Homeless People and the Bluetooth

This marks the beginning of publishing heavier pieces in the "afternoon edition" of The Literary Brothel. Seriously. -KV

HOMELESS PEOPLE AND THE BLUETOOTH
Charlie Luzon

I used to think that if you gave some of the homeless people who talk to themselves an inoperable Bluetooth, they would cease to frighten pedestrians. You wouldn't know if they were talking to themselves, or engaged in an intense debate with another person about the conspiracy of unicorns running the world. And you wouldn't be so scared.

On the bus the other day however, a homeless man wearing a Bluetooth began ranting and raving, not about unicorns. The other riders were frightened, and I wasn't feeling so safe myself. He got off and shouted his way down the street, much to the relief of myself and the other passengers.

Turns out, the Bluetooth didn't matter. Insanity overpowers a cell phone accessory. So much for that theory.

Perhaps we had nothing to fear. Perhaps what we need in this country is better education for those of us who encounter people with mental illnesses. Or at the very least, perhaps we need better mental health care for our fellow citizens. Aren't we all Americans? How is it that a president with Alzheimer's ruined it for the rest of us? Shouldn't have he been more sympathetic?

These questions - and more - may remain unanswered.

-CL

Teddy Nutmeg's Top Ten Albums of All Time

We used to do music reviews here on The Brothel. (Did I tell you that already?) We also had each of our contributors write a top ten list. This is one by Teddy. It's long, and his musical tastes may have changed since 2002, but we're putting it up anyway. -KV

TEDDY'S TOP TEN
by Teddy Nutmeg

I LIKE MUSIC. Music is good. These albums are good. I like these albums.

However, music is an extremely personal medium delicately intertwined with one's emotional state, life-changing events, everyday surroundings, and (above all) sex. What I like may not jive with what you like, and that's OK. My experiences are different from yours, my music is different from yours-neither being inherently better the other, unless your name is Charlie Luzon and you listen to shite like Rancid, in which case you need help. Seriously. But Michael Jackson does rule.

Also, listen to music on quality headphones (the ones with the big plug that doesn't fit into your discman) whenever possible. It's a whole new world.

Built to Spill, "Perfect From Now On"

...because I listen to this and its better than sex. Except this one time, there was this chick I met on a plane, and damn, she had a hot body and was REALLY into me, and I don't think anything (besides crack, or sushi) could be better than that. Not that normal sex is somehow unfulfilling and hollow, not that it leaves you feeling used and dirty and emptier than your wallet after you've paid her off. Not at all.

Bela Fleck and the Flecktones

No album, but it's got to be live to jive, brother. Bluegrass rules--soul music for the seemingly soul-less (white) people.

Dragged to bluegrass festivals when I was younger, I started appreciating it when I realized there were no rules at a festival and no rules in the music. Here's some actual dialogue between me (age 13) and my parents at a bluegrass festival:

Teddy: "I'm going down to the main stage, then to the lake, but I'll be back in a few hours."
Teddy's Parents: "That's great, but here, you don't have to tell us anything. Come back whenever. But, hey, no kissing Susie or Sarah. Well, kissing's OK, but NO TONGUE. They ARE your cousins."

See what I mean, NO RULES. Coincidentally, (or not) it was at a bluegrass festival that I realized that those things on girls chests were pretty fun to play with, and that a public toilet seat can make a pretty comfy pillow. And no, I didn't kiss Susie (not with tongue, anyway). Sarah on the other hand... (naughty Sarah)

Back to Bela Fleck: the dude can JAM; endless, intricate jams on the banjo and guitar left my hands numb from clapping, my head spinning and my mouth dry-though I guess that could've been from Uncle Brian's backyard moonshine and ditch weed. Thanks Unc.

Pavement, "Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain," and "Watery, Domestic" (4-song EP)

With songs of resigned desolation (they too reign from the Central Valley), Pavement helped me grow up. No, they didn't take me in the back of their 1975 blue Chevy Van, telling me to "squeal like a pig" but since I was 15 there've been Pavement songs for me to sink my emotional teeth into; songs that felt like mine and mine alone. Speaking of mine, and mine alone, a cheap whore on this website once dissed Pavement when I busted them out on the drive back from a ski trip, but he also thinks Rancid is God's gift to middle class white boy angst and that Titanic was a good flick. Go figure.

Al Green, "Greatest Hits"

This is (subjectively) the most romantic music of all time. Scenario: you've made her dinner at you're place, and now you're ready for dessert. You dim the lights, light the candles, whip out your mousse, and put on Al Green while you sit down to share the love. After dessert, you casually mention that slow dancing is a great way to help settle a full stomach, you give her a smile sweeter than the mousse, and you're off to never-never land.

If that doesn't work, you boot her ass out and call up your hoochie-coochie girl, who lives an hour away in the ghetto, but she don't need no homemade dinner and chocolate mousse; some Roberto's (or some other taco stand ending in "berto's"), an ice cold St. Ides and she's ready to show you her zebra-print thong.

[TIP: When wooing ghetto-style, disregard this list of records and everything else you think you know about music and romance. Doggystyle (see Charlie Luzon's list) is a bumpably safe bet, but then again, you might get shot the up by some busta ass Snoop-hatin foolios while you be tappin dat ass in the backseat. Cause in the ghetto, you NEVER KNOW. ]

The Pixies Surfer Rosa (et al)

Description-defyingly good. Sometimes funky to the ear, reminding me that music doesn't have to sound "pretty" and soft to be great. Don't get me wrong, I like hard music and I'm WAY more punk than anyone realizes (definitely more punk than you, you pussy) but I just don't listen to hard stuff very often. Punk is exponentially better in person, where you can shuck your savings of rage and pain into the pot and get crazy with everyone else, and plus, I'm a pretty happy guy in general. I would say more about how good The Pixies are, but the Admins would probably cream their shorts.

Any good classical recording from the Romantic/Classical period

Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky, composers along these lines thrill and chill you. I don't pretend to know much about classical music, but I do know that for me, it has to be a good recording, and a good symphony. Like punk, I don't listen to classical very often, but when I do, it cleanses and regulates my musical digestion. Punk rock and classical are musical Metamucil.

Belle and Sebastian, "The Boy With The Arab Strap"

They groove, they rock, they're a mellow, acoustic, Scottish alternative to Radiohead, but with beautiful female vocals (she sure sounds purdy) to lull me off to fuzzy happiness. It takes a revolution or two on the CD player to get acquainted with Belle and Sebastian, but once you're friends, they never treat you wrong, just like a TJ hooker. Am I talking about the TV show, or a real TJ hooker? Does William Shatner realize that his shortened surname is the past tense of "to poop"? All I know is that Belle and Sebastian throw some violas and cellos into the mix, and it serves them quite well.

Blackalicious (underground hip-hizzzop) "NIA"

Two dudes with a positive message and the skill to make it sound pimpin, the Gift of Gab and Chief Xcel have been kickin ass in Bay Area jams for years, and their shit is straight-up bumpin. Gab's flows are intelligent, positive, extremely well organized, and contain several references to "yo mama's big fat ass." The air at a Blackalicious show is absolutely electrified, EVERYONE is moving, bouncing to the beat and getting pumped up by the Gift's stage presence. And if you think they sound too good to be true, trust me, its all true, all except that part about "yo mama's big fat ass." I just like the way "yo mama's big fat ass" looks-in print. But Blackalicious is on the real. Word (to yo mama's big fat ass).

Elliot Smith, "Figure 8" (but all his albums are quality)

One could describe Elliot's music as folksy, organic, and tangible; he writes about his own alcoholism with candor and accessibility. He used to play in a GREAT band called Heatmiser with Sam Coomes from Quasi (awesome band that just missed the cut). Elliot composes, he sings, he plays, he rocks. His music is diverse, sometimes gentle, sometimes driving, always crisp and fresh. His acoustic work is about as good as it gets, without Jack anyway. If you ever have the good fortune to see him live, yes he really is that drunk, and no, it won't affect his playing (too much).

Manu Chao, "Clandestino"

Just when you think you've got me pegged as a mellow, Kerouac reading, horn-rimmed glasses wearing, bong-slurping, neo-beat-hippie wanna-be, I'll bust out with the French/Spanish groovemaster himself, Manu Chao. He sings in Spanish, English, and French, and it tickles me in the right spot (edited sex joke here). Maybe their appeal is best exemplified by track three, "King of the Bongo" which has female back-up vocalists who respond on cue with their only line "He's the king of the bongo." His music is simultaneously cheesy and serious as he covers extreme topics from poverty in Tijuana to the international struggle for ideological independence. So take your Chomsky reader y pongala donde el sol no brilla. I'll take Manu Chao and his funky beats any day.

So now what? You've got all this great info, so what're you going to do with it? You're going to run out and buy all these albums, right? No?!? What?! You don't trust the good judgment of a guy who...

1) jokes about kissing his cousins
2) refers to girls in a blatant and disgusting sexual manner
3) reads (or at least refers to) Noam Chomsky
4) does, in fact, enjoy TJ Hooker(s)
5) has to have his dirty jokes edited to be posted on a site called "The Literary Brothel"

What the hell is wrong with you?

-TN

Waking Up with a Song in Your Head

According to a recent poll (The Literary Brothel, 2008) most people do NOT wake up with a song in their head. Not even "sometimes."

The poll came about due to a comment from Hans Zimmer at UCLA. Zimmer always woke with some tune in his head, and when he started mentioning it to people, he was surprised to learn that most people do not share this eccentricity.

Until that moment, I had no idea it was an eccentricity. I always wake up with some song or some tune banging around in my mind. (Today it was Eternal Flame. Yes, that's The Bangles....I didn't say it was always a "good" song.") Apparently, not everybody does. Strange.

It's like finding out that you have three nipples.

Okay, not exactly.

But it's still strange.

-KV

(Yes, that's the ending. I'm writing this midday - thank you timestamp! - and by now the Bangles have faded. I was going to rant about the catchiness of 80s music and how it was killed by the Pixies and grunge, but instead...close your eyes. Give me your hand, darling...the Bangles are back! Eh, this piece is done.)

Earthquake! 5.8 out of Chino Hills!

That's not the construction site next to my apartment building, THAT is an earthquake!

I'm not sure standing in the doorway in a four story apartment building will help. Will this really remain standing if the floors above collapse?

I can't text message my girlfriend because the lines are jammed.

Okay, it's over.

The ground feels more solid.

Deep breath.

[breath]

We blog on.

Bringing Literary Back - A Book List

After reading my summer reading list, The Brothel's good friend C____ decided to weigh in with a list of books and authors we've never heard of, but according to her are worth your time. In other words, this list is not endorsed by The Literary Brothel - read at your own discretion! -KV

BRINGING LITERARY BACK

It was indicated that a certain someone involved with The Literary Brothel was looking for book recommendations. The following is what happens when it is intimated to a New York publishing person that their opinion on books might be welcome. (ed. note: good to know)

Books I’ve read recently and for which you should drop everything. Why aren’t you already at your local independent bookstore? Put down that milkshake! Go!

City of Thieves by David Benioff
Lush Life by Richard Price
The Omnivore’s Dilemma by Michael Pollan
Up in the Old Hotel by Joseph Mitchell
The Wild Trees by Richard Preston
Drop City by T.C. Boyle
The White Album by Joan Didion
Among Other Things, I’ve Taken Up Smoking by Aoibheann Sweeney
The Journey Home by Edward Abbey

Books I haven’t read but that I’ve heard are good from reliable sources, like friends who read more literary fiction than I do because I’m lazy and prefer books under 1,000 pages with plots that move along trippingly and in a linear fashion.

Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
Giraffe by J.M. Ledgard
The Lazarus Project by Aleksandar Hemon
My Revolutions by Hari Kunzru
The Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon

Books to treat as though they are dark figures lurking in an alley at night when you are walking by yourself. I.e. run away! (Why? Because they are sort of tripe that’s all too ballyhooed in Manhattan these days—atrocious first novels or memoirs written by young, privileged media darlings with entirely inflated senses of self-worth.)

All the Sad Young Literary Men by Keith Gessen
Personal Days by Ed Park
I Was Told There’d Be Cake by Sloane Crosley
Beautiful Children by Charles Bock
The Mayor's Tongue by Nathaniel Rich
Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl

Books you should already have read when you were younger and more impressionable because you’ll never like them as much if you read them now.

Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand
Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut
The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon
A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway
To a God Unknown by John Steinbeck
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson

Books I haven’t read but pretend I have:

The Bible (ed note: God wrote this)
Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
Animal Farm by George Orwell
Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Lethem
The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen
Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
White Teeth by Zadie Smith
Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie
Guns, Germs & Steel by Jared Diamond

Books my boyfriend likes because he’s a geek for Classical history and drama:

The Histories by Herodotus
Xenophon’s The Expedition of Cyrus (a.k.a. Anabasis)
The History of the Peloponnesian War by Thucydides
Anything by Euripides, Sophocles, and Aeschylus

Books you should read because they are among the best ones I worked on before I bailed out of book publishing:

The Last Beach Bungalow by Jennie Nash
Little Pink Slips by Sally Koslow
The Russian Concubine by Kate Furnivall
Midwife of the Blue Ridge by Christine Blevins
The Red Scarf by Kate Furnivall
Catching Genius by Kristy Kiernan
The Accomplice by Marcus Galloway
The Savage Trail by Jory Sherman
Rogue Lawman by Peter Brandvold
The Outcast by Luke Cypher

Books to try reading and then throw at your cat:

War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
Against the Day by Thomas Pynchon
House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski
Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

Book I’m reading next:

...

I don’t know. Suggestions?

-C_____

Narrow Ruled - A Poem

Because the poetry contest ends in 3 days (submit now!) I thought I would give this poetry writing thing a shot.

[later]

Man, that was a lot harder than copying down a Bukowski poem and putting it up on the site to get more hits. -KV


NARROW RULED
by Klaus Varley

The narrow ruled notebook
where I keep all my ideas
lives in the outside mesh pocket
of my backpack

One day
I thought I lost it.

"Have you seen the narrow ruled notebook where I keep all my ideas?"
I asked my girlfriend.
"No."
She said.

I couldn't think of what was written
on the pages.
All I could remember
was a list
of potential articles
for The Literary Brothel
written on the back page.

But I couldn't remember the articles.
Only that I had made a list.

The next day
when I found my narrow ruled notebook
in my computer bag
I turned to that list.

Dentist.
Yoga.
Tarnation.
Wall-E.
Ad.
Fly.

I added one more.

Poem - Narrow Ruled

-KV

Bukowski Quote for the weekend

"think becomes a dirty word. because they have been TAUGHT THAT THEY WERE THINKING ALL ALONG. not so, of course. but if a man can recover, if he has the bounceback, the miracle, he will find that the first 30 years were wasted in fighting off, regrouping before HE CAN BECOME EASY. THINKING OR LIVING IS NOT VERY HARD AT ALL; it is the other thing that they are doing that is killing them."

-Charles Bukowski to Carl Weissner, Jan. 28, 1967.

The Internet makes you dizzy and disoriented

THE INTERNET MAKES YOU DIZZY AND DISORIENTED
by Klaus Varley

I've spent the last fifteen minutes on the Internet, not looking for what I came online to find. (The hours the rec pool is open. These things are important.)

But I'm not going to look just yet.

Instead, I check out statistics on The Brothel, realize that the Kill Bill piece is WAY too long, and think I need to write something to bury it.

Maybe a piece about procrastination.

Damn, what did I come on the Internet to do?

Oh yeah, pool hours.

But that seems lame.

I'm just going to write a little bit.

Just a little bit.

Then look for pool hours.

...

Okay, that's a little bit.

Stop writing now, Klaus.

Look for the hours.

Look for the hours.

You're writing.

Not looking for pool hours.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Not yet.

...

Okay, now.

...

After I sign this.

And check my email.

Just one more time.

-KV

On Kill Bill - A Moderated Discussion from 2003

In this post Death Proof world, we have forgotten that there was a time when Quentin Tarantino's career was in question. In 2003, Tarantino hadn't released a movie in six years. His last fare was the slow, kinda-cool Jackie Brown. Had Kill Bill not been the success it was, we'd all probably know Quentin as the guy who did Pulp Fiction, and say things to each other like "Man, Pulp Fiction was good. Whatever happened to that guy?"

So, here's a long-ass piece about Kill Bill. I tried to edit it, but I'll probably just post something quickly after it, so it starts making its way down the front of The Brothel, and eventually falling into the abyss of Previous Posts. -KV


ON KILL BILL (A moderated discussion with Klaus Varley and Charlie Luzon on the recently released, highly touted Quentin Tarantino film)

with Klaus Varley, Charlie Luzon, fictional moderator BILL, actual moderator William James, and the subtle presence of a humble Transcriber :)

--Begin Transcription--

WILLIAM: Gentlemen. You’ve both just been visually privy to the film Kill Bill. Your thoughts?

BILL: Is that how you’re going to do it?

WILLIAM: Pardon?

BILL: Shall I repeat myself?

KLAUS (Whispers to Charlie): That line's from The Royal Tenenbaums.

CHARLIE (Whispering back): It could be from anywhere.

WILLIAM: Well, I figured that would be a good question to initiate conversation.

BILL: You figured, did you? Well, figure this: Two m-therf-cking moderators on one panel. The former says something stupid, the other, slightly tuckered out from appearing on twenty-five hundred fucking screens nationwide, has neither the patience nor the tenacity for mundane conversation, and executes the former with the second of his two Tenachi-made samurai swords that he had to check because the c-ck s-cking airport security thought I was going to slice some m-therf-ckers up, which of course, I will. Not stewardess though, a moderator. The former moderator. Slice to the brain, Shaw-Brothers style.

KLAUS: Who are the Shaw Brothers?

CHARLIE: Shut up and let him finish his monologue.

BILL: I’m going to say this only once, but with redundancy so you understand: Sit quietly and shut the fuck up. I’m patience-less, I’m fictional, and I’m the moderator. Say it with me – and let this be the last sentence you say tonight.

WILLIAM: I’m patience-less, I’m fictional, and I’m the moderator.

BILL: Good. Now Klaus, Charlie, welcome to The Literary Brothel’s discussion of Kill Bill.

KLAUS: Thanks.

CHARLIE: Thank you.

BILL: You’ve just seen the movie, which means you saw it not opening night, but opening day. You two are a bunch of fucking geeks.

KLAUS: That’s what I said. You’re a fucking geek, man.

CHARLIE: You not only agreed to go with me, but picked me up an hour early to get good parking.

KLAUS: Touché.

BILL: Let’s talk about the movie. Crazy shit, am I right?

KLAUS: You would know Bill, you’re in it.

CHARLIE: I don’t’ understand how you’re conducting this discussion.

BILL: You mean the format?

CHARLIE: I mean the fact that you’re not an actor; you’re the actual character. How is this happening?

BILL: I’m the moderator, I ask the fucking questions. Just be cool.

CHARLIE: Uh, okay.

BILL: Klaus. I was watching you during the movie, and, you kept shifting in your seat. South American killer reds in your khakis?

KLAUS: You were watching me? Is that why we never saw your face?

BILL: You goddamn…(cell phone rings). Hello? Oh, I see. Right away. (Hangs up cell phone.) Excuse me gentlemen.

Bill leaves in a flourish.

CHARLIE: That was strange.

KLAUS: I wonder who it was?

CHARLIE: Does it matter? At least you didn’t tell him how bored you were.

KLAUS: I wasn’t bored.

CHARLIE: Bullshit. Bill was right - you couldn’t sit still for five minutes. I saw you check out the Indian girl two seats away about ten times.

KLAUS: You were watching me?

CHARLIE: You looked across me.

KLAUS: Well, she was hot.

CHARLIE: I’m sure that enhanced her movie experience, seeing some chump turn her way every fifteen minutes.

KLAUS: You think she noticed?

CHARLIE: Of course she noticed. They always notice.

KLAUS: She was hot though. You gotta admit.

CHARLIE: Fair enough.

KLAUS: You weren’t bored?

CHARLIE: When?

KLAUS: When? When do you think? During the movie. Let’s get the moderator back here so the transcriber of this conversation won’t be too bored by the myriad tangents we go off on. (Thanks guys!) And Transcriber? Please make me sound cool. Mix up my vocabulary, or take out clichés or something - my oral interlocution ability often subsides in mundane conventionality and though I strive to eschew obfuscation, my efforts are often futile. :)

CHARLIE: Whoever is reading this later should know that whatever it says on the page is not reflective of the level of eloquence exhibited by Klaus.

KLAUS: Hey William, time to get your moderation back on. I’m'a gonna school this kid about how bad the movie was. It’s Kill Charlie time.

WILLIAM: Alright. Well, gentlemen. Thoughts on the film?

KLAUS: Yeah, here are some thoughts: we all know this is a two-part film, but it doesn’t have to be except that there’s a hundred long, draining shots where we’re supposed to admire the “coolness” of it all and all I can think of is that geek Tarantino sitting in the editing room with his gargantuan cranium saying to the editor, “and cue surf guitar intro riff, and let it play on the pan to the snowflakes as they fall to the ground, and oh, this is the coolest shit, hold, hold…hold…oh good. Now I need to go to a mall and have people recognize me. I’ll be right back.”

CHARLIE: Are you done?

KLAUS: Almost. What happened to Tarantino’s cool dialog? The stuff in Reservoir Dogs, the stuff in Pulp Fiction, some of the stuff in True Romance?

CHARLIE: I’ll bet you know.

KLAUS: Damn right I do. Check this out: Quentin and friend Roger Avery wrote a four hundred page script, a trilogy, containing Reservoir Dogs, True Romance, and Pulp fiction. If you watch the movies somewhat closely you can hear the names of the characters as they overlap.

CHARLIE: Roger Avery and Quentin Tarantino? Rogantino?

KLAUS: The names of the characters in the three movies.

WILLIAM: And Kill Bill is…

KLAUS: Kill Bill isn’t part of the trilogy. Since those three movies, Tarantino hasn’t written or directed anything that can hold its own against any Guy Ritchie film or Christopher Nolan or Danny Boyle or shit, Roger Avery (Rules of Attraction) for that matter.

CHARLIE: And you call me a nerd.

KLAUS: In Kill Bill, like in Jackie Brown, Tarantino relies on the “coolness” of the set, costumes, and actors in order to get by. The dialog is crap, the characters are fecal matter :) , and the stories are nothing to write Homer about :( .

WILLIAM: Would be fair to say Klaus, that you’re giving the film a thumbs down?

KLAUS: No, I liked it alright. The action was cool and you get to watch Uma for two hours. Hot.

CHARLIE: What was all that shit about Tarantino?

Klaus shrugs his shoulders.

KLAUS: When are we gonna go get something to eat?

WILLIAM: Charlie, any thoughts?

CHARLIE: Well, I liked the film. It’s an obvious homage to kung-fu flicks of the 1970’s with a lot of tongue-and-cheek character creation that makes you just want to go along for the ride. A lot of people might not get that, read: Klaus—

KLAUS: Read: Charlie = asshole.

CHARLIE: Even if you don’t get the references, the jokes, the cameos by Kung-Fu legends of small screen lore, you can still have a good time. That’s what this movie is all about. Cool costumes, about a thousand dead samurai warriors, Lucy Liu, shit, there’s even an anime sequence. How cool is that?

KLAUS: I don’t know Charlie Dorko, how cool is that?

CHARLIE: Pretty fuckin’ cool, dick.

WILLIAM: Well, thank you gentlemen. We’ve laughed, we’ve cried…

CHARLIE: Jesus, who are you? I mean, thanks William. Thanks everyone who made it this far. If there is anyone left reading. See you all at The Brothel.

KLAUS: Yeah, thanks William, and thanks in advance to the !Transcriber!. An indelible, often misunderstood presence that we – like air filling our lungs on a daily basis – foolishly take for granted.


-TLB



KILL BILL (2003)
RATED: R

KLAUS
GRADE: @@@ ½ - Near where it’s at. Three and a half "Ats" out of a possible five.

CHARLIE
GRADE: B+ - Pure entertainment and a great homage to kung-fu movies of old.

The Greatest Baseball Mascot Ever - The San Diego Padre

"San Diego's mascot will kick all other baseball mascots' asses... at hoeing a garden, brewing ale, and chanting in a stone chapel."

-Brian Hurley

"The Padre" runs with some cheerleaders.

-KV

Did you ever get hits from Montana? / What happened to all those posts trying to attract visitors from Montana?

In short, we finally got visitors from Montana.

North Dakota, New Hampshire, Alabama, Iowa, and Hawaii are the only states left who have not visited The Brothel.

If you know someone from those states, please, tell them about us. We are trying to make the whole country green. (On Google Analytics. There's this little map of the country with states, and the ones who have visited the site are green, and the other ones are white...) You know what I'm talking about.

Recommended Summer Reading

I did a bit of reading in my early to late 20s. People used to ask me "which book should I read next?" Ah, those glorious 20s.

In recent years, I get that question less and less. This might have to do with my hurried responses of "How the hell should I know?" or "Whatever you feel like reading." These days I simply don't read as much as I used to.

However, all that reading was not all for...not. I was recently asked which books I might recommend for summer reading. Hey, I forgot about "summer reading." And now the summer is at least half-way over! Oh no!

Below is a brief list of books that I loved in my twenties, and that you might love if you are in your 20s, or slightly younger, or slightly older. And no need to hurry; they're good no matter what season it is.

(In order of greatness)

1. The Great Gatsby
2. Lolita
3. Post Office
4. On the Road
5. Ender's Game
6. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
7. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime (This is cheating since I just read this, but I WOULD have read it in my 20s, had I known about it then)
8. The Missing Piece meets The Big O
9. Under the Banner of Heaven
10. Me Talk Pretty One Day

You can't go wrong with any/all of those books. "The Missing Piece" might be a bit short; you can read it in about five minutes. But that doesn't make it any less great.

-KV

Quote from Charles Bukowski Selected Letters Volume 2

"unless I can get at my piano (typewriter) an hour or so each day I am not worth a shit to anybody. not that I am creating anything immortal, although now and then I may slip over that line (?) but it is mostly the sound of the typer like ENGINE /////// MY ENGINE MY ENGINE GOD DAMN IT, and when they shut my motor off I am no better than a hockshop owner."

-Charles Bukowski to Carl Weissner - January 28, 1967

Typo in the Poll

Yes, we are aware there is a typo in the current poll question. Thank you for letting us know.

But are you aware that once someone votes on the poll, you can't change the question?

The next poll will be about typos. That way, any typo in the polling question can be assumed to be intentional.

-KV

We don't usually post on the weekend

Seriously.

What are you doing reading this?

Go out and play.

or

Write a poem

Like this one

But better.

Send it to us

And you could win

A fedora.



-KV

UCM and Other Colleges With Bad Anagrams

UCM and Other Colleges With Bad Anagrams
by Klaus Varley

The UC Regents might have thought twice had they considered the anagram associated with the University of California at Merced. But it turns out, when we look at other schools in California, UCM is not alone in its anagram potential.

Behold! California Universities chosen off the top of my head, their corresponding anagrams, and a brief explanation.

UCB = CUB (Now I know why their mascot is a bear)

UCD = CUD (Cows chew it. -ed note: Thanks for reminding us, Carrie.)

UCSB = CUBS (Now I know why the mascot is...an Argentinian Cowboy?)

UCSD = SCUD (There's a huge military base in San Diego. Seriously.)

UCI = ICU (Emergency rooms are good for surfers and Dennis Rodman.)

SDSU = SUDS (While they build missles over at their big-sister school, the folks at SDSU are having a ball. I mean, bath.)

USC = SUC (Ks)

Ah, there are many more, but that will get you started. What anagrams can you come up with for colleges in your state?

-KV

Fan Mail NOT An Obvious Internet Scam

FAN MAIL NOT AN OBVIOUS INTERNET SCAM
by Klaus Varley (and David Williams)

Upon first reading this letter may look like a typical internet scam. But I'm here to show you that disguised beneath it's surface language luring you to send your personal information is a heartfelt fan-letter to The Literary Brothel.

Below is the letter with translation into "fan language" in italics, and our responses in bold.

---

"Please I wish to know if we can work together. "
I am a huge fan of your site and want to do a joint project.
Okay, what do you have in mind?

"I got your contact during my search for a reliable, trust worthy and honest person to introduce this transfer project to you. My name is Mr,David Williams, I am the manager of the Unicredit Bank Ghana Ltd, I wish to know if we can work together. "
You are reliable, trust worthy, and honest.
Go on.

"I am writing to solicit your assistance in the noble transfer of US$7,000,000. This fund is a result of the excess of what my branch in which I am the manager made as profit during the last years. "
I made a lot of money and I need some advice.
You've come to the right place.


"I have already submitted an approved End of the last Years report for the year 2006 to my Head Office here in Accra and they will never know of this Excess. I have since then, placed this amount of US$7,000,000 (Seven Million United States Dollars) on a suspense account without a beneficiary."
Complications have ensued.
That's what complications do.

"As an officer of the bank, I cannot be directly connected to this money thus I am compelled to request for your assistance to receive this money into your bank account. I intend to part 30% of this fund to you while 70% shall be for me.I do need to stress that there are practically no risk involved in this. "
But I want to give you money.
No, no. We'll give you the advice for free.

"It is going to be a bank-to-bank transfer to your nominated bank account anywhere you feel safer. All I need from you is to stand as the original depositor of this fund. If you accept this offer, I will appreciate your timely response. All modalities in this business will work out as soon as I receive your reply.through:(david-williams1@hotmail.com)"
Send me an email.
Wait a second, this isn't a fan letter...But it can still be a joint project!

With regards
Mr, David Williams
Unicredit Bank Accra, Ghana
This is the end of my fan letter.
Thanks for the letter, David. And welcome to The Brothel.

-KV

Identity Shrugged by Teddy Nutmeg

Reminiscent of Acceleration, this treatise on the disconnect of work and life pretty much sums up that thing commonly referred to as the "quarter life crises."

Now Teddy has a job he likes; and we don't get any new pieces from him. Coincidence?

Lastly, Teddy's dated reference to Calista Flockhart is yet another example (read the piece that drops Dean Cain's name) of why you should never use cultural references in your writing. Other than that, great stuff, Teddy. -KV


Identity Shrugged
Teddy Nutmeg

I'm driven. On the road for three weeks and I'm not sure who's behind the wheel anymore.

Why? I live my own time so swiftly that after-images and after-emotions remind me what I was doing, who I was seeing what I had time to care about. Arkansas and fat people Hoovering™ BBQ. Kentucky and horses and sweat. Colorado and a new convertible Mustang rental and more relatives than I've seen in years. A visit with Grandma whose emaciated body is so wracked with Parkinson's that I hardly recognize her but I sob nonetheless as I caress her amazingly soft hair. Texas and a young angel sitting next to me, smiling with wide happy eyes and a halo around her head from the rising sun behind her. Wyoming and the smell of freedom-of welcome, lived-in desolation. I love it.

Work burrows in and eats me, eager termites that make sawdust of my aimlessness and leave me with questions that only gnaw more. What's left of my life?

I: Fly-should I take off my shoes? Drive-where am I going? Hotel-is there an exercise room? Computers-what do I have to fix? People--what do they need to learn? Drive--where am I going? Fly-is there anybody to talk to? Hotel-do they have a spa? Drive-where am going? Computers-what do I have to fix? People-what do they need to learn? Hotel-can I sleep in this room? Drive-where the FUCK am I going? Fly-get the fuck out of my face with your fucking boring nothing-talk, you fat slob, and that's MY half of the seat that your rolls of tubby chub are oozing onto. Home again-open my door to dust and darkness. I hate it.

That's not me, that hate-filled voice, that quickness to spite. Its all the non-work, off-task memories and emotions, stuffed into me so tightly that I see Grandma's involuntarily twisted body and Angel's eyes and fat Arkansians at random flashing intervals when I space off. I'm more conscious of my life when I'm dreaming and floating. I'm me when I'm unconscious. Why?

Because purpose, destination, desire are as alien in MY psyche as Calista Flockhart would be in a Lane Bryant. And they take ME over with a singularity and swiftness normally seen only in black holes and mob psychology. Why? Because Teddy is growing up.

Younger, he was the guy who never stressed, who was mildly interested in an education that came as easy as candy from vending machines. The guy who floated aimlessly, unanchored by doubt or fear, from one degree to the next, from blue eyes and tan legs to beautiful lips and wonderfully shaped necks, from groups of friends and their obsession with philosophy and classical music, from other groups who unknowingly and inexpressibly quasi-experienced (through mind altering substances) the darkness and light at the center of existence.

He floated-task to task, class to class, impulse to impulse, conversation to conversation, drug to drug and word to word without the burden of direction or expectation. He thanks and blames Mother and Father: "Its okay, Teddy, you can do whatever you want. Just be happy."

My whole life I'd bounded around like a puppy in a room full of fat women, not knowing true sadness or even that it existed, until one day I landed in her lap, and she held me tight and cooed in my ear and I was at home in her need. Beautiful, intelligent, creative, she nonetheless had one trait dwarfing the rest: an overwhelming, consuming, unreachable desire to be happy, which was easy for me to fulfill because I had always been the willfully subjugated, the one who just wanted to please others. As long as I could remember, I'd been full and rotted with sweet happiness, eased into a world of ignorance and hate I could have dominated had I been raised like her: in the stern and stoic Japanese manner to face that which is in opposition to everything you believe.

But everybody just hurt her to help her, and she shrank from the harsh upbringing, only hearing taunts about her weight, only seeing a fat girl in the mirror-she desperately wanted to taste sunshine, to drink in the poisoning, softening elixir of unconditional love. To me, shadow and depression were welcome changes from an idyllic suburban upbringing that injected me with all the same pathetic pre-packaged emotions as everyone else: pride at winning essay contests, puppy love with Suzy, anger at little league injustices and unrestrained elation at birthday parties and pathetic pitiful pain when "I just want to be friends" made its way into my cochlea. To her, shadow and depression were unwelcome barnacles that she just couldn't scrape off; like a diabetic, she would've thrived in the same sugary love that had rotted me out from the inside. She was mesmerized drinking in my nectary love, a lotus-eater, and in return she rained her warm tropical affection on me like a storm up out of the Pacific. God, we were good together.

But that's all gone now. Those bumper stickers that say "no fat chicks" about sum me up. I'm straight and hollow and to the point. I'm a paper mache piñata. Inside me a skeletal frame of hollow purpose holds nothing. No candy will come out when you break me, just a little sand perhaps, and maybe some dry kernels of corn. Empty with feeling, why am I so wretched? I should feel nothing. I should be so lucky. I am born again.

-Teddy Nutmeg

The Results of The First Literary Brothel Poll

The results of the first Literary Brothel poll are below:

Poll: Do you pee in the shower?

Yes (28%)

Yes, but I will not admit it because I don't think this poll is truly anonymous (28%)

No (42%)

What does this all mean? That my suspicions were correct: most people pee in the shower, but only half you will admit it.

Our next poll is on the left bar. Please vote. It really is anonymous.

Really.

-KV

Batman, The Dark Knight, and Some Menace

You probably know that the new Batman movie (The Dark Knight) comes out this Thursday.

But did you know that it's rated PG-13? You did? Well, did you look closer at the poster and see the explanation for the rating? Didn't think so.

The poster reads, "Rated PG-13 - For intense sequences of violence and some menace."

Not a little menace. Not a LOT of menace. But some menace.

How much menace is "some" menace?

To find out, you'll have to know a little bit about our ratings systems works. If you're like me, you won't want to actually do "research." Instead watch This Film Is Not Yet Rated. It's no Michael Moore documentary, but it's a good start.

Basically, a group of semi-conservative parents in the San Fernando Valley mixed with a handful of executives at the MPAA with close ties to the movie industry determine what your kids can or cannot see.

But the documentary doesn't explain the "menace." A little more investigating (going to www.mpaa.org) sheds some light on this dark...knight...rating.

Note: CARA stands for "Classification and Rating Administration" - those groups of parents and executives that get together to rate each movie.

"Every motion picture rated PG, PG-13, R or NC-17 will be assigned “rating reasons” by CARA at the time that the motion picture is rated. These rating reasons provide additional guidance concerning the specific content of the motion picture and also give a further explanation of why the motion picture has been rated in the category to which it is assigned. The rating reasons also include modifiers to give parents an indication of the strength of specific elements in the movie." (From www.mpaa.com - FAQs - Bold, my own.)

That's right, that "some" is no accident. That's what they call a "modifier."

Or was the "menace" the modifier?

And is that all the explanation they're going to give?

Answer: yes. They're a private organization and don't have to explain their ratings nor the process of deriving the ratings.

And so, parents: if you're okay with "some" menace, then by all means take your ten year old to see The Dark Knight this weekend.

If you're a good parent, however, you know what while a "little" menace never hurt anyone, "some" menace is the work of the devil. God save the MPAA.

-KV

The First Annual Literary Brothel Poetry Contest

Welcome to the First Annual Literary Brothel Poetry Contest

PRIZES

1st Place
Your own link on the left bar of The Literary Brothel, bragging rights, and a fedora.

Runner Up
One autographed book of our choosing (autographed by Klaus Varley)

Honorable Mention
We will mention you. With honor. And words.

Rules

All poems are eligible to be made into short films via The Short-a-Week Project. If you submit a poem, you are consenting to that frightening possibility.

To Enter: email us a poem

To Win: email us a good poem

Deadline: July 31, 2008

Five poems max per person

No fake names

literarybrothel@gmail.com

Today is an Unofficial Holiday

Celebrate 7/11 by getting a Slurpee.

And a Star Was Born - Boris Salvador

This was Boris's introduction, written back in 2001 when we watched a lot of Boogie Nights and Boris had aspirations that he might write more than two pieces for the site. Big dreams for a little guy. Good thing I don't get bitter over broken promises, or I might hold some resentment towards that son of a bitch. -KV

AND A STAR WAS BORN
Boris Salvador

It came to me in a dream one night. Whether it is of divine origins or merely the bad-tempered grumbling of a stomach incensed over a THC induced late night snack of two corndogs and several cans of pear juice I cannot say. (mmm… pear juice) It isn't even important where the name came from, rather it is its existence that is relevant. A name such as this is not formed or created, it is realized. It is perfection resolved in the unending chaos that is this life and conferred upon one worthy to bear its essence. A man who can match, in intrinsic power, the name which is so rightfully his. A man who can bear the weight of the magenta neon-lighted sign that this moniker requires. A man who will not be burned by white hot filaments, which infused with a power heretofore unknown, burst free of structured glass and sing unto the heavens in their rapturous demise. I am that man. I am Boris Salvador.

Do not worry I have not forgotten the little people.

---

what are little black dots on my toilet seat and are now moving

People search for everything on the Internet.

But to answer the question, those little black dots on your toilet seat could be a number of things. Here are some theories (and explanations in italics)

1. Tiny, alternative universes. That's how god works.
2. The (New) Black Plague. It has to start somewhere.
3. Poppy Seeds. Stop eating bagels on the toilet.
4. The little "i's" you forgot to dot are coming to get you. And periods too.
5. Apple is testing out the new iPod. It's small.
6. You have an interactive "connect-the-dots" toilet. You are now in the advanced "moving" round.
7. Poop. Poop.
8. The dots aren't on the toilet, they're in your mind. And now they are moving...
.
..
...
.... . . . . . . . . .... .
..
.
What dots?

Hope that helps!

iii....iii

-KV

Picking Up Girls in the Gym by Klaus Varley

No piece is perfect. Especially this one, written back in my single daze, circa 2002. Among other things, the multiple references to Dean Cain (who? exactly) date the work, and provides further evidence of the author's latent homosexuality that remains latent to this day.

However, as I prepare to write a few words on meeting women on the Internet, this article seemed an appropriate entry into the topic.

Plus, "Picking Up" drew searchers from across the Internet; so much so that we received an email from a nutritional supplement company requesting to buy advertisement space on the page. Of course, we refused. And by "refused," I mean we didn't get that email until WAY too late, and by the time we contacted them, they were no longer interested. -KV


PICKING UP GIRLS IN THE GYM
Klaus Varley

Problem: Picking up Girls in the Gym.
Solution: Look Like Dean Cain (Just Kidding?)

[Note: the numbers denote footnotes, except where they are used to denote numbers.]

Every guy knows the feeling: You go to the gym, spot a hottie in tight fitting attire only seen in risqué night clubs and the show "VIP," and then, and then… nothing. You stared at her while you worked out and maybe shared that "moment" of eye contact, but then she finished her stair-master adventure, grabbed her towel and was out the door. The faint smell of her sweat is all that remained. That, and the emptiness of another opportunity lost. She's gone. Forever.

But it doesn't have to be that way. Do you want to slurp that Met-Rx shake with a cutie in tow? Sure you do. So what's stopping you?

Fear, for one thing. Look around: while you're not the worst looking guy in the gym, you don't hold a candle to the Dean Cain look alike flexing for himself in a mirror in the corner [1]. Why would a girl want to talk to you instead of model-boy over there? Well, for one, he is staring at himself in the mirror, which means one of two things: 1. He's gay (not that there's anything wrong with it, actually there's everything so right about him being gay: It takes him out of competition. Ever hear a girl complain about how "all the good looking guys are gay?" Can you imagine if they weren't? God bless gay men. Seriously.) 2. He's narcissistic. The last thing a girl wants is a guy who pays more attention to himself than to her.

Also, and I'm not saying women aren't attracted to extremely good looking guys, but women - like the rest of us - are often insecure about their bodies. They don't want a man who - by his mere appearance - causes them to question their own physique, spiraling them emotionally downward into a cycle of compulsive diets and obsessive, exhaustive fitness regiments.

No, they don't want Dean Cain, nor is there reason to be bitter at fuckin' prissy-boy Dean Cain look alike in the corner. Girls don't want that guy either. They want you. They just don't know it yet.

But they will.

Through extensive research and exhaustive field studies, we here at The Literary Brothel have developed a near flawless strategies for turning that lost glance into something more than a lost...gla....look. Seriously.

The "Sincere Expert"

Are you into working out but don't know how to turn your physiological science knowledge into a conversation that won't put her to sleep? Share it in the gym! Ironically, those in the best shape often have the least amount of knowledge when it comes to nutrition and exercise.

Approach her after she finishes up her first long set of crunches[2]. Turn to her with genuine interest in kineseology and speak[3]:

You: "How many sets of crunches do you do?"
Spandexy Chick: "Until I'm tired, why?"

Now you've got her asking questions. Flex your expertise in this area[4] and soon she'll be asking you about all sorts of things: your name, phone number, and what you'd like for breakfast in the morning. (ed. note: I'm only leaving this in because it is referenced later. I do not condone its cocky tone.)

The "Dummy"

Opposite of "Sincere Expert." For those of you who visit the gym with a guest pass, you may be pleasantly surprised to find that you don't have to be an expert in concentric movements to wind up in one.

Ask to "work in" (gym-speak for "taking turns") with that sassy dame on a machine that looks like it might have a useful impact on your body if used with repetition and consistency. When she says "sure" (gym-speak for "sure") admit to her that you have no idea how to use the machine [5] and ask for her advice. If she too admits to be an amateur then you'll share a novice chuckle and quickly become (bed) buddies. (ed. note: )

But be warned: wait for her to joke about the strange machines before admitting any ignorance of your own-you don't want her thinking you're a complete idiot if she's an expert [6]. But like the rest of us, she's probably not an expert-and even if she has some knowledge she'll probably appreciate someone who doesn't pretend to be God's gift to...knowing?

The "Clown"

Crack jokes, put her at ease, and quickly become (intimate) friends. "Make her laugh, make her breakfast," said someone who probably scored one or two thousand times than you or me. So what's the problem? The problem is humor: it's tricky.

And risky. Everyone likes to laugh, but senses of humor are like snowflakes: cold and wet. And no two are alike. Prepare yourself for outright rejection and mockery-or even bitter disdain.
"Disdain?" you ask. How can this be, if you're clever witticisms are sincerely meant to entertain?

Here's how: make a joke about your clothes (Do these pants make me look fat?") and she may politely smirk, but deep inside that well sculpted noggin she's thinking about her recent struggles with anorexia and how weight is nothing to kid about. Joke about your masculinity (Do these pants make me look gay?") and she may think you're really gay, or worse, that you are mocking gay people, and, while she doesn't know any gay people she knows that such slander is on par with holocaust jokes (and her best friend IS Jewish). Mock the gym ("Does the shoddy lighting in this place make my pants look gay?") and she may smile, but wonder how you can be so smug while she works two jobs to afford car payments AND a gym membership.

And then, you're screwed. I told you humor was tricky.

Yet there are some women who don't fall for any of these strategies, keeping conversation to a minimum, and moving on with their workout as if they have a purpose in the gym. Yes, I too am disgusted with such pragmatic behavior. No time for human interaction? Casual conversation? Your fellow man? You don't want someone like that, no matter how hot they are, do you?

Depends on how hot? Maybe. If you're Dean Cain[7].

-KV

------
[1] If you are that guy, or better looking than that guy, screw you. Or, if you are Dean Cain, first of all, what's up with your career these days? Oh, and SCREW YOU!

[2] This is always a good time to approach due to the "fatigue" factor: she can't move. It's easier for her to talk to you then it is to get up and "go for a drink of water." Yeah, I hate that excuse too.

[3] Woke my roommate up Frooz up just to ask him how to spell "kineseology." He didn't like that so much.
"That's why you were banging on my door? I thought there was a fire."
"No. But thanks man."
The sad thing is, if you know me, you know this story is true.

[4] Example: Gently explain to her that, "the abdominal muscles are like every other muscle in the body, and fat is best removed in anaerobic exercise, not the high repetition of one muscle group. That is, if you care about fat, though you certainly don't need to…" Yes, and try not to say too much. And try not to say the word "fat."

[5] Tag on "but it (the machine) looks very shiny and beneficial" for bonus points, but be careful: humor is tricky. See note 7.

[6] Noticing your ignorance, she may question your reason for being in the gym. Could it be to pick up pretty babies like herself? Or, even sleazier, to research an article you'll write for your pithy website? What a loser.

[7] Yeah, that's really my conclusion. Writing humor doesn't make it any less tricky. Seriously. Try it. Send your best efforts to literarybrothel@gmail.com Then we'll see who's laughing, or who's not laughing, or something...

Google Logos are OOC / Who the ef is Chagall?

Sometimes the changing of the Google logo on its homepage throws me off, distracts me, makes me forget what I was about to search. Like the one above, dedicated to some one-named artist called "Chagall." I was going to search "Parker Briggsmore Real Name" but instead I searched "Chagall."

Oh, that guy.

However, I have to admit when I saw the 4th of July Google with fireworks I let out a quiet "woo woo" and threw up my hands like I was at a party. (Raise da roof)

But I was not at a party. I was alone. In my apartment.

That is all.

Bukowski Quote of the Weekend

even when starving
the rejection slips hardly ever bothered me:
I only believed that the editors were
truly stupid
and i just went on and wrote more and
more.
I even considered rejects as
action; the worst was the empty
mailbox.

-Charles Bukowski from "hell is a closed door," The Last Night of the Earth Poems

Raw Footage of Africa - Part II - The Conclusion

This is the follow-up to Watching Raw Footage of My Parents' Trip to Africa While Using Their Wireless to Write This. It is the following night, and I am typing this on the couch, sitting next to my parents as we watch the last half of the raw footage from their trip to Africa.

There is a lot of down-time, and my parents don't mind me typing; though they sometimes they look over with a "how many freakin' emails is he going to write?" look. You know the one. -KV

Things Learned from the last half of the Africa Video:

-Hippos really are hungry hungry.

-Victoria Falls is loud.

-Putting the camera in a plastic sack sometimes doesn't prevent it from getting wet.

-Monkeys like hotels lawns.

-Cape Town is Disneyland with way more black people.

-Tourists like to watch dancing.

-When it's summer in California, it is winter in South Africa.

-It is easy to leave the camera on and not know it.

-Nelson Mandela spent some time in prison.

-Gondola's with VISA on the side look just like the ones in the VISA commercials.

-Animals NOT seen on safari are far less impressive.

-French people know a lot about wine and cheese (don't ask)

-For twenty dollars you can pet the baby cheetahs.

-It's going to take a computer with a large hard drive to edit this video.

-KV

Watching Raw Footage of My Parents' Trip to Africa While Using Their Wireless to Write This

Things Learned:

Hippos love grass.

Elephants are large.

Baby lions are cute.

Crocodiles are scary-looking rocks.

Wind is bad for camcorder sound.

My parents love birds.

Real life jackals are identical to the ones in The Lion King.

A mobile bar comes with the safari package.

Hippos are the only animal whose babies look uglier than the adults.

Giraffes are tall.

The "zoom" function can be overused.

Mongoose don't hold still for the camera.

Real life warthogs are identical to the ones in The Lion King.

-KV
...

It turns out this is only part 1! We're but half-way through the footage. Look at all we've learned! Imagine how much there is to begot in part two...

Guys, Girls and Porn: What IS the Deal? - by Teddy Nutmeg

Happy Fourth-of-July! Here's a popular and explicit piece from Teddy Nutmeg to help you celebrate the holidays right.

Did I mention it was explicit? Ages 16 and over, please. (If you can legally drive a two-ton piece of metal at seventy miles an hour, you should be allowed to read anything you want.) -KV


GUYS, GIRLS AND PORN: WHAT IS THE DEAL?
by Teddy Nutmeg

"You've just lost your membership card to the human race." -old episode of the Honeymooners

Why do women usually hate pornography so much while men consistently enjoy or at least accept it? This question has plagued me for minutes, giving way to a number of crackpot theories and half-baked scenarios.

Theory the first: The notorious female insecurity. Women are generally very, very insecure about their naked bodies, and with good reason. On television, in movies, in magazines we are unflaggingly bombarded with images of stick figures who seem principally to be composed of overly bright eyes and toothy shining smiles. Lollipop girls with heads far too massive to be supported by their emaciated frames.

Too often, I believe, women think that if their heads are not amazingly disproportionate to their bodies, they fall under the category of fat. That if they can't see ribs poking sickeningly through their sides, they're overweight and must subsist solely off celery, Starbucks and Tic-tacs. And guys too seem to buy into the "skinny is sexy" rallying cry of anorexics everywhere. Sad. Personally, I love women of all shapes, sizes, mental capacities, and temperaments. But that's another article.

So basically, women end up being embarrassed of or even hating their naked bodies and transferring this hatred onto the naked bodies of all women. Think about it. Why doesn't she like to tango (horizontally of course) with the lights on? Assuming, of course, that the she's turned on by her partner, I'll fucking tell you why. Women are trained to hate the naked female body. Ever heard of the Vagina Monologues and wondered why it's such a sensation? Women need to reclaim their bodies as their own-get to know and love their bodies. Men do this on a daily basis. (At least I do.) But back to the subject. Women hate porn because they hate their own bodies.

Theory the second: the average woman doesn't get enough good sex (which makes no sense at all because they can get it whenever they want simply by putting on a short skirt or some tight jeans and moseying down to the local watering hole). The average woman buys into society's labeling of openly sexual women as "sluts". They are jealous and spiteful of girls who do have great sex, who are open and proud of their bodies (porn models), and who we label as "sluts." Disagree? Shut your protesting mouth and read on.

Why don't women get enough good sex, you ask? It's not that all women are man-hating, ball-busting prudes--far from it. Most women wish they had great sex more often, and fantasize endlessly about the perfect bucket o' passion. So why do their fantasies rarely become reality, why does the seed of dreams never bear its fruit of sensual love? Why? Because men suck.
We do, dudes, its true. We're conditioned to believe that we're the best thing since Tang and that the sun wouldn't rise without our consent. And so in the male psyche, good old number one always comes first. Our needs; our desires. This would be OK if more guys also wanted to pleasure their woman.*

But most guys are lazy and only want to come home, take off their shoes, plop down and drink a beer while watching Monday Night Football. Somewhere in there is a hug and a few words with no meaning attached, and if they're lucky, a quick hummer. This is what most guys desire, and this doesn't cut it.

Now, some girls are strong enough to demand that her man please her, and patriarchal society labels these women as "sluts" and says that only sluts pose in or tolerate pornography. Let me tell you something: "Sluts" are confident, sexy, and fun to be with. Women who like sex are not sluts. Women who go out and get sex are not sluts. Women in porn pics are not sluts. These women just don't give a shit about what other people may label them. And they have the balls to make their man give them multiple orgasms (or at least I picture them doing so).

Besides not wanting to seem like a slut, the average woman during sex is too busy thinking about how her naked body looks that she forgets her own needs, (or subjugates them to the needs of the man) and doesn't get off, and too often we men aren't man enough to get her out of her self-hating groove. We're too caught up in our own insecurities, or we're too caught up in busting our own nut-either way, the woman gets the shaft.

Theory the third: women think all porn is the same, and classify it all away in the "nasty slimy poopy stuff" corner of their mind normally inhabited by rats and snakes and football. Take it from Uncle Teddy, "All Porn is Not the Same." Some is art, some is bad art, and some is under the mattress material. Seriously, though, women tend to lump art like Playboy magazine and smut (not that they're anything wrong with smut) like Cherry magazine into the same category, it's like saying Filet Mignon served at Chez Luis is the same as refrigerated McDonalds's from last April. (not that there's anything wrong with refrigerated McDonalds's from last April)
In Playboy, (God bless Hef) the women have cute little "come hither" smiles, and they're tastefully posed, NOT all splayed out and as wide open as frogs on dissecting trays in freshman bio class. In Playboy, the female body is held up as something beautiful to be appreciated, loved, and respected. Playboy has normal articles and normal advertisements. It's a class operation.

In Hustler or in Cherry or in Big Assed Bitches or in Boob Connoisseur or in Anal Monthly or in Euro-Sluts or in Cum Queens or in Beaver Illustrated in Barely Legal or in Asian Poon Hunting or even in Plumpers (God bless Plumpers), the pics and the women are straight up nasty. This is sometimes a good thing, but mostly its just raunchy, filthy full page pictures of women who spread themselves on crusty looking mattresses like rotten strawberry jelly on old toast, with the remaining pages taken up by ads for penis enlargement pumps and XXX phone lines. These magazines are not even magazines. They're the collected rotten fruit from the orchards of capitalism and free speech which has been taken and distilled into one nasty, 190 proof shot of porno moonshine.

This porn I can understand women disliking, shit, I dislike it (most of time, except for Big Assed Bitches and Plumpers [God bless Plumpers]) but to lump all porn, all suggestion of porn into this category, it is just not cool, not right, not kosher at all. The female body is a beautiful thing, but smut can make it look bad. Worse than bad, smut can take a female and make her no longer a living, breathing, loving being with her own desires and dreams, but an object to be ogled, lusted after, and smeared with spent genetic material. Women hate porn because they think it is all smut.

But we can change the way we think about these things, gentle reader, if we all work together.
We can change that women think all nude representations of the female body are smut. We can change that women are so insecure about their bodies and hating themselves for it. We can change that women think they need to tame their natural desires and subjugate themselves to men. We can change the world so that men don't have to hide their Playboys' and Plumpers' under the mattress or in the closet. God bless change.

But now you're asking, "OK, Uncle Teddy, tell me, why do GUYS like porn?" That's easy; we masturbate to it.

-Teddy Nutmeg

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* For Guys: "How to Pleasure Your Woman - The Short Version" by Teddy Nutmeg:

When you get home, immediately hug your female partner closely, like you've missed her and like you need it (because you do), and ask her how her day went. While she tells you every-fucking-thing that happened that day, you sit down and rub the day's anxieties and worries from her feet and legs and shoulders and back and neck, while making little "uh-huh's" to let her know you're listening. Then you kiss her softly and gently on the lips, face and neck, bury your nose in her hair and smell noisily, making grunts of approval to her smell. You nuzzle for a few minutes, look deep into her eyes, put your nose tip to tip with hers, whisper in a husky tone "I need you, I love you, let me take you away from all the cares and worries of life. Let yourself be wholly and completely mine, and we will fly amongst the angels, my darling love." You take her hand softly in hers, walk into the bedroom, put on some Al Green or Marvin Gaye, and then proceed to give her slow, sweet love until her body can't take it anymore; she tenses with anticipation, convulses with involuntary muscle spasms, screams loud enough to break the stained glass windows of the church across town, and then collapses in a quivering, smiling heap of pleasure. She has been pleasured, and somewhere in there so have you, no doubt.

Video - Flip a Towel

Because I know some of you are lazy and a lot of you haven't checked out the Short-a-Week Project, the reenactment of my article Flip a Towel is posted below.

The original piece is much longer, and has to do with a guy and his friend "Dan," but for filming purposes they had to change it.

Change the sacred words of Klaus Varley? Yes. And alas, I can't say I'm displeased with the final product. It's not bad, and some have gone so far as to call it "good." Who knows, had I done it myself could I have done any better? I doubt it.

Check it out, if you haven't already...

Flip a Towel

Cell Phones in Powell Library - Tasable Offense?

There are many horrible things about the UCLA Taser Incident of 2006, but one of the worst is that Tabatabainejad was tased for passively resisting the police.

If people are to be tased, and if the job of the UCPD is to protect UC students, (along with staff and faculty) then students should be able to decide what is a tasable offense.

Having spent much time in the Powell Library Computer Lab (I'm there now) where Tabatabainejad was tased, it is obvious that there are only THREE tasable offenses, and passive resistance is not one of them. Here they are, in order of severity:

1. Talking on your cell phone for longer than 10 seconds to say, "I'm in the library, can I call you back?" Click. Done. Conversation over.

2. Coming to the library sick, sneezing on the keyboard and leaving it for the next person without first cleaning it with the nearby hand sanitizer.

3. Printing out more than fifty copies at a time. Seriously, what the hell are people printing?

Okay, so students shouldn't be tased for any reason...

But if you were sitting next to the girl I'm sitting next to, a girl who is like, uh huh, really, no way - on her cell, well then, you might think different.

-CL

Klaus Varley Interview: Brain Transplant Journal

Lest Charlie be the only one at The Brothel doing interviews, Klaus weighs in with some questions of his own for Laura of Brain Transplant Journal. She also sent some questions to Klaus. Read his responses HERE.


THE BRAIN TRANSPLANT JOURNAL INTERVIEW

Questions by Klaus Varley
Answers by Laura of Brain Transplant Journal

1. Where did you get the name of your journal?

Although I am generally not a board game ("Bored" game) person, I was playing Balderdash with some friends, and one of the questions was: “What does JBT stand for?" My friend (Alex, of Literary Brothel “Anonymous Weighs In” fame) wrote down "Journal of Brain Transplants." I laughed and laughed, as that was completely preposterous. A couple weeks later, I was at work with nothing to do, so I decided to start a second, general-interest blog. It seemed like the perfect name. And thus, Brain Transplant Journal was born.


2. In 1000 years from now when Brain Transplants ARE possible and the premier publication covering this cutting-edge procedure wishes to buy your domain, what do you think your descendants will do?

Unfortunately, they will probably sell it for $1 billion dollars. But you never know, maybe my descendants will be little artistes like me, and by that time it will have a universal (instead of just national) following. In which case, not only will they will be sentimentally attached to it, but it will be such an online bastion of thought-provoking hilarity that they would never dream of selling it. But then again, maybe they will just want the money.


3. What's the BEST thing about blogging?

It keeps me busy at work. Plus, now, I have all kinds of cool friends, such as yourself, whom I’ve never actually met. That way, no matter where I go on vacation, I will have someone to show me around. Aren’t you glad you started communicating with me?

Also, it is a great way to get in other people’s business.


4. In less than a hundred words, please explain the Brain Transplant Journal's role in the "blog revolution" in the early twenty-first century, or at least the role you think historians will portray the Brain Transplant's role in the middle class electronic discourse known as "the blogging phenomena of the early 21st century."

Brain Transplant Journal is a prime example early 21st century late-20- and early-30-somethings keeping themselves entertained while at work. Covertly conversing with friends, all the while appearing hard at work. It’s part diary, part social networking, part shameless self-promotion, but 100% fun. BTJ is an excellent example of the amalgamation of mixed sources of information so prevalent during that time: first person perspective, clips from “official” sources, and clips and references to other cohort’s journals, such as the Literary Brothel.


5. A lot of people blame Nader for the 2000 election, but can we blame Oregon instead?

No, I don’t think so. Blame a rigged election.
Nader didn’t help though. Don’t blame me, I voted for Gore.


6. Name five cool things to do in Portland.

1. Hiking in one of the largest urban greenspaces within the U.S.
2. City-wide pillow fights
3. Mmm...lots of good restaurants and bars. Coffee, beer, Le Pigeon, Clyde Common.
4. Even though there are over a million people here, it's fun to discover that someone you just met happens to know someone you already know. It always seems to happen.
5. Watching "Indiana Jones" in the summer at an outdoor showing in the middle of downtown at Pioneer Square. Sitting on cement for 2 hours makes your butt hurt though.

(edited for length, but Laura miraculously came up with six more things...)

Oops, that was 11 cool things to do. Damn, maybe Portland is too much fun!


7. Just kidding! Finding ONE cool thing to do in Portland is difficult enough. Just list some things that people "do."

Dearest Klausy, clearly, you have not been to Portland…yet. But you will. Everyone does. And once they visit, they don’t usually leave.


8. Why is Gus Van Sant so popular?

Because he lives across the street from my office, and I often see him at lunch, duh. And I saw him DJ at Saucebox's We're Not DJs series. He played "I'm Gonna Wash that Man Right Outta My Hair." Also, my friend worked with him on "Elephant." And he went to high school with my best friend's parents. Basically, he's cool because he's only two degrees separated from me.


9. What do you think will be better for the country: Obama's first term, or Obama's second term?

His first term will be better in that he will clean up all the horrendous messes that the current so-called president made, but we’re going to have to wait until second term for all the really exciting innovations to take place, and hopefully for the U.S. to regain its reputation, which is presently laughable.


10 . Is that ten yet? Man, you shouldn't proclaim to do something in the beginning of your article before you actually do it... .... ...agree?

Agree.


-TLB