother.

the most humiliating thing in the world...

Fri, 27 Mar 2009 20:46:40 GMT

...is going to the Strand with books that have your stories in them (in a desperate attempt to get enough money to pay the bills), and being told that they are worth nothing.

Get out of my mind!!!

Mon, 23 Mar 2009 12:46:42 GMT

Last night I had a terrifying dream that my publisher bought up all the little publishers and presses it could, including nihilistic_kid's place of work. So they shipped everyone to Hoboken, and the rest of the dream - nay, NIGHTMARE - consisted of Nick Mamatas making everyone do freaky calisthentics in the morning, followed by throwing frisbees out into the Hudson River and making us fetch them. He told us that's how they did it in California. Also, he kept manuscripts in his underwear. I know, because he showed me. ::weeps::

I swear to god, that's the last time I have chili for dinner.

Dear Ron Moore:

Sat, 21 Mar 2009 21:02:42 GMT

GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SHOW.

NO, SERIOUSLY. GET THE FUCK OUT. YOU ARE NOT AN ACTOR. GTFO.

GET. OUT.

Good Riddance

Mon, 16 Mar 2009 13:12:36 GMT

Yesterday, I thought I heard what was the sound of someone moving into the downstairs apartment. Evidently, I was wrong - it was my downstairs neighbors moving out. How do I know that? Well, when I went downstairs this morning, as a parting shot he wrote CUNT in big black letters all over a stack of mail sitting underneath my mailbox. Except, lol, it wasn't my mail - it's mail I set aside for the carrier to pick up because they were addressed to tenants long gone from the building - including one woman who has a very similar last name to mine. It was her mail that had the largest and most vigorously-written c-word scrawled on them, along with something about my being a bitch as well - just in case I didn't clue into his hatred of me the first time around, I guess. Now, I'm pretty sure my next-door neighbors didn't do this, and the two tenants on the first floor don't even know who I am. So, yeah, it was the jackass downstairs. Well, he sure put me in my place. I am NEVAH going to walk on my apartment floors again.

In other news, there are spiders everywhere. I think they're getting ready for the ants.

Note to self:

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 21:39:01 GMT

don't drink and bake.

You know those petting ponds with cute little sting rays in them?

Thu, 26 Feb 2009 13:47:05 GMT

Try petting this.

Today is Nick "Slappy" Kaufmann's Birthday!

Sat, 21 Feb 2009 13:11:55 GMT

nick_kaufmann is FORTY YEARS OLD. So, it's like he's a dead person, but he acts like he's still alive 'n' shit when doesn't know he's all corpsified inside. That's also called "middle age". For many of us, this is simply called "life". Also, he's been thinking it's his thirty-fifth birthday, for like a couple of years in a row now - go ahead and wish him a happy FORTIETH anyway. He's officially an old fucker, so it's not like he's going to remember anything you said, right? I hear he likes creamed corn, so that would be a good gift. Wait till he falls asleep or starts mumbling about "the good war", and leave it next to his walker.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NICK!