The Broad Set Writing Collective

WE'VE MOVED

2010-03-15T13:09:00.006-04:00

http://www.thebroadset.com/

PLEASE UPDATE YOUR BOOKMARKS, THE NEWEST BROAD SET CONTENT IS NOW ON OUR .COM - FOLLOW THE SURGE OF YOUNG AUTHORS TO OUR NEW LOCATION & ENJOY YOUR CUP OF COFFEE (or glass of whiskey) W/ US.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT!

THE NEW WEBSITE FEATURES:
- A more organized format
- Interactive content
- Videos
- Monthly author spotlights
- Daily creative content
- Prompts & Contests
- Free downloads & MP3
- & a killer game of Where's Waldo. Bet you can't find him.

Reading of Marloboro Reds and Duck Shit

2010-03-08T10:57:00.001-05:00

After the Broad Set's reading/meeting in Washington Twp, NJ we talked about doing more videos, reading other people's stuff. I decided to read a piece from Kiley (Marlboro Reds and Duck Shit available to read with your eyes here). Check it out, leave feedback or other stories you think I should read.

The Jeans, The Belts and The Title

2010-03-05T17:15:00.001-05:00

By Dr. Mullin

It had been four years – four slow, ignoble years – since Donald had last tasted the delectably sweet notes of leadership on his proud tongue. Far too long, he though, since he had walked into that famous oblong office and, without shame, planted his resignation on the desk of the most powerful man in the world.

He understood why it had to happen that way. The President had explained it to him, and he was almost as good at explaining things as Donald was.

“People are calling for my head,” the President had said, “but instead I’m going to give them yours to try and shut them up.”

Donald had no quarrel with the President over this decision. The President’s logic was infallible, a fact Donald knew very well from five years of faithful service to the man.

But it had been too long, and Donald knew that to stave off the inevitable mad rush of power-seeking synapses, he would have to get a new job, one befitting of the world’s most loyal former secretary of defense.

He finished filling out his W2 form and slid it across the desk, along with his job application, to the man on the other side who was wearing a nametag that said, “Ernie.”

Ernie looked over the forms and then up at Donald.

“Well Donald, this all looks up to snuff, and I’m proud to tell you that I’ve already made my decision,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you, and I would be glad to make you the manager at this branch of the GAP.”

They both stood and Donald gave Ernie an award-winning handshake. Ernie sat back down and reached inside one of his desk drawers, pulling out a shiny, golden “MANAGER” nametag. He handed it to Donald.

“You will be working with our existing assistant manager, Alan,” Ernie explained. “He usually spends his time walking the floor. He’s a hands-on type of person, but you can absolutely feel free to have him adopt a new policy if you think it would work better.”

Donald picked up the nametag and pinned it to his suit jacket. The engraved metal felt smooth and clean. Ernie smiled at his new employee.

“Well, without further ado I’ll let you get to work, Donald.” He put his hand on Donald’s shoulder. “I know you’ll do a great job. Good luck!”

With that, Ernie picked up his things and walked out of the office, leaving Donald exactly where he needed to be: in charge.

Donald walked out of his new office and surveyed the rest of the store. He smiled. This was a good feeling, and his acute instincts told him that the next few months would be a sterling mark on the resume for his new career.

Weeks passed, and Donald familiarized himself with his store and his personnel, and soon he felt the confidence of someone who had been doing this job for years. He planned on climbing the corporate ladder further, but in one short moment, those dreams were squashed like a spider in an arachnophobe’s bedroom.

Donald was at his desk going over sales figures for the past month when Alan, the assistant manager, came in.

“Donald we have a major problem,” Alan said between rapid breaths. “No one seems to know where the new shipment of men’s jeans is, and we need to get them in before peak season starts!”

Donald gave Alan a quizzical look and consulted a particularly stacked pile of papers to his left. He ruffled through them, then looked back up at Alan.

“We know where they are,” he said.

Alan’s terrified expression softened in relief. “Thank goodness! Where are they?”

“They’re in the area around the loading dock and the warehouse and east, west, south and north somewhat.”

Alan narrowed his eyes, confused. “So…you have no idea where they are?”

Donald looked back down at the papers in front of him. He pointed a guiding finger at a chart, seeming to study it for a moment.

“We do know of certain knowledge that they are either in the loading dock, in the factory or in some other place,” he said. He looked up at Alan too see if his second-in-command was satisfied with this response.

The assistant manager’s eyes were still squinted, and now his mouth had opened slightly in bewildered amazement. He shook it off and started pacing the office.

“Donald, can you please just admit that you don’t know where the jeans are?” he pleaded. “I mean, we are in a real quagmire here and we need to figure it out!”

“I don’t do quagmires,” Donald said with a shake of his head, still staring at the charts in front of him.

Alan stopped pacing. “Well you better do this one! Do you have any idea how big of an ass-kicking Ernie is going to give us if we don’t fix this?”

Donald shook his head again. “I don’t do predictions.”

Alan’s fingers tightened together into fists, shaking as he tried to control his anger. He let out an exasperated growl, took out his cell phone and left the office. Donald looked up to offer reassurance, but Alan was already gone.

Moments later, Alan walked back into Donald’s office, waving his cell phone.

“Just wanted you to know, Ernie is coming in tomorrow since you apparently can’t handle this one,” he said with a sneer.

Donald held up his hands. “Now settle down, settle down,” he said. “Hell, I’m an old man and it’s early in the morning and I’m gathering my thoughts here.”

Alan threw his hands up in frustration and then pointed at the clock on the wall of Donald’s office.

“Early?” he said incredulously. “It’s almost closing time already, you useless fogey!”

Donald opened his mouth to protest, but Alan stormed out and headed for the break room before he could say anything.

The next day, Ernie and his managers were in the break room before opening, studying a table full of charts and invoices.

“This is not good, gentlemen,” Ernie said. “We need to figure this out before next week, or we will have bare shelves once the fall sales start.” He turned to Donald. “Before we talk about this let’s make sure of one thing: this is the only shipment that’s missing, right Donald?”

Donald moved some papers around on the table. “If I said yes, that would then suggest that it might be the only one missing, which would not be accurate, necessarily. It might also not be inaccurate, but I'm disinclined to mislead anyone.”

Ernie’s eyes widened in panic, and Alan smacked him on the shoulder.

“You see?” Alan said. “This is what I was talking about! Ridiculous!”

Ernie rubbed his eyes. He leaned his head back, rested for a moment, then took a deep breath. He turned to Alan.

“Alan, please do me a favor and get started tracking down those shipments.” He worriedly scratched the back of his head. “If we don’t find them and get them in here soon, it’s going to be all of our butts when corporate finds out.”

Alan stood and gave his boss a viciously overdone salute. “I’m on it, sir. I’ll go through all the paperwork we have and get in touch with the shipping company.” He rushed out of the break room.

Ernie turned to Donald, disappointment evident in his features. He looked down at the break room table and shook his head solemnly.

“This is pretty bad, Donald,” he said.

Donald began wringing his hands. “Well, um, you know, nothing is really good or bad, but thinking makes it so, I suppose, as Shakespeare said.”

Ernie gave him a sad smile. “Perhaps, but this time I don’t think that’s how it is.” He gathered up the documents on the table and began assembling a neat stack. “Why didn’t you listen to Alan when he told you he was worried about the shipment? Didn’t you agree with him that it was a problem?”

“Alan and I agree on every single issue that has been before our managerial partnership,” Donald said. “Except for those instances where he is still learning.”

“I don’t think he is still learning,” Ernie said. “And I’m afraid that I’m going to have to promote him to manager.”

Donald’s face suddenly became very somber, and he slowly moved his hand from the table up to grasp his gleaming, golden badge. He remembered how fresh and energetic he felt when it was given to him weeks ago, but now it felt tarnished, sullied, like he feared his reputation was about to become.

Ernie held out his left hand. “Your badge, please, Donald.”

Donald knew there was no use fighting Ernie’s decision, just like four years ago. He reached inside his jacket and undid the pin holding his nametag in place. He gathered the pieces and deposited them in Ernie’s palm.

Ernie’s fingers closed around the glossy metal components. He reached toward Donald with his other hand, offering a conciliatory handshake. Not wanting to be rude, Donald returned the gesture.

Donald got up and walked out of the break room, heading for the back exit of the store. He pulled out his cell phone and placed a call to his agent.

The phone rang twice, and the third ring was interrupted by a cheerful, “Hello?”

“David? Yes, good afternoon, it’s Donald. I’d like to schedule a press conference.”

____________________________________

Listening to: The New Pornographers, Go Places

One Reporter's Reporting

2010-03-02T17:46:00.003-05:00

~~Birds~~ herds percolated razorishly through irrigation canals
and sept straightaway into fruitless whatevers.
It was a dark and dorky circus we beheld.
Inglorious youths emblazoned with home-made gold
chucked paper spears in the throes of pitched battle.
From the safety of our coven we could laugh but
the dwellers near the genius of language knew better.

Now, a voice: acoustical eunuch
wails plaintively over the PA about love.
Well. "What the fuck does he know?
And what power has declared this fit
for commerce?"

Somewhere
in the vast and fractal universe
a million palms
slap a million exasperated foreheads
all at once.
Write it in your little green pad.

How To Take Yourself Apart, How To Make Yourself Anew – A Review

2010-02-27T11:37:00.005-05:00

How To Take Yourself Apart, How To Make Yourself Anew – A Review
by Glen Binger

How to. Construct wonderful prose. How to. Induce emotions. How to. Aaron Burch. How to. Does it all.

Aaron Burch has done it again. In his latest chapbook, released via PANK, he paints your imagination with images by developing words, phrases, and grammar exactly the way writers everywhere wish they could. How To Take Yourself Apart, How To Make Yourself Anew is something fresh for your tired eyes.

The chapbook is divided up into three sections; each cut up into instructions of sorts. Each piece of prose is persistent and non-stop. It makes it hard to put down. While only fifty or so pages, it does not make for a skimmed, quick read. Each sentence, every paragraph is so well developed that you find yourself rereading it. Like a double-take, just to be sure you really did read something so beautiful. Without doubt, you WILL find yourself reading the entire chapbook in one sitting. By my own will, I could not set it aside.

By part three, the reader desires to become something else. Something more. Aaron has evoked a new self. Yet, somehow at the same time, he tells a story that the reader pieces together while turning each page. He creates a map in your mind using carefully constructed language. And it is fun to navigate.

A very enjoyable read, I suggest you pick up your copy as soon as possible. It will take you apart and put you together and then help you repeat the process until you’re satisfied.

Aaron Burch, PANK, and How To Take Yourself Apart, How To Make Yourself Anew can all be contacted/found here.

eNJoy!

Pat Roddy: An Interview

2010-02-22T18:10:00.005-05:00

Pat Roddy is a musician native to Belmar, New Jersey. He and his band play up and down the Jersey Shore year-round so be on the look out. He's down to earth and an all-around good dude, not to mention pretty funny. Get ready.

Kiley Rummler and I were lucky enough to get the chance to ask him a few questions.

Several of his CDs are available on his website, as is his schedule of upcoming shows. If you're in the tri-state area, we suggest trying to catch them as soon as possible. Check it out and support your local scene!

He introduces his answers as follows:

i have sloppy typing skills and sorry and dont take it personally for my flippant answers.

Pat Roddy, you are a local celebrity in Belmar. What's that like? Do people pick you out of a crowd yet?

I am a celebrity in a two block radius around my house, ususally because my pants are down. People do not pick me out of a crowd but they do pick my nose sometimes when i have a hanger.
Which reminds me if the celebrities got together and hate TMZ soo much, just pay people to stalk and take pics and videos of the people who stalk and take videos of them. I m guessing that would make TMZ people pretty pissed. There should be a show where celebrities pay tons of people who are outta work to stalk harass, go to bars and film the film crews of TMZ all day and all night. Genious.

Where do you get your inspiration? What do you find motivates you best?

My inspiration generally comes from life and music. most people i know are the same. If i hear a good tune or something catches my eye i try to put that into imagination and fly with it. Other peoples music is also an inspiration. People who i hang out with, girlfriend, etc. Seeing things that make me mad, which is almost evrything. So everything inspires, sometimes theres too much and you get depressed about it. Then you try to find the good in things and sort it out someway. My best motivation is getting up, seeing bags under my eyes, and going for a run.

What about your original work? What kind of tracks have you recently cut?

Funny you should ask. The band is now recording about 15 songs. A few old ones, but mostly new material at Shorefire Sound in Long Branch. Mostly rock, but a few of the tunes im putting in a bluegrass, Dylanish flavor. Hopefully everything will come out nice and its great to work with the band in a great studio. SO im very fortunate to have great musicians around me who make me look good while i bask in the limelight. Our drummer - Justin, bass play - Mister W and Keyboardist - Chris Giunco all have amazing talent and im proud to be playing with them. Some of the tunes are a little soulfull, one is kinda gospelish, and there are a few tribute songs to local artists and national artist. Kinda like ripping them off while tributing them at the same time. Like a rock and roll reacharound.

You have released three full albums of your own stuff, can you talk about them a little?

First one stinks. Second one is pretty good but im singing outta tune. Third one is very listenable and it looks like this one is shaping up very well.

How long does it normally take you to compose an entire album?

Well for this CD ive written about 15 to 20 songs. Not all are going to make it, and maybe some wont even get recorded. That can take a few years to write a bunch of tunes. Like i write like tunes without words then put the words in here and there. If nothing is sounding inspirational or getting my own attention then i dont go back to it. If somewhere in a song it has potential ill try to revisit it and see what comes out emotionally. And if the emotions fit the style of the song then ill finish it. Finishing songs though is hard becuase you always think you can do better. And if it isnt up to par, like most musicians i know, i just trash it and move on. Nothing to me is ever good enough so maybe i procrastinate, but ive been learning just to write and let bad songs be bad songs and some good ones will pop up.

What are you currently working on? What can all the Pat Roddy fans out there expect next?

All twelve of the Pat Roddy fans out there can expect some more expansion musically, and possibly of my waistline. No really the Cd is the next thing coming out hopefully by the summer itll be at shows and on Itunes and all that nonsense.

Is it difficult trying to find time to write and be creative AND still have to practice with your band for performances?

This question has a false assumption. We dont practice. Never have. Well maybe if its a big gig. But seriously i cant remember the last time we practiced. We practice when we play it makes it more enjoyable for us. Learn and make our own energy and see what happens. Its not soo hard playing covers you know. Its like texting while driving. Sometimes you crash.

Do you ever get tired of playing other artist's music in the bars?

Yes

Favorite cover to perform for the crowd? Least favorite?

No real favorites for the crowd. If the crowd is having a good time we like throwing things out that might be a little different to see if they want to go that direction. If not then generic rock and roll suits just fine. No least favorite as long as people are having a good time not really into Wham so i never played them either that doenst answer your question

Who is your least favorite Simpsons character?

Ha why do i need to dis a Simpsons character. They should have a shady Russian dude next to the Indian guy in the 7-11. Cause in the 7-11s around here that all there is. If i had my pick i d pick Bart. he never grows up. WTF.

Do people ever request Freebird? If so, do you immediately want to hit them?

Yes and Yes sometimes once in a blue moon we ll play it for them and its funny it s not a bad song though. But we never play it. Im not really into the band. Little too redneckish for me, especially after all that right wing crap they started spewing.

For all the readers out there, what's the best way to get in contact with you to buy a CD or book a gig?

Best way to get in contact with me is drive up to my house and knock on the door. i get up around 2 so have a mint at the door and maybe some goggles. If you want to book a gig with us you can contact our agent Mitch Cumstein, at MitchCumsteinProductions@yahoo.com

Rules from the cat for me.

2010-02-22T08:44:00.003-05:00

Rules from the Cat for Me:

1.You are permitted to look at me, but only if I am looking at you.
2.You must keep me well fed and watered.
3.You are permitted to pet me but you may not touch my head.
4.You will allow me window and garbage access.
5.You will let me sleep next to you but you may not touch me.
6.If any part of your body is within biting distance, it will be bitten.
7.If there is anything that brings you joy in this apartment, I have your permission to ruin it.
8.You will permit me to distract you from work with loud meowing and running across the room.
9.When you are weeping quietly in your bed, I will leave you alone to contemplate the completeness of your misery.
10.If you bring in strangers I will act as though they are my long lost owners come back to rescue me.
11.You will permit me to resent you after strangers leave without me.
12.Any sign of affection is a misunderstanding on your part.

Failure to comply with these rules will result in scratches, hidden defecations, and knocking over the food and water bowls.

In Right Field

2010-02-19T23:46:00.002-05:00

Hopefully this is the start of my comeback tour, more stuff to come:

The summers of my youth were filled with the scent of fresh cut grass and baseball diamond dirt; with a glove in one hand and a picked dandelion in the other, I stood proudly at my position in right field. The red and blue uniform that marked my team affiliation was loose on my lanky frame; with the gap in my front teeth and my copper hair, I looked like a baseball playing Alfred E. Neuman.

The little league field in my hometown was a slice of the nostalgic American life you only see on TV Land. There were two bite-sized fields, complete with a massive scoreboard which was never used, but was left standing for aesthetic reasons. All of this was so the pint-sized players could experience America’s pastime from the ages of 5 to 15. As soon as I was eligible to play, my parents signed me up. For all of my 8 seasons as a Point Pleasant Recreation Center Little Leaguer, my father was my coach.

In order to understand why this is significant, let me take you back to July 10th, 1989; the day I was born. My father, Thomas Long is with my mother, staring at me- their first born son. They name me Brian and my father bestows upon me the middle name Carl after Carl Yastrzemski, his favorite player on the Boston Red Sox, his favorite baseball team. And Mr. Yastrzemski was no slouch either, he was an 18-time all-star, the winner of seven golden gloves, a member of the 3000 hit club, and the first American League player in that club to accumulate over 400 homeruns. In my room still hangs a newspaper photo, yellowed with age, of Yastrzemski as he watched one of the many baseballs to fall victim to his bat soar over the Green Monster in Fenway Park. Beneath the photo was the caption: “The Greatest Hitter to Play the Game.”
I can only imagine how my father felt watching me chase down a fly ball as it would soar over my head and out of the reach of my barely used glove.

In 1999, I played on the Texas Rangers. I was entering this season after my back-to-back retirement from little league basketball, where I laid more bricks than a masonry worker, and little league soccer after the game where I was hit in the stomach by a stray corner kick and subsequently sat in the middle of the field for the remainder of the game as the two teams played around me. Before the baseball season started, my dad sat me down in my room.
“You don’t have to play this year if you don’t want to,” he told me. The Carl Yastrzemski photo hung over his head, like a grim specter of baseball’s past.
“No, I’ll play, it’s alright,” I said. Quitting from basketball or soccer was one thing, but baseball was sacred to my father. I couldn’t give up on that without feeling like I had taken something away from him.

During our first practice I looked around at my fellow teammates; Anthony Zambito, Nick Cambell; my dad had organized an unstoppable little league squad. The Texas Rangers were a force to be reckoned with, and somehow I was a part of this team; I was like Christian Laettner on the 1992 Olympic Dream Team- never heard of him? No one has.
Although the league organizers had the “everybody wins, everybody gets a trophy” mentality, there was a sense school yard of pride in being a part of a championship team, plus you got a slightly larger trophy. My father would run team practices with the same intensity and knowledge of the game that made him the team captain of the Seton Hall Pirates baseball team in college despite being the team’s manager, not an actual player. That’s how much my dad loved baseball.

Our first game of the season was against James Peak; the Moriarty to my dad’s Holmes. Peak coached the Trenton Thunder, the only team in the rec. league that wasn’t named after a major league team. There’s no doubt in my mind Peak intentionally made this choice so his team would inherently have the home field advantage. The man was a powerhouse in the world of little league baseball; parents killed to have their sons on his team. Peak even pulled some strings so his daughter could be on his team, a shocking development because girls were expected to play on the rec. league softball teams after the formative tee-ball years. Every time we played Peak’s Thunder team my father switched into full-on coach mode, from the pre-game breakfast at home to the post-game car ride. I think my father saw a little bit of every person who ever doubted him in Peak; from his mother-in-law, to every kid who made fun of his weight in high school. Peak was all of them in one convenient mustached package.

“Okay, batting order,” my father cried in what I now know as the “it’s go time” voice “Derek, Bill, and Brian.”

I nervously shoved more strips of Big League chew into my mouth. For me, having to bat was like being put against the wall for execution. When “batter up” was called, I put on my helmet, tied a white blindfold around my eyes and placed a cigarette in my mouth, then stood in the batter’s box like a little league Che Guevara while the pitcher aimed and fired.

WHAM!

With a circular sore in my back, I slowly walked towards first base. Last time I checked, I still hold the Point Pleasant Little League record for most ball pegs in a career. I stood with one foot prepared to run in the dirt, the other was waiting on the base, ready to launch my body forward when the time was right.

“Honey, do you want some ice?” my mother asked through the fence behind first base.

“No mom,” I cried “Mo Vaughn’s mom doesn’t ask him if he wants ice!”

Mo Vaughn was my favorite player on the Red Sox growing up; he was also the only player who’s name I could remember so he kind of won by default.

Our first game ended with a victory, and the rest of the season followed a similar pattern of wins. I carried the team morally by leading chants of psychological torment from the dugout such as “pitcher’s got a big butt,” and writing funny words like “poop” on the thin layer of dirt that covered the dugout’s concrete floor. I believe it was because of my insistence that the whole team sang a chorus of “We Are the Champions” at the end of each game that we reached the championship game. We would play against (in a twist worthy of any Hollywood sports film) the Trenton Thunder. The strong humidity in the air that day seemed to stem from the boiling tension between my dad and Peak. I stood ready in my outfield position. If I was ever going to make a difference during a game, I felt as though this would be it.

With the start of the seventh inning, I experienced the peak of my athleticism, which to this day has still been unmatched. With a man on third, the batter made a clutch hit that flew over the third-base man’s head and plopped into the open space right in front of me. I bolted forward as soon as the ball and bat made contact, scooped up the ball; grass brushing against my knuckles, and flung it home with all the force I could muster. I threw the ball so hard that my hat fell over my eyes. Blinded, I could hear the jubilant cries of the crowd; I lifted my hat and saw the umpire had thrown the runner out at home. My teammates came running toward me as though I had just won us the game, when in reality there was still plenty of time to blow the lead. It didn’t matter though. I was Rudy, I was Tony Danza in “Angels in the Outfield.” I somehow made a half decent play after going five-years without showing a lick of athletic talent. My dad jumped up and down along the first base line like a school girl.

The honeymoon soon ended and the game resumed. With one inning left of play, a runner on first and second and two outs Peak’s daughter walked out of the dugout with the fate of the entire game resting on her shoulders. I started to wonder just how much of playing was her choice and how much was her father’s. This girl was the do-or-die deciding factor for her team at this moment. Did Cal Ripken Jr. ever feel the way she felt with Cal Ripken Sr. standing on the sidelines? The first pitch flew in.

CRACK

It was sharp line drive towards left field; the third baseman jumped up and snagged the ball with ease. The Texas Rangers had won. I looked at over at Peak as soon as the ball had been caught, he lifted the clipboard to cover his face and stormed off the field to the dugout. I spent the last, and extremely uneventful, final season of my baseball career with the image of Coach Peak with his face behind the clipboard at the front of my mind. What was behind that thin piece of wood? Anger? Sadness? Shame? Whatever it was, I couldn’t stop myself from imagining my own dad, face behind a clipboard, as a result of my own shortcoming.

The next year, as my dad was driving me to tryouts for the new season, I finally made my choice.

“Dad,” I said “I don’t think I want to play this year.”

My dad was silent for a minute; I braced myself, expecting him to drive his Ford off the bridge like a vehicular lemming.

“That’s okay,” he finally said “you want to get some pizza?”

***
My dad continues to coach the teams of my younger siblings. His latest project has been instructing my youngest brother on how to bat left-handed

“I’m going to make this kid a slugger if it kills me,” he always says.

In my room, I still have my photo of Carl Yastrzemski hanging on my wall. Directly under it was where I used to keep my championship trophy from the year of the Rangers, which I have recently packed away in my attic. As I was packing it away, I thought about that smell of grass and dirt. Of all the fly balls I missed, all the pitches I was hit by, and every strike out I got. In spite of all that my dad always looked me straight in the eye as I slouched back to the dugout and said:

“Good job,” with his clipboard firmly tucked under his arm.

Contest Announcement!

2010-02-18T15:20:00.008-05:00

The Broad Set's May Day Contest!

The Broad Set Writing Collective is reading at The Wooden Shoe in Philadelphia on May Day. To acknowledge revolutions, past & present, we would like to announce our first contest. The theme is (of course) revolution. Be creative. Talk about labor relations or a personal triumph. It can be punk rock or folky and fun.

Guidelines:
- Submissions will be judged by The Broad Set team.
- Prose or poetry is fine
- No more than 300 words
- You CAN submit multiple times
- No previously published work
- Email your submissions to BroadSetContest@gmail.com
- Attach submission as .DOC file. Include your biography, website and home address. (Please no .docx files.)

Biography:
- A short paragraph about yourself
- Your website & home address

Rights:

- Winner is subject to minor editing and copyrighted upon publication.

- We ask for First Serial Rights
- If the winning piece is reprinted we humbly ask that you indicate it was published with Broadset first.

Prize:

2nd Place

- Publication on The Broad Set website
- Two copies of The Broad Set zine
- Two 2NDHAND broadsheets

1st Place

- Publication in the next edition of the May 1st Broad Set zine
- A copy of Jonathan Baumbach's You or The Invention of Memory
- & 2Nd place prizes

Deadline:
- March 20th
- Each submission will have a response by April 2nd

Support the arts. Come out May 1st to see The Broad Set Writing Collective Ft. Eric Nelson @ The Wooden Shoe
(704 South Street Philadelphia PA 19147)

"Please join us for a night of Fiction and Poetry reading! The Broad Set Writing Collective features members whose fiction and poetry have been published in McSweeney's, Opium Magazine and Monkey Bicycle. They have created both Lo-Fidelity and 50-1 magazines. Come out for poetry and prose by Peter Richter, Glen Binger and Sam Cicero as well as free copies of The Broad Set Magazine. Special guest reading by Eric Nelson, author of the short story collection, "The Silk City Series."

& tomorrow...

Friday, February 19th @ 7PM

The Broad Set at Symposia Community Books

(510 Washington Street, Hoboken, NJ)

Magazines, stickers & our world famous grab bag.

199997

2010-02-18T10:55:00.001-05:00

An inside heartbreak.

A delicate architecture.

And you and your sword and your false-soft heart-start.

I have loved. I have lied.

The only betrayal after ten years in mourning was the bag that I packed. My eyes dry, forgetting their part of the bargain, pupils dilated in the quietest, rainiest, earliest winter.

You and I have won no beauty contests.

Your second face was late to the party. Those pink balloons have popped, or floated out to sea to kill some dolphin--smarter than us--or strangle an ancient turtle.

How do we gasp in the sea?

I asked you this once, how do fish catch their breath? You paused and said, "Like crying in the shower."

The poetry of you was always unintentional.

A misplaced tear from somewhere else.

Hi. I'm Megan.

2010-02-17T17:05:00.003-05:00

I'm the newest member of The Broad Set, and I am so happy to be here. I'm an English major at Fordham University, and I do a lot of other things besides.

Most of my writing is a way for me to keep my memories safe. I've never been good at taking photographs, or drawing, or painting, and I can't write songs, so this is what I've got. Every story or poem has a little piece of me in it.

My mom's birthday was yesterday. I listened to a lot of Patty Griffin because in the song, "Little Fire," whoever is singing "Dream the Impossible Dream" (is that what it's called?) a cappella at the end sounds just like my mom--beautifully off-key.

Play song from Lala.com

Happy Van Halen-tines Day

2010-02-16T16:51:00.002-05:00

It seems this year, like every year before it, Valentine’s Day forces society to choke down the massive displays of crimson cellophane and boxed chocolates, white fluffy teddy bears holding heart-shaped pillows, and “I Love You”s printed haphazardly on tiny candy hearts with a hint of “minty” flavor (or is it?) But as it would turn out, this year feels a little lonelier for some.

A friend of mine (Jon,) for example, spent his Valentine’s Day with a group of us, since Jon is recently going through a divorce, after only two short (and apparently unhappy) years of marriage. The divorce was solely his wife’s idea, and needless to say, Jon’s been upset. Valentine’s Day only threw more salt on his emotional wounds. If I may, without getting into any further juicy details at this time, let me just say that, well, Jon’s a lot better off; and I’ll leave it at that. Some of us, on the other hand, refuse to be let down by a holiday that we don’t get off of work for. That’s where my buddy Justin comes in.

To combat loneliness, or to avoid giving into spending copious amounts of money on candies and plush toys, Justin dubbed February 14th as “Van Halen-tines Day.” This, in and of itself, is a slap in the face to a Hallmark holiday such as Valentine’s Day. To tell someone, “Hey! Happy Van Halen-tines Day!” not only boasts that you don’t give rat’s ass about Valentine’s Day itself, but that you also refuse to give into the self loathing “I hate V-Day” parties which are meant for people who obviously feel an urge to designate a day to feel sorry for themselves, thus giving us a reason to ask ourselves, why do they care? Yes, Van Halen-tines Day may just be another lousy replacement for an already lousy holiday (if I can call it a holiday) but on the contrary, it’s so much more. It means we get to have a Van Halen-tines Day party, listen to Van Halen all night long (just the David Lee Roth years) and dress in (optional) late 80’s rock band garb, while shamelessly rocking out, dancing, and eating food. You see, it simultaneously eliminates the whole idea of loved ones and flowers, and of recognition of loneliness or self-loathing; it’s just completely absurd, ridiculous, nonsensical fun.

So if you’ve got a friend like Jon who is a bit down in the dumps, cheer him up with a handmade David Lee Roth card, a little humor, and a discussion of the band’s break up. At least, hopefully, it will take his mind off of the heartbreak at hand. If you’re in love, good for you, but do remember that there are lonely people out there, and the last thing they want to hear from someone as in-love as you is that “they’ll find someone great soon too” because they are well aware that love doesn’t come easy, and they know it certainly won’t speed up their luck just because you said it would change. So all that bragging about what your certain-someone did for you that was so cute, - yeah, can it for now, unless someone is sincerely asking. And if you’ve got that other friend who love’s Valentine’s Day more than their own significant other, give them a swift reply, “Hey, happy Van Halen-tine’s Day to you too!” and ponder the look they’ll give you as you turn your back to go on your merry way to a party where everyone wears spandex (JUMP)-suits, singing along in unison at the top of their lungs “I’m so sad and lonely,” completely regardless of their situation. Finally, thanks to Justin and Van Halen-tines Day, love, loss, and lack-thereof can all be one again.

Review of The Silk City Series

2010-02-15T17:16:00.006-05:00

A (Silky) Review of Eric Nelson's The Silk City Series

Review by Glen Binger

Language can do many things. It can be hurtful. It can make you smile. It can twist into a spiraling waterfall of grammar and punctuation. But in a nontraditional sense, it can be smooth. Eric Nelson has crafted this style for us in his latest collection The Silk City Series. (out this February on Knickerbocker Circus Publishing)

Nelson is submersed in the do-it-yourself zine community, therefore much of Nelson’s collection has been seen in the subversive society thanks to his dedication to the literary population. But not like this. Recently revamped and revised, The Silk City Series brings new quality and fresh presentation to the table.

Based out of Paterson, New Jersey, Nelson takes you through one of the most down-to-earth contemporary collections. If you’ve never been to North Jersey but wonder what it’s like or what kinds of people inhabit the area, these six stories will show you. There is no fluff, no unbelievable situations, and especially no flimsy, ridiculous existential theories.

The collection allows the reader to look inward and to think about their lives and families. It makes you think about yourself and your existence and your relationships with everyone around you. Nelson does this solely by writing from experience. He brings you straight to the heart of the diversified working-class East Coast.

The flow is even and the dialogue is natural, making it an enjoyable read. The characters are well-developed. Each story relates to the reader into the New Jersey setting, creating familiarity; as if you’ve been there before or you’ve met the characters somewhere previously.

Be sure to pick up your copy for $1o at Knickerbocker Circus. You won't regret it.

Visit Eric's Twitter and Tumblr. He is a strong supporter of the zine community and currently lives in Queens where he runs Cup and Saucer Press.

eNJoy!

---

Currently listening to: "Lean on Sheena" by The Bouncing Souls

Burroughs: On Love

2010-02-13T17:20:00.004-05:00

There it is

Asleep in the mashed potatoes once more…You called out through blisters and the smell of stale coffee. I was born a grocery store hammer surrounded by sanitary products. We will see when the clouds fade who is king.

There it was

In the past, sing songs about rifles and mathematical equations. Drink gin and yell to the gods. You are asleep and there is no agreeing with you when you get this way. If I were to sell you the moon you would disagree and beg for vinyl.

There it’s going

Ill punctuation is a blasphemy to the affluent. I will not mend the ways of the weak but rather attempt to destroy the half-man, half-mutant the operates around the vast edges of the collective heart. Garage sales that sell tents are all the rage. We are wondering if it will work in amazement.

There it goes

Traveling gypsies steal lawn ornaments to sacrifice to William Carlos Williams. In the scope of restitution we find our hero adept and willing to become the sponge he was born to be in the express check-out lane. He believes that supply is only half of demand. There is a deep sense of community and hope inside the recesses of the sewers. They march, we obey, we sell ourselves with 15 items or less, repeat. The axis has righted itself. The overweight curtain falls. The audience applauds out of awkward obligation. It is all very genuine.

There it will be.

Spiders on the Wall

2010-02-08T10:58:00.005-05:00

So it's been a really long time since I posted any writing on this blog. I've been busy with my celebrity weakness project (Only Human) and rarely have time to write other things. But luckily I squeezed this one out this morning. Its not done yet, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks brah(s). Billabong. (That was for you, Andrew.)

---

Spiders on the Wall
Glen Binger

Her eyes creaked open in the misty morning sun seeping through my dusty window. From her facial expression, I could tell she thought I was watching her sleep, but really I had just woken up and coincidentally looked over at the exact moment she did. I decided against acknowledging that notion, however. It wasn’t worth trying to defend my sanity.

Suddenly her eyes darted to the ceiling behind me.

“There’s a spider,” she said, naturally caffeinated.

Before I had the chance to roll over and actually see the tiny, black speck on the wall next to my poster of Bob Marley, she asked me if I could get rid of it.

“Yeah, I’ll kill it in a second. Can I wake up first?” I laughed.

She looked at me, almost angry.

“Fine,” I said, getting out of bed.

“Don’t kill it though,” she said, before I had a chance to put on clothes.

I found some gym shorts and a t-shirt before recognizing the peculiarity of her statement.

“So,” I said, mocking her, “You want me to catch the spider? And put him outside” I paused to add effect, “so he can just get back into the house?”

I laughed to ease the comment. She didn’t. She just looked at me and pulled a blonde strand of hair away from her eyes.

“Okay,” I said.

I walked into the bathroom, got a tissue, and came back to catch the spider. It had moved, almost as if it heard us talking about killing it.

“Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know, I fell back asleep,” she said, opening her eyes again.

I laughed. “Okay, we’ll if he shows his face again, I’ll snag him.”

I placed the tissue on my desk and climbed back into bed. After ten minutes, we had both fallen back asleep. Later, when I woke up, I noticed her looking at me. I felt my face contort in the dehydrated afternoon sunlight. Debating whether or not to say anything, I saw the spider who was now directly above our bed.

---

Currently listening to: Big D and the Kids Table
Song: LAX
(one of the best live bands I've ever seen)

Boxes of Light, An interview with Shane Jones

2010-02-01T10:26:00.003-05:00

Shane Jones is the author of Light Boxes and The Failure Six; both of which, are novels that dig deep into creative imagination. We were lucky enough to have him answer a few of our questions and talk a little about the recent success of Light Boxes. Shane, The Broad Set thanks you.

If you have not read either novel, I suggest you do so immediately.

The Failure Six is available on Fugue State Press.

Light Boxes is due out on Penguin Books.

How long did it take you to write Light Boxes? How did you even come up with an idea so wild?

Most of the book was written in a four month period. After that there was some editing. But all of the little sections that are in the book were written during a four month period, I think summer of 2007. As far as the idea, I just kept expanding on things. I've always had a strange relationship with winter and the month of February. If you live in the northeast, you probably know that February is a terrible month of cold, darkness, and snow. It just made sense to fight it. Thaddeus Lowe is based on the historical character who flew balloons during the civil war. Things just clicked.

Describe your level of excitement when you found out about Spike Jonze wanted to make Light Boxes into a film?

It really didn't feel real. Anything that happens "outside" of writing a book doesn't feel real to me. Like, I can only write a book, hope it's published, and then it's out of my control. I'm done after that. Sure, there is promotion and interviews like this, but what people say (reviews, blogs) and do with my book (film option) is all out of my control. But yeah, it was exciting. The day I got the contract I kept starring at the end where my name was next to Spike's, where we both hand to sign. Strange.

Last question about Light Boxes, I swear. When Penguin expressed interest in publishing it, what was it your initial reaction? How exactly did that happen? How does it make you feel?

Ummm, good? Yeah, it was a great feeling that they were interested. There was a lot of buzz and hype surrounding the book and every major press wanted to read it. Three presses ended up "bidding" on the book and I decided to go with Penguin. My agent did all of that work. Again, kind of this surreal and not-in-my-control kind of feeling. I couldn't be more happy at Penguin either. I was always skeptical about a large publishing house. But they've been so supportive, it's pretty humbling. My editor has a lot of tattoos.

Can you describe your creative process a little? How do you get what you think down into written form?

I really don't know how to answer that question. I try and read a lot and I try and write a little each day. Sometimes that works out. Sometimes I don't write for months, but just think of what I want to write. I don't really have a set process.

What is your biggest influence/inspiration while writing?

Other writers and artists. Creating a new world I can explore and feel safe in. Music. Just trying to live a life that involves creating and telling stories is important to me and I've placed meaning in it.

Who is your least favorite Simpson's character? Why?

Good question! Probably Sideshow Bob. Every episode involving Sideshow Bob makes me cringe. He's just not interesting to me.

You're new book, The Failure Six, is out on Fugue State Press. Can you talk a little bit about it?

Yes, I can. It tells the story about a group of messengers trying to retell the life story of a woman named Foe. It deals with failure and how we communicate as people. It's like an action-adventure story but filled with pop-art and fun/odd happenings.

Future plans? Are you working on any new projects? If so, can you talk about them?

I just finished up a book of poems called A Cake Appeared, that Scrambler Books will publish very soon. Pretty excited about that.

As a reader, what do you look for in a good piece of literature? What are you currently reading?

I want to get caught up in the language of a book and be surprised. I'm re-reading sections of Gravity's Rainbow, re-reading Notable American Women, and recently finished Pale Fire. All three of those books are amazing and just so interesting to me.

What is your favorite thing to eat/drink on a rainy day when all you feel like doing is laying in bed?

I really love coffee. I recently stopped drinking coffee for a few days just to see what it would feel like. It was a terrible idea, and I think I only lasted two days. Laying in bed, drinking coffee, reading, that sounds nice. If it was later in the day, maybe evening, I'd probably change to tea.

The Way That It Was, An interview with Pierre De Reeder

2010-01-22T13:52:00.007-05:00

Pierre De Reeder is the bassist for Rilo Kiley and in 2008 released his stellar solo debut, The Way That It Was. As a veteran musician his insight into the creative process is unique and insightful. Pierre took the time to answer a few questions and for that, The Broad Set thanks him.

In addition, take this as my petition to have the title track to Pierre’s album be in an Apple commercial. The track is perfect for any new, mind-reading futuristic technology made by Apple. I hope you’re reading this Steve Jobs.

Youtube: The Way That It Was

Purchase

Can you please talk about your process as a creative writer? How does a song start? How does the editing process work for a musician?

I don't think I have a definitive process, but maybe a series of more often-than-not processes. Meaning, for me, it's not always the same, though there are several ways that are the more 'usual' ways I go about writing a song. Top of those are the plain old sitting with a guitar in hand or at the piano, as I would guess it starts with many a songwriter. Sometimes it's a chord progression, sometimes a melody. Sometimes it all comes together at once, sometimes over an arduously long period of time, and everywhere in between. Sometimes the words come first, and at times everything will be in place melodically with only a few lyrics... and then get to weave a story from there.
As for editing, again that's a subjective thing. For me, structurally, I think I come from a more 'pop' sensibility. At least I seem to find myself trimming the fat as much as I can, and usually end up with something in the range of that ol' 3 minute kind of arrangement. Again, not always the case, but more often than not.

How long does it take to write a single song?

Guess I got ahead of myself in my last answer, but there's no good answer for this. It can take one sitting, or can be crafted over days, weeks, months, or shit, years!! On average, I'll chip away a song over a period of time. Sometimes it's only filling in a few blanks here and there, or an ongoing construct of verses. And I have plenty of old kernels of unfinished songs that I'll either finish one day, or never quite feel inspired too. If it takes too long to finish, those usually succumb to a songwriters Darwinian death... as I've somehow evolved out of whatever inspired it in the first place.

What were some of the difficulties you faced while creating your solo album? How did you overcome them?

I think the most difficult thing for me was finally coming to a place, emotionally, where I felt strong enough, or confident enough, about the songs that I was putting into the record. Getting to that place was a matter of biding time, I suppose. I've been writing and recording songs since I was an early teenager, and suppose I've had plenty of 'records' worth along the way. But having a collection that were honest or mature enough or whatever you want to call it, took, well, about as long as it did. And it also took that long for me to have enough objectivity to be comfortable with the material, and the production and all that. So overcoming, for me, was a long and patient process.

How does the writing process work as a solo artist as opposed to in Rilo Kiley?

Well in Rilo Kiley I am not a principal songwriter. Sure I've contributed some writing here and there, but more often it's 'writing' my musical part to a song and helping with arrangement. So for me, as far as song writing goes, it's night and day. With solo stuff, it's all my little painting.

What is your favorite song to perform?

Hmm... it's hard to say. But I always get all mushy when I sing a song I wrote for my daughter Sophia. But that's more a fondness I suppose. That's The Way That It Was might be, just because the band really gets to let loose a bit.

All writing is somewhat autobiographical. In your first few live shows, did you find it difficult being the lead and sharing your life with an audience?

To a some extent, sure. But it was a hat that I put back on after a long time. I was always in some band as the singer guy back in high school and thereabouts, so I got to shake out most of the nerves back then. Certainly the stuff I write about these days is much more personal, but it never seems to freak me out wearing it on my sleeve.

Who is least favorite Simpson’s character and why?

Krusty. I don't know why.

If Apple asked you for permission to be on their next commercial, would you allow them?

As I peck out my answers for this interview on my Apple keyboard, I'm obliged to say yes.

What is your favorite book?

Every time I think I have a favorite, I can't convince myself that that was actually better than another favorite. Very often I hold a distant memory of reading John Fante's West of Rome as a marker, but not sure if it's just romanticized in my head or not. Same thing with A Confederacy Of Dunces. The Rum Diary is probably my favorite Thompson book. I don't know, can't single one out. In the middle of a Jack London adventure now... will let you know.

If you could do one cover at your next concert, which song would you chose?

Maybe the theme from Family Ties.

What advice can you give aspiring singer/song writers out there today?

All the classic advice... just keep at it, do it because you love it, you'll have you're ups and your downs, don't be afraid to try out something new... and yatta yatta... those are all VERY true. And don't worry about the success part, you have very little control over that. As long as you keep on keepin' on (more clichés) and are true to yourself (oh yes, even one more), then success of some measure will follow. And then there's the ol' subjective term itself 'success'. I think that everyone has to define that for themselves. And know that your very definition of success will evolve over time.

______________________________________

In addition, we would like to remind everyone that The Broad Set Writing Collective will be reading at Bluestockings. The Broad Set Writing Collective is reading in NYC!

Date:	Friday, January 29, 2010
Time:	7:00pm - 9:00pm
Location:	Bluestockings, 172 Allen Street between Stanton and Rivington

And we'd also like to announce future readings!

Date: Friday February 5th

Time: 7:30P.M.

Location: Kaffe Kaprys polish restaurant, 41 E. E. Washington Avenue (also known as Rt 57)
Washington, NJ 07882

Date: Friday, February 19th

Time: 7:00PM

Location: Symposia Community Books, 510 Washington Street, Hoboken, NJ

______________________________________________________

The Light

2010-01-13T20:48:00.001-05:00

I drove through bridges and tunnels,
alleyways and crowded streets
to meet You in a shady hotel
on the bad side of town;

an occurrence once repeated earlier
with two other girls.

Though this time was different.
I wasn’t lying when I said
“Because of You, I burn brightly”

and then You began to cry

****
I thought since no one had updated in a while I'd put up a poem I really like.

Currently listening to:
1901 - Phoenix

Roof Tops & Roads

2010-01-03T13:58:00.002-05:00

*so I haven't posted in a very long time! sorry about that! but here's a poem I wrote while still in school (sucks to say that). I'll have some new one's coming soon :)

He stands on the roof and looks out.
Spread out before him is the landscape of his childhood.
He closes his eyes and lets the wind brush against his face as he remembers.
He lets the deception of good times bring him back to when he was a boy.
For years he has contemplated this moment,
yet feared it at the same time.
He knew the day would come when,
if pushed far enough,
the end would be too near.

Finally, that time has come.
The wind blows just strong enough
and
he falls. (or does he jump?)

He’s carried weightless, towards the cracked pavement down below.
With a melancholy smile plastered to his face
He has no idea that his bones will shatter,
like an old storm window,
when a child hits it with a stone.

Photographer Jim Rimi: An Interview

2010-01-01T04:00:00.001-05:00

By Dr. Mullin

Jim Rimi is a native of Washington, NJ (the one in Warren County), and is the operator of the photography sector of Rimi Studios. He is publishing a book of photography, NY Underground, that will most likely be released this month.

NY Underground is a collection of black and white photographs of homeless people and street musicians taken in shelters, on the streets and in the subways of New York City.

_____________________________________________

First of all, when and how did photography really become a passion for you?

Rimi: I've been into photography a long time. Even in the first grade I can remember my teacher said, "Think of your eyes as a camera," and I remember that I'd go around looking at the other kids and pretend I was taking pictures of them. And, my uncle was a photographer, so I used to see his cameras all the time and I got very excited about that. When I was 16 I went into the city with a bunch of money stuffed in my boot and I bought my first camera and that was it. I still have that camera today. It's my favorite camera and it still works great, it's a Nikon F2. Beautiful camera.

One of the things I can say was a huge influence in my life was when I was in high school. I really wasn't into school that much, and I went to school in West New York, and it was the type of thing where you don't even know if you want to stay in school. They just so happened to hire a photography teacher at the time and the guy really took me under his wing. He saw that I loved photography. He would take me out shooting with him and then he told me, "You know, you can go to school for photography." And I wasn't planning on going to college, but I got into school with my portfolio, so he definitely changed my life, and that's the reason why I also teach. I like teaching to give back, and to me that's what it's about.

So what is this book all about? How did get started?

Rimi: This was a project that started in the 80's, and what it is is basically photographs of homeless street musicians and also people living in the shelters. I started photographing most of these people in the shelters and I went from there to photographing homeless on the street and in the subways and then street musicians, and it pretty much became a documentary project on these people. I had some interviews with them and a lot of these people were famous people or writers or doctors or lawyers and due to some circumstances, they wound up homeless. It could have been a nervous breakdown or drugs or alcohol, and through life's experiences, depending on how you handle things and which road you take, you can wind up in this situation. It's a split second, you know?

We take for granted that we just go along each day, but you have to really thank the Lord that we are in the position that we are in, and recognize that it's not like these things can't happen to anybody. That's really part of the premise of the book. I'm using it as a tool to help people. When the book is published a percentage of the proceeds is going to go to the Salvation Army, and I also feel that maybe by people seeing this it will affect a certain amount of people and possibly turn them away from [a self-destructive] road.

You know, you're walking in a city and you see a homeless person, or a person who is just walking down the street, talking to themselves, that sort of thing. Most peoples' first reaction is to turn away, but what I wanted to do is to photograph that person so that you have to look at them. I wanted to put that across to people - this is a person, too, you know, and I'm making you look at this person now.

How did this whole process go from a logistics aspect, shooting in shelters and on the street?

Rimi: In the shelter I shot against a nine-foot tall seamless white backdrop. Sometimes I would drive in, other times I would bring this thing on the subway. Not kidding, almost knocked this woman's teeth out one time trying to maneuver it - it rolls up into a skinny tube. I would photograph hundreds of people. In the shelter I would set this thing up and there would be a line of people who were really into it, and there were just tons and tons of people. Then on the street it was more of who I saw, and I would always ask them first if I could take a picture of them.

This guy here, Roger Ridley, became somewhat of a famous musician. He did some stuff with Disney and things like that. Unfortunately he passed away a couple of years ago. But really unbelievable voice on this man, you could hear it echoing through Grand Central Station, and I will never forget it, never. And I guess that's what this is all about, it's about people. And the great thing is that it will be used to help people.

Are there any interesting stories from when you were out shooting?

Rimi: I was photographing this guy and it was about two in the morning - I would photograph these people from about 11 at night until two in the morning - and this guy was just wigging out. He was behind these bars and acting like a monkey. So I'm photographing him and all of a sudden I feel this presence, this big presence, behind me. There is no one down in the subway because it's like 10 degrees, and I'm like, "Oh man, this is not good." You know, you get this feeling. And I turn around and there is this huge guy, just huge, with this big army coat on. And he looks at me and he goes, "What are you doing?" And I just said, "I'm photographing this guy." And he goes, "I don't think that's a good idea." And he opens his coat and he has a sawed-off shotgun in his coat. I remember distracting him somehow, and he looked this way and I went that way and that was that.

It was very, very dangerous doing this at the time, and I can tell you that while I was doing this there was always in the back of my mind that I might not come home. My wife used to freak out because I wouldn't come home until two, three, four in the morning. I had to stop for a while because you get burned out from doing this sort of thing, and then I went back and finished it.

_____________________________________________

Be sure to check out the links, especially the one for Roger Ridley - after being homeless, he rose to a mild level of prominence, doing work with Disney and the NBA, among others. This video is of him on the Third Street Promenade of Santa Monica, Calif., singing Sam Cooke's "Bring It On Home To Me" - amazing to listen to.

And be sure to stop by Bluestockings in NYC for the next Broad Set Reading on Jan. 29 at 7 p.m.! Tell everyone you know! Tell random people you meet in the movie theater! Tell your in-laws (if you have them)!

Album of the Year & loose ends

2009-12-23T16:05:00.005-05:00

At the end of the year, the million music blogs out there come up with their top 100, or 50, or 10, or 5. I don't have the time or the will to judge them all. My favorite of the year is

*drum roll*

Annie Clark's "Actor." Her follow up LP is a step beyond her prior works. It features more synthesizers, more harmonizing and a deeper, heavier bass. The title track to the album, “Actor out of Work” is fucking harsh, yet it keeps a polish. It’s a quick jam so often you’ll find yourself replaying it.

The stand out track of this album is “The Stranger.” The track builds upon dashes of flute, clarinet, and piano. This petite composition becomes triumphant. It ends by stirring your heart into a respiratory stew.

The album runs just over a half hour long but each track plays together as one long strip of neon color. It is velvet and brillo. If you somehow missed this release, test it out here.

Honorable mention:
The Dirty Projectors
Doom
Phoenix

_________________________________________________________

Loose Ends

The Broad Set Writing Collective is reading in NYC!

Date:	Friday, January 29, 2010
Time:	7:00pm - 9:00pm
Location:	Bluestockings, 172 Allen Street between Stanton and Rivington

With writers Dr. Mickey Hess, Glen Binger, Andrew Kaspereen, Robin Barletta, Paul Mullin & Peter Richter at the helm, this promises to be the best readings yet.

We will:
premier Avalanche Tinder 3,
have prior editions
give away THE2NDHAND BROADSHEETS,
and have our world famous grab bag.

The New York Times says "HOT DAMN!"

(Facebook open invite/events page)

_____________________________________________

Further plans:

The Facebook Addiction By Nnamdi Osuagwu Review
For Years Above the Umbrella By Todd Dills Review
Interview with Rilo Kiley guitarist and solo musician Pierre de Reeder
& much more.
__________________________________________________

Thank yous:

This was year 1 for The Broad Set and we wouldn't have come this far if it wasn't for some people. I would just like to thank Lauren Cerand, Mickey Hess, Robbie Sethi, Ben Greenman, Tao Lin, Brandon Scott Gorrell, Molly Gaudry, Anne Whitehouse, Todd Dills, Roxane Gay, Megan Branch, Jessa Marsh, Pank Magazine, THE2NDHAND, Monkeybicycle, Opium Magazine, Jason Jordan, Jessica Cocozza, The Broad Set Writers and all the readers.

We'll be back in 2010 looking to improve in every way we can. Happy Holidays!! Happy New Years!

Open Letters to Closed Caskets

2009-12-15T21:28:00.002-05:00

This is one of the 26 I'm working on for the book project. I'm curious to see what people think.

Open Letters to Closed Caskets (not sure if the name will stick)
Andrew Kaspereen

Aftertaste- n 1. A taste persisting in the mouth after the substance causing it is no longer present. 2. A feeling that remains after an event or experience.
Dear Sarah,
Once again, it is with my utmost sincerity that I apologize for the events that occurred last weekend. Assuming your internet screen name, “labradeuterominy” was somehow an indicator of instances you might enjoy was incredibly foolish. It was this line of foolishness, my very desire for you to see me as a caring man, which lead me to take you to see that rendition of the musical Godspell performed by puppy and voice actors. I must admit, although it was perplexing in nature, the men who trained said puppies to do hold still and perform minor choreography deserve at least casual commendation.
My face burns red with shame when I realize that your cursed screen name is actually a bastardized version of “laboratory” and the book of” Deuterominy” from the bible. I had no idea that you created it to make a humorous juxtaposition between science and religion. Had I been aware of this exceptionally clever display of wit on your part, I would have instead taken you to see the local community rendition of the play about the Scopes-Monkey trial “Inherit the Wind”. Sadly, it seems that the only thing I have inherited, to borrow the play’s wording for a moment, is loneliness and your scorn, for how could I think any different when you politely told me that I was “unsettling”. In your defense, I can understand where psychedelic puppy musicals may contribute to such feelings. I do, however; implore you on the proverbial bended knee. Give me another chance.
Regards,
Winston
Dear Roberta,
I discovered that mice have a fear of heights today. This discovery involved three key elements:
1. Mice
2. Height
3. A pricey and altogether gruff expert in the field of reading the emotions of mice. His name was Allan. He was surprisingly not much of a people person.
This discovery will revolutionize the area of science regarding the emotions mice, which up until this moment has been overlooked and incredibly small unless Big Tobacco needs to prove that cigarettes can help trees grow through the power of the mouse lung.
I will be moving back to Denver soon. I know it is colder there, but I feel as if I am missing something again. I know that I left Denver for the same reason, but now I am missing something and homesick. This mélange of feelings is just too much for me. I will write soon.
Cheers,
Sarah
P.S. That man you set me up with, Winston, was unsettling. I think he may have a mild case of Aspergers.
Dear Ethan,
Sarah moved back West this week. I believe our warm city had thawed her heart and exposed her feelings like a man taking a warm shower who is ambushed by a large bear in search of salmon.
Our city is a good place. The crime has reduced dramatically in our lifetime. The streets have begun to clean themselves while humming songs made popular in our youth. Don Henley would be proud.
The other day I heard two men talking.
“I’m tellin’ you, Earl.”
“What are you telling me?” asked the man I assumed to be named Earl.
“I’m just tellin’ you!”
It was refreshing to see this moment. Too often, we find ourselves caught in the rigors of city life. We are always in motion. We ride our Segways down one-way streets and are constantly finding new and faster routes to avoid traffic in order to shave seconds off our time moving from one place to another. We no longer stop and tell people things without actually saying anything. I suppose it is something of a lost art.
Perhaps, when night starts to shed its cloak earlier, we will enjoy the break of day between each other’s arms again. I have missed your knowing embrace and the jagged edges of your elbows as they seek an appropriate resting place in the throes of our embrace. At times, I cry about this; other times I just sigh. Today I chose to write you this letter. The sentiment is now public domain.
Lovingly,
Roberta
Dear Rudiger,
I feel as though I have failed your teachings. As my master, you taught me that strength in body, mind, and bank account were tools of success and the means to conquering our target: one of the Dakotas. As a pupil, I am still hesitant, but I must question the logic of capturing either of these states? To what end is there any profit related to Dakota? Please, provide your guidance and insight in my hour of doubt.
In the time I left your tutelage, in what I regard as a time of self-discovery, I met a companion of sorts. Despite your warning that the desires of the flesh led to complications of self worth and bank account, I invited her, with a friendly card requiring her to RSVP, into my confidence. I was cautious.

In truth, this was a maneuver that caused great inner turmoil in my heart. On one hand, I was a proud man, like the bear who has stored food in the walk-in refrigerator in preparation for the winter. At moments of intimacy, however; I felt as if I were the sexually confused seagull in search of a less phallic perch to observe garbage from for fear of what the other less open-minded seagulls might say.
She, who is called Roberta, completes and confuses me master. I am a whirling mess of extended metaphor and impulse snacking. Perhaps you, in your kind and almost mastered pacing of all that is life, can illuminate the path to passive acceptance.
Your humble student,
Ethan
Dear God,
To what end is my purpose? I have been penitent and reflective, but I still require your guidance. I have trained others, inspired them to help me in my quest to do your bidding and realize the purpose of humanity. I still recall vividly the dream in which you met me, face to shrouded face on top of the body of an antelope. “Dakota,” you said.
“Why Dakota?” I asked.
You were already running and the firearms of the dream world were sounding. I woke up with purpose.
It is on this evening that North Dakota will be mine. The steps involved in my plan are all but complete.
1. Go to North Dakota.
2. Knock on Governor’s Door
3. Firmly, but politely, inform the governor that I am now in charge.
4. Conduct in impromptu celebration with dancing and merriment.
I recall the vision, but the ending, with you being pounced on by hunters in orange suits, confuses me. What am I to do with this land? Surely there is a purpose on your mind? Am I to be the light of the Midwest, brightly reflecting to all corners of the prairie? Am I to be the change, to borrow a phrase from your servant Henry Thoreau, that I, and by default, you wish to see? Am I to build a casino filled with false idols as a haven for those who are your detractors? I realize that I am just the darkened curve in the sketchbook you continually shape our lives with, the banana chunk in the otherwise banana-free fruit salad, the piece of the proverbial puzzle; but at times I require to be taken and smashed into a spot I do not fit properly. I await a vision.
In your name,
Rudiger
Dear Humanity,
I’m going to be frank, you disappoint me. I’d send meteors and plagues of locus to eliminate you like I did the dinosaurs, but even that seems too strong a course of action against such minor agitations. Even if it wasn’t, what would be the purpose, it would simply invite you to my home, where you would play with my expensive valuables and ask questions about purposes in life. I would send you to hell, but Satan is booked solid. He tried to warn me to slow down sending all the sinners there, something about maximum occupancy regulations, but I had to be the righteous one. Young upstart. The contractors who built his gated-furnace community did excellent work there too; must have been Norwegian architects. Truthfully, not much inspires me lately. It might be the weather up here. Tomorrow, I will turn off your electricity and, like a perturbed landlord, tell you that things are going to have to change. You were to be my greatest achievement, the crowning jewel of what was by far the most impressive project anyone had undertaken in the universe, the fact that I was the first in the universe notwithstanding.
Achievements, however, shine less bright each day. Everything has begun to blur together and is just so, well, typical.
H.A.G.S.
God

A Review of Think Tank for Human Beings in General

2009-12-13T17:42:00.006-05:00

Review of Think Tank for Human Beings in General - a poetry chapbook by Jordan Castro and Richard Wehrenberg Jr.

Review by Glen Binger

When does literature provoke more than emotion? Is it possible for literature to ask more than a question? Jordan Castro and Richard Wehrenberg Jr. certainly think so. And they have to evidence to prove it.

Once the reader dismisses the inappropriate overuse of quotation marks, incorrect capitalization, and various other grammatical errors, Castro and Wehrenberg inspire a sense of belonging within their new poetry collection. Their self-printed chapbook, Think Tank for Human Beings in General, illustrates eighteen poems that continuously echo through the readers’ thoughts. They ask questions. They answer questions. They contemplate new questions. Then invite you to speculate possible new answers.

Both Jordan and Richard include nine poems, splitting the chapbook directly in half. While their styles somewhat develop into a similar blend, each author presents a very different emotion within each poem. Their vivid use of language keeps the vocabulary from being watered down. It keeps it fresh and it keeps it interesting. The poems create a vague feeling of serenity and calmness, as unusual as they are. And it absolutely works.

Not once while reading did I find myself asking, “are we there yet?” Jordan and Richard do an excellent job keeping the reader entertained. The concepts are relatable and the language is enjoyable. From to do lists that make you feel as if you are capable of anything to snow-people who cause you to feel existential, Think Tank for Human Beings in General is a chapbook well worth the read.

It is available for purchase now for 3 dollars at the website. I suggest you pick up a copy.

eNJoy!

---

Currently listening to: "Sex on Fire" by Kings of Leon

If You Want Something, Don't Ask For Nothing; If You Want Nothing, Don't Ask For Something

2009-12-10T22:06:00.004-05:00

By Dr. Mullin

I hate winter. It sucks. In fact, the only thing I hate more than winter right now is my ex. I suppose technically speaking she isn't my ex yet, but it has certainly felt that way for at least a month now.

When bad shit happens in the winter, it seems magnified, perpetuated by the barren bleakness I stare at out my window every morning when I wake up for work.

So when she called to tell me she was leaving me for some douchebag she met at a party, I knew exactly what was going to happen. I was going to be spending a lot of time staring out that window.

She told me to come here today, to the woods bordering the park near my house. I knew why she picked this spot, but I couldn't understand the choice. It's like she wants to rub it in, stamp it down deep into my memory like somebody crushing an ant and then grinding it into oblivion on the pavement with their heel.

Pleasant.

If it weren't for the occasion of my visit and the fact that I am permanently disposed to detest this stupid fucking season - and this little exercise definitely won't help - I might actually find my surroundings beautiful.

I might marvel at how the sunlight glints off the snow like oncoming headlights, or how my breath vaporizes into a little cloud the instant I exhale.

Instead I see a driving hazard and the smoke from a hundred tiny musket shots.

"Hi, Alex."

I answered without turning around to face her. "Can we make this quick? You have no idea how much I don't want to be here right now."

"I know, I'm sorry. I just wanted to talk to you in person, and -"

"So you chose the spot where I asked you out?" I looked over my shoulder at her. "Nice. I'll keep this technique in mind the next time I want to brutally spit in the face of someone I used to love."

She got angry. "Knock it off, will you? You know this is for your own good."

"What?" I turned around. I was shouting now, and my breaths more resembled shots from a cannon. "Are you fucking kidding me with this? Are you actually trying to spin this as a good thing for me?"

"Alex, you've basically hated me for weeks. How could I keep putting you through this?"

I stared at her blankly for a second, then laughed. "You can start by going back in time and not pulling this shit in the first place."

"You know I can't do that. And in all honesty, I don't know that I would do it any differently. I don't regret my decision at all."

I threw my hands up in frustration. "Of course you fucking don't. You're not the one getting totally screwed in this deal, are you?"

She narrowed her eyes at me. "This is pretty much pointless, isn't it?" She sighed. "Well I'm sorry it ended up this way, and I do mean that. Good luck."

She waited for a moment for me to respond, but I was too busy trying to think of something that would sufficiently hurt her to say anything. She turned and left. I watched her until she disappeared, then turned and walked further into the woods.

The snow crunching under my shoes reminded me of popcorn, or Styrofoam. Maybe a combination of both. As I wavered mechanically through the trees I actually began to admire the silence around me.

I stopped and it was complete. Not a sound besides the branches groaning like an arthritic old man as the wind brushed by them.

I sat down right where I was, and immediately the cold wetness of the snow bled through my jeans. I didn't care. I lay back and put my hands behind my head, watching the musket shots trail off into the sky.

This was my kind of season after all.

____________________________________

Listening to: A Genius mix started by
The Arcade Fire, Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)

a brief message from our sponsor

2009-12-07T21:49:00.002-05:00

Today, you are not allowed to go outside.

Tomorrow, you will wake up and clutch your pillow screaming for a better yesterday.

The day after tomorrow was a terrible movie.

Yesterday, you were told that the world was actually triangular in shape. You thought it was strange but figured stranger things had occurred.

A month ago last Wednesday was the last time anyone told you they loved you. It was the grocer when you bought a pack of Mousetraps. He felt you were one step away from ending it all. He was not necessarily wrong.

You were once told by your mother that good things come to those who wait. You're still waiting.

A Review of Anne Whitehouse's Blessings and Curses By Peter Richter

2009-12-07T02:30:00.005-05:00

A book review Featuring a Sports Metaphor by Peter Richter

It is common to observe an unsolicited moment of beauty and it is common to keep moving through the day. It is common to witness unprompted actions of horror and in-turn, ignore them. There is something to be said for allowing ourselves the time to digest these transient moments, good and bad.

With piety, Anne Whitehouse (Fall Love, The Surveyor’s Hand) brings us a collection of 40 blessings and 24 curse.Both categories, Blessings and Curses, are unassuming, dealing with modest terror and the silent beauty that surrounds us. In one of the book’s most well crafted curses, Curse XVI, a piece on finances, Whitehouse explains Lydia’s first encounter with Edna’s pearls:

“Edna’s queenly air as she had fastened the clasp

Around Lydia’s neck and, stepping back,

Exclaimed how well they became her.”

What strikes me as a reader is the pacing of this verse. The “extraneous” words guide our mind through the scene. It is simple, delicate and after hearing Anne read, (listen here) her spirit is amongst these words.

Curses and Blessings does not attempt to tackle heavy issues. In fact if a curse were running down the field, on its way to the goal line, Anne would be step aside. Blessings and Curses is greater than the run, the crowd, the statistics, the score and the win or lose. It is beyond all of that - it is about being true to the moment.

Visit Anne's website for further details on this and her prior releases.

Right now --It is a blessing this "Holiday Bayberry" candle has lost it's scent. And more importantly, I am blessed with this mystery song...

A big thank you to Anne Whitehouse for the opportunity to review, read and enjoy her poetry.

Temporality Play

2009-11-28T12:27:00.001-05:00

"The neat thing about photographs" you said, "is that they strike dynamic poses while maintaining the status quo." And as soon as you stopped speaking, these words had ceased to be, thus proving my hypothesis that words may be recorded but never pictured. I would have expressed my gratitude, but I was too drunk to thank at the moment. So I smiled, nodded, took another sip of tea.

Stephen Elliott's The Adderall Diaries

2009-11-25T13:19:00.005-05:00

Review of Stephen Elliot’s The Adderall Diaries
By Robin Barletta

The Adderall Diaries is Stephen Elliot’s attempt to write a true crime novel along the lines of In Cold Blood. I say ‘attempt’ because in the process of writing this novel, Elliot ends up writing about his own life, which is infinitely more interesting.
Elliot is only vaguely connected to the murder case he writes about. Hans Reiser was accused of killing his wife Nina, who had been having an affair with Sean Sturgeon, who had a few girlfriends in common with Elliot. Elliot attempts to interview Sean, who confessed to a staggering number of unrelated murders, and who seems to be toying with Elliot, promising to grant him an interview once Hans’ trial is over.
As new facts are discovered about the case, Elliot is brought back to his own past, particularly to his damaged relationship with his father. One of his friends even points out that Elliot is seeing Hans as his father and Nina as his mother, a notion which resonates throughout the novel, despite the author rejecting it. His father leaves spiteful reviews of Elliot’s work on Amazon.com and insists his son is exaggerating when he describes his father’s unpredictable bursts of anger and how he abandoned Elliot to the streets as a child. Elliot admits that memories are subjective, and people create their own reasons for their actions. But Elliot is definitely compelled to link the events surrounding Hans’ trial to his own life, a connection which works well throughout the story.
Elliot has a casual writing style that works well with the heavy subject matter. He describes his addiction to the ADD drug Adderall in the same clinical, matter-of-fact terms he describes his sadomasochistic encounters with women. These straightforward scenes resonate more than the most flowery prose could do—the erotic scenes are less about sex and more about control and submission, both emotionally and physically.
The novel does slow down at points, stalling for a while before and during the trial. The narrative reflects this period of Elliot’s life where he seems to be trying to figure out where it is going, and at times the author’s memories seem unconnected to the current events of the novel, as though he lost sight of what he was writing about. By the time the book gets through trial, Elliot seems to have realized that the book isn’t primarily about that anymore, and it regains its pace.
The Adderall Diaries is a fascinating account of the author’s life, from his tough childhood to his addictions to his troubled relationships. Stephen Elliot presents himself in the book at his most vulnerable, deep in the throes of a drug addiction and having no idea where his life, or the book, is heading, and it is an intriguing and fascinating journey.

____________________________________

In the coming weeks we will be interview Pierre De Reeder, (Guitarist of Rilo Kiley) We will be reviewing Blessings and Curses by Anne Whitehouse, and much much more.

Additionally, please check out THE2NDHAND.COM. Todd Dills, the editor, does a great job creating a community atmosphere, and picking great writing.

50-1 Blog has some great nano-fiction too.

Thank you for being a part of our community. Please leave some comments and discuss the book further with our writers.

A Review of Tao Lin's Shoplifting From American Apparel

2009-11-18T20:29:00.006-05:00

Background and General Disclaimers:

This is not the opinion of the entire Broad Set. This review is solely based on the opinions of one, Andrew Kaspereen. He chooses to make this apparent so Mr. Peter Erich Richter does not have to at a later date.
Andrew Kaspereen owns a copy of Tao Lin’s novel Bed. He thinks it is alright, but he has never felt compelled to give it the complete “college try”.
Andrew Kaspereen has met Tao Lin when he came to his creative writing class; it was there Mr. Lin signed Kaspereen’s copy of Bed.
Andrew Kaspereen thoroughly enjoyed the amount of responses that Tao Lin’s interview with the Broadset provided. That being said, he hopes the following review does not ignite any such debates or the ire of Mr. Lin or any of his close associates of a family/friend/fan persuasion.

Tao Lin is a very young, very prolific writer. As an aspiring, but not as prolific writer, I find that inspiring. Before the age of 30, Lin has acquired all sorts of accolades, published 1 novel, two poetry collections, 1 short story collection, and his newest novella, Shoplifting From American Apparel. It is this fact about Tao Lin that makes me want to support everything he does. Unfortunately, try as I might, I am just not able to appreciate him the way others, critics and fans alike, seem to.

I assume it has something to do with the tone in which he writes stories. Apparel is what I assume to be a semi-autobiographical excursion into Lin’s life for a period of time. He goes through a variety of different friends, travels and lives with multiple people including a romantic interest named Sheila, and then even gets a chance to get a nod from Moby. If this seems disjointed, it is because it is. The novel’s narrative flow is like watching a relatively routine but close ping pong game. There is an ebb and flow, things start to build, but ultimately momentum shifts and the flow starts again.

The story itself never really decides what it wants to be. Lin described it as “2x Shoplifting arrest, 5 parts vague relationship issues.” I suppose that is a fair description of the novel. As I read, I kept waiting for a realization of some kind to strike me. I don’t mean to suggest that it should be an inspirational piece or anything that moves me; I just want to feel that there is some kind of attention to the idea of telling a story.

I found myself sincerely trying to enjoy this, I even read it rapidly in a lengthy car ride, but I just could not get past the fact that I feel like Tao Lin’s writing serves to be something I will never understand. Is he trying to be something new and radical or on the verge of some kind of counter-cultural revolution? I guess that’s possible. But that’s not the sort of thing that concerns me when I want to read a story. I want to feel something, whether it’s some sort of thought or mood or even some vague description of an idea. I just want to be able to put the book down and come to an understanding of what I’ve read. I don’t get that with this story. Sure, at parts it has amusing lines, at parts the frequent tags of “the Spanish man” or “the African American man” made me want to jump out of a window, at parts I was somewhere in between if I was being told a story or a large anecdote. Overall though, I was mostly reading so I could finish it.

I realize that this review is completely based on my personal tastes in literature being vastly different than what Tao Lin chooses to write. I choose to say my piece because a review has to be honest. There is no sense in beating around the bush, I don’t like this book. I will say that Lin’s ability to continually write and be appreciated is beyond admirable. In fact, I am absolutely hoping he continues to sell well. I’m not sure exactly how that works. Whatever the case, you might like the book, you might hate it, but Tao Lin is definitely one of a kind. You just have to decide what that means for yourself.

We would like to thank Tao Lin for the opportunity to review his newest work. Check out his art work, prior works of fiction & poetry.

In addition we would also like you to enjoy these MP3s from Voxhaul Broadcast. Thanks to Daytrotter for the link.

A Broad Update

2009-11-09T21:59:00.004-05:00

It's basketball season & at one time this meant something. It meant Jordan would throw the ball down low to the ever dominate Bill Wennington. It meant doing spin moves in floppy socks down my hallway. It meant mesh jerseys over my hoodies. But today it means the Knicks don't even have hope. It means Jordan is in Florida on the 18th with a G on a birdie. And most importantly, it means that The Broad Set is already preparing for their spring explosion. We'll never get off the ground at this pace, thus The Broad Set has taken a nod from the Airbus A300 in that we must be going 300km/h for take off. Pack a toothbrush.

Last Friday, Brewed Addiction on Main Street in Manasquan N.J. hosted us for what seems like our 100th reading. We premiered our 3rd Magazine and enjoyed lovely stories of road graters, doorless closet sex, vampires and young lovelessness. Thanks to our readers & everyone who came out!

Important Et cetera:

- The Broad Set will soon we working with Pangur Ban Party on an E-Book. This is in the beginning stages but we will update you as things come together.

- Be on the look out for reviews of Tao Lin's Shoplifting FAA and Stephen Elliott's Adderall Diaries. & below there is a review of Sam Savage's Cry of The Sloth.

- There is Literature Blacked Out event on November 21st at Milo's apartment. Contact Milo for details.

- An interview with Shane Jones of Light Boxes! (We're very excited!!)

- Avalanche Tinder 3 with special guests to be announced.

- Future readings & a magazine & book tour.

- New website&layout&URL in January!

- & more use of "&"

**For the most current updates, check our twitter **

Review of Cry of the Sloth

2009-11-06T10:52:00.003-05:00

I saw the book The Cry of the Sloth by Sam Savage in Barnes and Noble. Being a fan of these majestic creatures and fearing for the safety of the fictional one that surely laid within the confines of the novel I read the back cover. I quickly surmised that it was about an aging gentleman writer/landlord/editor during the recessionary Nixon years living alone and slowly going crazy through alcohol and loneliness. Seeing that art imitated my life I decided to give the book a go.

The story is told through the writings of Andrew Whittaker. From the story he is working on, to signs for his tenants asking them to not kick the washing machines we discover an increasingly cranky and sad man past his prime trying to scrape by in a small town he lives. The book is sprinkled with pathetic letters to his ex wife asking for money, his awkward advances towards an aspiring writer and his promotions for a possibly fictional literary event (including interrupting several poetry readings by standing on stage and telling them so in a loud voice).

As the novel continues the reader sees the ever increasing lows that Andrew has sunk to, but are still compelled to find him redeeming. His antics and lack of social skills are hilarious (particularly when he writes to the local paper to correct their misinterpretations of his erratic behavior) but when we see grocery lists that include turkey necks, a new life and the novel becomes grounded. By showing us only what his character writes, Savage provides a unique window into the man’s life; we have only his words to make a picture of Andrew. Like adjusting an old TV it is difficult to get a clear picture of the man. The contradictions between letters alone make it frustrating to pin the man down. Is he really as depressed as we are lead to believe with his letters to his ex wife Jolie? Or is he really as charming as he can be in his letters to the aspiring writer Fern? It is up to the reader to determine for themselves which Andrew they’d like to believe in.

If you are a writer living alone, want to be a writer living alone, any other creative type of person or interested in crazy people in general you should check this novel out. Sam Savage has crafted a likeness of a man both deep and shallow, depressing and hilarious. I advise you to check it out.

---

Listening to "Interstate 8" by Modest Mouse

The Dolphin Diary

2009-11-02T17:01:00.004-05:00

As our fearless leader Pete mentioned in his most recent post, I will be publishing my latest creation, The Dolphin Diary, in installments. He suggested that I post each entry on this blog, but I got to thinking.

I would rather not completely invade this space with my work and run everyone else off the page, so instead I have created my own splinter blog, a sector of The Broad Set Writing Collective.

So now, to see daily installments of The Dolphin Diary, written by yours truly, head here: http://pmdolphindiary.blogspot.com/, and check it out! I stuck with Blogger, so please feel free to use your accounts and give me some winning feedback. Thanks folks!

2009-10-30T11:47:00.007-04:00

Last week The Broad Set was lucky enough to read at The Random Tea Room. We would like to sincerely thank Becky for having us. The Tea Room was beautiful. There were Buddhas, Black & White Photography, Chinese Dragons, (I bought a teal one) and textured fruits. Even the bathroom was filled with unique art. If you're in Philadelphia, stop by!

We had a nice crowd and we even got the chance to see our friend Nmandi. He has a new book coming out titled The Facebook Addiction. The book has a symbiotic relationship to his blog which allows your experience as a reader to grow. Check out an excerpt from his book here.

We would also like to announce that on November 6th, The Broad Set will be reading at Brewed Addiction in Manasquan NJ. We will be premiering Avalanche Tinder 2, reading, giving away free copies, having a book give away and our famous grab bag. We have made it our goal to bring the fun to literary events while keeping the intelligence and insights that literary events are known for. Follow us on Twitter for all the latest details.

Stay tuned to The Broad Set for installments of The Dolphin Diaries by Dr. Mullin. And check out this rare Conor Oberst track. Happy Halloween everyone! See you on the 6th!

To Mr. Jefferson, On Newark, NJ.

2009-10-18T19:27:00.002-04:00

Dear Mr. Randolph Jefferson,

Boy, does your name sound like you're a giant TOOLBAG. Let me tell you something about Newark; If that guy says he glows a creamy orange, it's probably because he's a Flyers fan, living in a Devil's playground. But guess what, I'm a mother-fucking Rangers fan. Lundqvist is THE SHIT!

Now, as a hockey fan myself, I have traveled by lovely (and what I really mean is piece-of-shit) NJ Transit all the way to Newark, where I think I'm more likely to get shot than I am to trip on the sidewalk, sacrificing my life to witness the Rangers in all their glory. I love watching them beat the shit out of the Devils at their home- The Prudential Center. Let me tell you, Newark blows. Ever wondered why everybody says New Jersey sucks? Well, look at where the fucking airport lands you! It's a wasteland! The only thing going for Newark's clean-up is the Pru-Center, which I will admit, is far better than MSG. I wouldn't bother to walk anywhere else but from the train station to the rink, and back. As for outside of that, as we say in the Big Apple, fuggettaboutit. Hell, Devils ain't even got enough fans to fill the place!

And who the fuck are you, bringing a bag of moles to your fiance's father? Where do you live? I'll find you and call PETA on your ass! I bet your house smells like a corpse! How many dead rodents do you store in your fridge? Sorry, wait, did I say house? I meant to say trailor, you hillbilly! I hope you eat those moles and catch e-coli and die. I sure hope Darwin was right, that your ways of living will eventually kill-off people like you and save the rest of the world for normal people like me. How is it that some trailor-towing low-life like you writes with better English than a New Yorker like me? You're probably one of those people on America's Most Wanted list. I guess I'll keep an eye out for you when you kill your wife and end up on the news, you creep.

Sincerely,

Dominic J. Gambino.

An Open Letter to Milo Stevens

2009-10-18T11:02:00.004-04:00

Dear Mr. Stevens,

I must say that usually your work provides me with a steady flow of laughter and a deep introspective look into the souls of the hooligans that surround the Broad Set Writing Collective. My wife, her name is Candice, and I regularly relish your updates to the website on Sunday Nights. We have scheduled our weekly dose of reading your material right after Andy Rooney's wonderful column on 60 Minutes.

On this day, October 18th, in the year of our Lord 2009, I find something written by you which must be addressed. I must say that your "Letter to Ellen Page" was rather charming in the sense that it only seemed slightly plausible that you wanted to chop off her skin and wear it. In a way, Candice and I find those sorts of notions at least potentially charming. We were born in a trailer park that was surrounded by tall mountains and forests which blocked out the sun. In fact, your argument for marriage is a sound one. I courted Candice in a similar manner, only I presented her father with a bag full of dead moles to demonstrate my ability to provide for her. He decided that would be enough and gave me the title to her soul (as we grew up in a simpler time).

What I cannot abide, however; is your slanderous comments directed at my current hometown of Newark, New Jersey. Sir, your assertion that the city somehow causes you to glow a creamy orange color is not only preposterous, it is also beyond offensive. This city is on an up-swing. If you don't believe me, go to Corey Booker's house and knock on his door. He will most likely invite you in for scones and tell you things are better than ever. He is also the mayor, meaning he would never lie about anything. There are also a myriad of places to go, from the Prudential Center, to the building across the street from the Prudential Center. It is a delight. Sir, if in the future you are looking for that glow you speak of, eat multiple sources of beta carotene and leave my city out of your misguided notions.

Good Day,
Randolph Jefferson IV

Letter to Ellen Page

2009-10-17T22:49:00.001-04:00

Dear Ms. Ellen Page, star of Juno, Hard Candy, and some other movie that I haven’t seen yet,

Hello. I’m sure you don’t know me but I am glad to inform you of the following fact: you were born 3 whole days after me. Yes, 3 days after I entered this world, so you followed. I am sure that you’re aware that the ramifications for just such an event can only mean one thing: you and I are soulmates.

Indeed, save your protestations and hear my many and most logical of arguments. We already have much in common. You are a Pisces in the astrological arts and I just missed the day for being an official Pisces by a mere day or something. You are a famous, beautiful movie actress. I am a drunk and a teacher of the social studies who is already losing his hair. Based off your character in Juno we both take quite a few pregnancy tests. (That last one is a joke, in case your sense of humor is not as sharp as mine. As we are both aware “Juno” took only a handful of pregnancy tests in the beginning of the film whereas I have taken as many as 16 in one afternoon. Life can be dull in New Jersey)

I hope you don’t think this letter too forward of me but I just had to write to you and tell you the joyous news. I will soon be moving out of my mother’s apartment and was wondering if you had a preference for where we would live. I know you may be used to some Canadian country villa or cozy Californian cottage but I’d like to stay in New Jersey, preferably close to Newark as it makes my skin glow a creamy orange.
I await your reply and packages.

Always your soul mate,

Milo Stevens.

Q&A With Jason Jordan

2009-10-12T20:51:00.006-04:00

Q&A With Jason Jordan of DecomP Magazine

DecomP Magazine, a monthly online literary journal, has aspirations of their first print issue (2010) and an anthology (2014) of their finest submissions since their inception. (2004) Driving this crazy bus of passionate literary gurus is, the very bearded, Jason Jordan. Glen Binger and I had the privilege to interview Jason and learn a little more about decomP, their triumph into print and about Jason himself.

We would like to thank Jason for his time. DecomP Magazine is a favorite amongst Broad Set members and an inspiration.

---

In all the newsletters I receive about the latest issue of decomP, I always read about decomPprint and decomP press. Can you talk about them a little bit? Did you ever think decomP would come this far?

decomP #1 will be decomP's first print issue. I plan to open submissions in January--when the new site will be unveiled--so keep an eye out for the guidelines. I'm hoping to put #1 out in the fall of 2010. The first decomPress title will be decomP #1. After that, I want to release books by individual authors. I haven't nailed down specifics yet--how many books we'll release a year, which genres we'll accept, etc.--but I'm looking forward to it. I don't know when submissions will open for the press, though they likely will after the print submissions close. Again, stay tuned. Web submissions will be open year-round.

I wasn't sure how far decomP would go when I came on board. I'm glad the readership is where it is, and that we're able to publish such good work. If you like what we do, please spread the word. And for those who want to see their work in decomP but haven't had luck yet: keep trying. As a writer, it can get discouraging, but you gotta stay the course.

What were some of the difficulties you faced while achieving your MFA from Chatham? How did you overcome them and grow?

I had a great experience at Chatham, overall, and in the city of Pittsburgh. I miss both. But, at any college you're going to take classes from a professor or two you don't particularly care for. Thankfully, I had only one professor like that during my two years there. You just gotta stick it out. Do the work. The other main challenge was the Teaching Creative Writing class. In that you prepare a fifteen-week syllabus, and it's a ton of work because you have to come up with a teaching philosophy, rationale, among other components, in addition to complementary assignments. It was the most demanding class I've ever taken. In the end, it was an incredibly valuable course that was worth the labor.

What is your favorite band and why?

Tough question! I think I have to go with Enslaved. They're a black metal band from Norway that's been around nearly twenty years. They have a large, diverse, and consistently good catalog. Their older stuff is more traditional BM, whereas in recent years they've moved in a progressive/post direction. Listen to them here: http://www.myspace.com/enslaved. Runners up would be Agalloch, Death, Emperor, Extol, Katatonia, and Wolves in the Throne Room.

What do you personally enjoy in good contemporary fiction and poetry?

I enjoy so much about both. I like being enthralled with a character, hooked by a plot, reading about a new perspective, identifying with characters, and learning new knowledge.

If you could only read one book for the rest of your life what book would it be? And, of course, why?

Another difficult question. What comes to mind immediately is Mark Danielewski's House of Leaves. It's a long, thrilling book, one that can keep you occupied for quite a while. The plot is strong. The experimentation is interesting. I think he got a lot right. I was hooked from the beginning. Needless to say, I highly recommend it, and I can't say that about many novels.

You have two books coming out, Cloud and Other Stories, and Powering the Devil's Circus: Redux. Can you talk about them a little? What made you want to 'remix' Powering the Devil's Circus?

Cloud and Other Stories is a new, full-length collection of fiction separated into two sections: Louisville and Pittsburgh. The stories are organized according to where I wrote them. I think anyone who reads it will recognize how much location played a role on my writing, especially since many of the stories take place in those cities. Some of my favorites stories are gonna be in it: "The Slants" from RAGAD #2, "My Better Half" from Keyhole #4, and "Castle" from A Thousand Faces #9, among others of course. ;)

Powering the Devil's Circus: Redux is a big improvement on the original. I revised and edited the whole manuscript again. The artwork is all new. The typeface is new. I wanted to remix it because, back when I self-published it in 2006, I didn't know nearly as much as I do now about how a professional book should look. And, after looking at it however many number of times, I noticed flaws that I wanted to correct. This gave me the chance to make it right.

Are you going to do any touring in support of these releases?

I'd love to tour, but unfortunately, it's not going to happen for a while. I've started repaying my student loans, so employment is priority one right now. I'd like to tour a solid two weeks next year--perhaps when decomP #1 comes out so I can promote all three releases. If I don't make it out then, I'll shoot for some dates in the spring of 2011. The Net will suffice until then.

What Simpsons character do you totally dislike and why?

I've never liked Lisa. No specific reason other than she rarely says or does anything endearing. Homer is the best, for sure.

What literary magazines do you read? What do they do well?

I read quite a few. The ones I usually read entirely are THE2NDHAND, 50 to 1, Barrelhouse, Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens, The Collagist, DOGZPLOT, Hobart, JMWW, Juked, Keyhole, > kill author, LITnIMAGE, Monkeybicycle, Night Train, PANK, Pear Noir!, Storyglossia, Wigleaf, and Word Riot. There are many, many others that I check in on from time to time. As for what they do well, I think the most important thing is to publish good writing, and second, have an attractive design.

What is the next step for decomP? How do you plan to further you vision for decomP?

The next step for decomP, like I said earlier, is a massive site overhaul. I'm talking new design, new media, new logo. Following that, we'll open the floodgates and try not to drown.

THEY PUT CHANDELIERS IN THE SKY (For America)

2009-10-10T20:47:00.000-04:00

THEY PUT CHANDELIERS IN THE SKY (For America)

Zachary A. Bragg

When purple bombs hit the moon’s face,

In tandem with the sickly stars,

The light will call us outside.

With awe our hearts will beat,

And cherish the sight.

Purple sky scrapes,

Sky scrapes high.

Painted, drooping, frizzy chandelier.

Us.

I am.

I am here.

My arm is yours.

Your breath is in mine.

We are freaks of the night,

Fighting the cold like anxious hunters.

You use clammy hands to bend binoculars,

And delicately,

Delicately,

Press your eyeballs inside:

Take me and watch, my dear, the odd bombs in the sky.

You Wish

2009-10-07T11:28:00.003-04:00

This is something I wrote for Dr. Hess' Advanced Prose Style class this past spring semester, and I just dug it up again and decided I would appreciate some feedback. So here it is.

By Dr. Mullin

The pen bled M&M-blue ink as Aaron pressed it in precise lines, drawing his identity on the check his aunt and uncle had sent him for Christmas. It wasn’t an outlandishly large amount of money, but he took what he could get now that he was out of work, and besides, it was just supposed to be holiday money anyway. How much can one aunt and uncle team be expected to gift a twenty-six year old?

He’d been able to keep his joblessness a secret from his family for a while now. Not living with them helped in that respect, but the worn down old apartment he’d been renting for the past year was beginning to take its toll on his reserves. Cash and energy.

Wallpaper hung from the pictureless walls like skin from a partially peeled potato, but instead of delicious starch behind it there was horrifically green paint, the kind it almost hurts to look at. His attempts to renovate the place had ended this past summer, when the air conditioner installation ended with the off-whitish contraption blowing up on the sidewalk and showering nearby cars with pieces of metal and plastic. He thought that only happened in commercials.

This check would go in the bank. Had to be able to pay for the necessities until he could land another job. Which in all likelihood would be a while. No one was hiring these days, or at least nowhere he wanted to work. Cleaning bathrooms was just as much not his thing as all the other people who had neglected to submit an application.

He threw on his old, fraying coat and snugged his signature New York Yankees beanie on top of his shaved head and walked out the door. The hallway of the apartment building was in a state of disrepair similar to that of his own accommodations. Every few feet he walked toward the stairs he would catch some smell he hadn’t met before, and didn’t necessarily ever want to meet again. But this was life for now.

Out on the street the wind smacked into him like someone was bowling for pedestrians. He managed to right himself and keep from falling onto the refuse-rich sidewalk.

“No spare for you this frame, buddy,” he said, waving a middle finger in the direction the wind had come from.

He took the usual route to the bank – through the alley to the left of his building, west to the old baseball park that had certainly seen a more prosperous era, straight up center field and into the bank parking lot. The grass in the field had turned dry and brittle in the constant cold weather of late, and it made a sound like a broom sweeping across his unwashed pant legs.

“Much obliged,” he said with a small smile.

He reached the parking lot without delay in roughly fifteen minutes. Short trip, but he was glad to be out of the apartment for any stretch of time. He was especially glad to be out of the apartment and headed to the bank, where he hoped he would see a particular teller.

She looked about his age, mid-length brown hair, never wearing a good deal of makeup. Which was fine by him, because as far as he was concerned, she didn’t need it. He didn’t know her name since they didn’t wear nametags at this branch unless they were a consultant or something, but he saw her almost every time he came in. He sometimes wondered how weird it would be to ask someone out while they were at work. After all, this was the only place he ever saw her.

But he never did. Not knowing anything about her made him hesitant to even attempt an introduction. The fear of coming off as the creepy, desperate guy kept his mouth shut. So, he settled on being just another customer yet again.

Aaron looked up every time she issued a quiet “Next” to summon whoever was due for a trip to the teller’s window, but the line was long today. Aaron occupied himself by daydreaming.

“Can I help who’s next?”

It was finally his turn at the counter. Aaron confidently strode up to the barred interface, smiling broadly at the girl. She met his gaze and timidly smiled back, obviously attracted to him. Looking like Raiders of the Lost Ark-aged Harrison Ford helped in that regard.

“Hey there beautiful,” he said. “I’d like two things from you. One is your help with depositing this check into my account. The other is a piece of paper with your number on it.”

She looked startled for a moment, and then giggled and took the check from him. “Sure,” she said.

When she handed him the receipt, it was financial information side up, hardly the modus operandi of a dedicated bank employee. He took the hint and flipped it over to find a unique ten-digit code written on the back in blue ink, accompanied by a cursive “Emma.” He smiled gratefully at her, tipped his fedora respectfully and made a “you’ll be hearing from me” motion by waving the receipt at her. She waved goodbye.

Later that afternoon, back at his very classy apartment on the Upper East Side, where the wallpaper was firmly attached to the walls and his neighbors incessantly filled the hallways with the pleasant aromas of whatever they happened to be cooking, he called the young lady and proposed a dinner date that evening. She accepted.

At six sharp, he showed up at her apartment in his used German luxury car, not too expensive but still a quality vehicle, complete with butt-warmers in the front two seats. She walked out looking beautiful in a floor-length black dress, and he opened the passenger door for her, whispering hello as she stepped into the car.

They reached the restaurant laughing, as he had recounted one of his classic stories from work where his classically clumsy colleague Dave once again forgot to close the paper door on the copier and sent white sheets hovering through the air like oversized flat snowflakes. She thought it was hilarious.

In the restaurant, as they waited at the bar for their table to be ready, a particularly drunken male member of the twelve-person party at the other end of the counter began making advances on Emma. Aaron bravely stepped up to rebuke him and ultimately was forced to resort to fisticuffs, easily retiring his opponent with his trademark right hook. Right then and there he decided this restaurant was not for them.

“This is highly irregular!” he shouted at the host. “I expect better from an establishment with such an impeccable reputation.” With that, he and Emma briskly exited the restaurant.

Then they went back to his apartment and made love for hours, what with her being so impressed with his manly defense of her honor. The next morning he awoke to her poking him in the shoulder.

“Dude what the hell are you doing? It’s your turn, dude! Fucking MOVE!”

The haze of his daydream was lifted and Aaron quickly turned to see some skateboarding teenager staring gravely back at him, and realized he was the front of the line.

“What the fuck are you waiting for dude? I got stuff to do!”

Uniquely ashamed at his folly, he offered a muffled apology, shuffled to the counter and handed his check to the girl.

“Uh…hi. I’d just like to deposit this please.”

“Sure.” There was no giggle.

The machine whirred, the computer keys ticked and tapped, and within moments she handed him his receipt. Financial information side down.

“Thanks.” He turned and walked toward the exit, avoiding the still wildly unfriendly gaze from the skater kid.

As he pushed the door open and stepped back into the wind, he ventured a gaze backward. Maybe next time, he sighed to himself.

Just a brief bio before I really begin:

2009-10-03T20:36:00.002-04:00

Listening to: Boy With a Coin -Iron and Wine
Mood: Mellow
Cheesy Myspace-esque header: Included

Hey guys,

Andrew Kaspereen mentioned this group to me after I told him I felt I needed an outlet for my writing. Before I begin subjecting any work to the eyes of the curious, Pete advised that I give a little bio. I'm glad I just get to type this up and post it online instead of being thrust into a circle of people saying "Hi, my name is..... uh.... Liz? I think?" On the other hand, I do look forward to meeting all of you, and I hope I can make it on the 23rd.

I hadn't even begun exploring writing until I took a creative non-fiction class instructed by Dr. Hess at Rider. Not only did I have no real idea about what it meant to write creative non-fiction, but it seemed like a daunting task to have to be creative and truthful. Writing always held a special place in my heart; I just needed to explore my potential as a writer. Once I read in front of class and got the first laughs, I was hooked. Feeding off of their reactions, writing suddenly became more like performance art. I'd so much rather read something in person, than fork over a sheet of paper with my work on it. Inflection became the backbone of the story, and if I got really good at writing, it would come off to the reader too; just as I would want them to hear it. So I suppose that's my goal in my writing endeavors, to be just as understood on paper as I am when I read it aloud. If I can't always be there, I want to be there in spirit on the page. Of course, if you actually know me, you'll totally be able to hear how I would read it. I love when my personality can come through.

As for myself, well... I spend my time doing things I don't think most girls would do. I've drag raced my Pontiac Fiero GT at the track, I ride a vintage 1974 Honda CB 550, and I play bass guitar. I went to school for music, with a minor in film and media, and I've found that like most fine arts, it has gotten me nowhere so far. When I'm not stressing out in front of a computer screen applying for jobs, I spend most of my time running a maternity and infant boutique, owned by a sole proprietor. The owner's son was recently diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia at just three years old, so I've nearly taken over because she can't always be there. While it's not the kind of job I want to be at, it does pay the bills, and it's stable enough. Besides, you never know what life will throw at you, and it could always be worse. When I have some free time and I'm feeling out-of-sorts, that's when I write. I might come off a little bitter, but I don't really care as long as someone can relate to it. I prefer to write non-fiction now, because the ordinary events in my own life sound better on paper than anything I could make up in my head; or maybe I just lack talent for writing fiction. If that's the case, I'm totally okay with that.

Talk to you all soon! I'll be posting some work in the next few days.

-Liz

Event and Flash Fiction

2009-09-29T15:54:00.006-04:00

This October (Rocktober?) 23rd The Random Tea Room is hosting a reading featuring The Broad Set Writing Collective. Readers, Kiley Rummler, Maria Gullo, Glen Binger, Sam Ciero, and Myself will be reading poetry, flash fiction, post modern ditties and prose for your enjoyment at one of Philly's best tea spots.

Imagine; A crisp October evening in Philadelphia, 27 red leaves scrambling on the pavement between the wheels of city traffic and you, sitting near the window, happily wearing a sweater you got for Christmas from Aunt Cheapskate that you never thought you would like because it was so "not fashionable." But styles have changed and now you're on the cutting edge of fashion, laughing with a magic cup Oolong Tea on your finger.

We hope that is you. Join us? There will be 2 editions of free magazines.

Check out The 2nd Hand for great literature and my FAQ.

Skive Magazine is allowing you the opportunity to download a PDF file of their magazine free. Check that out for some great content.

Sunday, October 11th @ Idleworld Books Stephen Elliott & Terese Svoboba have an event. For more details click here.

I am currently listening to Operation Ivy - Bad Town.

...I hope those facebook links work....

A Novella Worth "Shoplifting." An Interview with Tao Lin on His latest Work

2009-09-22T15:05:00.007-04:00

A Novella Worth "Shoplifting." (Or Buying)

An Interview with Tao Lin

New York author, Tao Lin, was generous enough to give The Broad Set Writing Collective an interview and look into his life and the inspirations that played a roll in the creation of this newest novella, “Shoplifting from American Apparel.” SFAA is described by Tao Lin as "2x shoplifting arrest, 5x vague relationship." There has been a lot of buzz around this novella, and rightfully so. Glen Binger and myself, (Peter Richter) put together a series of questions which we feel shed light on Tao Lin’s style, story and the writing process. The result is an interesting Q&A with one of New York’s greatest literary talents.

Read an excerpt of "Shoplifting" here.

Tao Lin's Twitter.

Peter Richter's Twitter.

Glen Binger's Twitter.

G&P: When you came to Rider University about two years ago to speak, you ripped out pages of your book and handed them out to the class. I thought this was a unique way to promote yourself. Where do you get your unusual ideas for promotions?

Tao: Probably mostly from talking to friends and "making jokes" like "what if I ________."

G&P: Does your artwork ever inspire your writing? Does the writing ever inspire the artwork?

Tao: They probably do inspire each other to some degree sometimes. But I've never felt or thought anything like "I have been inspired by [a thing of writing or art] to create [the other thing]."

G&P: How difficult is it running Muumuu House? Is it harder or easier than you imagined? What's the toughest thing you've had to do so far?

Tao: It seems easier than I thought it would be. The most difficult part so far has been [what you can read about in THE BRANDON BOOK CRISIS (Muumuu House, May 2008)]. Another "difficult" thing is having enough money to print the books. It costs around $3500 to print 2500 offset books. And something like $2200 to print 1000 offset books.

G&P: I was reading an article about you and it talked about the moment you decided to be a writer and how you put your entire self into it. When was this moment? What inspired it?

Tao: I think it was gradual. Among the things that contributed to "what inspired me" to write, in 2002 or 2003, include "having no friends," having no long-term financial prospects, "hating my life," not knowing what else to do each day, and having read work by Jean Rhys and Lorrie Moore and Ann Beattie, and others, that I liked.

G&P: How do you manage all of your different projects and a social life? Do you consider yourself an organized person?

Tao: I don't have a social life except hanging out with my girlfriend and sometimes, like once every two weeks, hanging out with one person for one or two hours. I don't watch TV. I don't feel urges to talk to people outside of two or three people. I feel organized. I make to-do lists. I have a lot of labels in my Gmail account.

G&P: Did you have any mentors or peers that you feel helped you grow as a writer? If so, who were they and what did they do to help you?

Tao: I don't think I had a mentor. Brian Morton, one of my writing professors at NYU, was encouraging and supportive and I liked his writing and we are still in contact. His existence has helped and continues to help me to some degree.

The people I link to on my blog and the people published by Bear Parade and Muumuu House are peers that have motivated me to write more and work more on writing and have different standards for writing, by themselves writing things that I like and made me feel excited about writing.

G&P: What excites you about new literature? What new works are you looking forward to reading?

Tao: I'm looking forward to future work by anyone published by Bear Parade or Muumuu House. I'm looking forward to Brandon Scott Gorrell's NERVOUS ASSFACE, forthcoming from 3:AM Press at some point. I'm looking forward to Noah Cicero's THE INSURGENT, forthcoming from Blatt in I think December. I'm looking forward to Zachary German's EAT WHEN YOU FEEL SAD, forthcoming next February from Melville House. I'm looking forward to Frederick Barthelme's next book, Joy Williams' next book, Rebecca Curtis' next book, Deb Olin Unferth's next book, Todd Hasak-Lowy's next book, Michael Earl Craig's next book, Matthew Rohrer's next book, Ben Lerner's next book.

**Thanks to Tao Lin and Glen Binger. & Do yourself a favor, go out and buy "Shoplifting From American Apparel." **

Broad Set W.C. News

2009-09-15T15:56:00.002-04:00

Today, 9.15.09, you can get (free) the newest project by Conor Oberst, Jim James and M. Ward. (AKA Monsters of Folk)Click here for the leak. It is another great piece of music by these brillant artists.

Today, 9.15.09, Tao Lin's novella Shoplifting From American Apparel has been released on Melville House. He describes the novella as "2x shoplifting arrest, 5x vague relationship" or "a shoplifting book about vague relationships." He is going on tour in support of his book. Join him in a city near you. Stay tuned to The Broad Set for an interview with Tao. Exclusive excerpt here.

Today, 9.15.09, PANK Magazine has released a new webpage layout AND released their September Issue. If you haven't checked out this magazine, you're missing out on something very special.

Today, 9.15.09, is Tommy Lee Jones' Birthday. What do you think he does to celebrate? I'd say he goes out to a steak dinner with his close friends and is in bed by 7:30.

Lastly. This Friday, 9.18.09, Glen Binger,Andrew Kaspereen, Sam Ciero, Brian Long, Paul Mullinand Myself are reading at Brickbat Books. We will be premiering out newest magazine "Avalanche Tinder" and giving away free copies. Free Beer. And balloons! Balloons damn it! Things start at 7:00 pm. Click to see a flyer. Brickbat Books is located on 709 South Fourth St(between Bainbridge & Monroe Sts) Philadelphia, PA19147.

**If you are unable to attend but would still like a magazine, e-mail me your address and I will send one out to you promptly. No cost. **

Molly Gaudry's We Take Me Apart

2009-09-15T14:02:00.007-04:00

A Review - We Take Me Apart by Molly Gaudry

Every now and then you may hear a song that was odd at first, but then grows on you. Over time you realize, the musician’s vision becomes clear and you realize it is more beautiful than conventional music. This is satisfying. An author’s vision has an even more pivotal effect on a reader.

Molly Gaudry is the author of We Take Me Apart, (set for release 12.15.09) a novella written in verse. If you consider her novella poetry, then it borrows much from prose. And if you see it as prose, it allows for a poetic flavor. Gaudry walks this line with great poise and in that poise we find her greatest strength as a writer. And like that song, We Take Me Apart grows on its reader. It captures something familiar.

Given the path she chose to tell this story, she forces herself to stay consistent in language and format. She is sometimes bold, as only one word “Timepiece” fills the page.(p. 28)

But she shows variety as she brings in subtle images that leave you breathless.

“rain pounded the sill

lightning lit our sweat

the well known people

when they lick the tips of their fingers

press into me on the counter

I will this way be lifted into the air” (p. 33)

We Take Me Apart is daring but so well constructed that it is impossible not appreciate the work that was put into this novella. Molly Gaudry writes for those who enjoy literature that challenges its predecessors, contemporaries and the reader.

For an interview with Molly, Check out OrangeAlert.net.

For purchase, Here.

Roadside Cross

2009-09-12T16:49:00.003-04:00

A cross, stuck into the gray grass on the side of the highway--
We fall silent as we pass it by
Because we know what such a cross signifies.

A simple wooden cross
Marking the passing of a simple, unsung life,
Thrust recklessly into the ground
At the site of the tragedy that had thrust
One nameless victim into the ground
Six feet below.

If I stare at it for long enough,
I can feel the hands of Fate
And the sound of screeching tires,
Wrenching metal and shattering glass
Etched in jagged colors at the edges of my mind.
But I look away.

There is no name upon that simple wooden cross
Thrust into the sullen gray grass on the roadside,
But it marks the death of a prom king, a mother of three,
A man who had never kissed his fiancee goodbye,
You and I. It is our reality.

A wooden cross, stuck into the gray grass on the side of the highway--
We fall silent as we pass it by,
And we do not look back.

The Demon Sandwich

2009-09-08T16:52:00.002-04:00

By Dr. Mullin

I take great pride in my work as an employee at Sandwich Extravaganza in New York City. Every sandwich I make, whether it’s as simple as ham and cheese or as intricate as the turkey, cheese, ham, mayo, tomato, roast beef, pickle, cheese, tomato (in that order) on a Kaiser – toasted so the bread crunches like the sound when you step on a leaf in autumn – I made a month ago receives the attention it deserves.

It was a special order, if you were wondering.

Every one of my bread-encompassed creations is like a tiny, edible work of art to me, although that never stops me from eating them and savoring my work. The way I see it, food is meant to be art insofar as it tastes like a masterpiece, not because looks like one.

My day at work yesterday shook me to my very core, however, and since I left the shop I have been sitting on my sofa watching soap operas and drinking Yoohoo like it’s water. I am going to have such a headache tomorrow. But it’s just as well, because for whatever reason I can’t seem to regain my faith in my abilities.

Here’s what happened:

To be honest I guess I should have known it was going to be an unusual day before I even got to work. On my walk from the subway station to work, I had my usual festival of insults with the employees of the Subway on the corner of 30th street.

“Hey doofus! Why don’t you try taking a little pride in your work and make a sandwich worthy of the paying customer?” I shouted righteously.

The young woman on duty stared back at me with a confused look on her face. She was probably so brainwashed by corporate that she had no idea what I was talking about. Poor girl.

“Well hey, listen, I won’t hold it against you because I know how tough it is to convince ones superiors that Americans actually care how their sandwiches taste,” I said.

She threw her arms up in the air. “Who the hell gives a damn?” she yelled. She returned to work.

Hmm. I win. As usual.

That wasn’t the strange part of the day, mind you. That would come next when, as I was passing through a heavy pedestrian traffic area, I was cornered by a black man wearing a backwards baseball cap and handing out brochures.

“Hey man, what you doing tonight?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, the usual, just hanging out,” I said sheepishly. I had to find a way out of this or I would be late for work.

“Well why don’t you come hang at the Funny Guys Comedy Club? We’ve got some great acts for this evening.”

I waved my hand dismissively. “I wish I could, but I…uh…already have plans.”

“Hey man, no problem,” he reached out and shook my hand. “But listen.” He pulled me in to whispering distance. “If you need anything, anything at all, just let me know. Know what I mean?”

“Uh, well, I can guess, yeah.”

He laughed. “All right man.” Then he became very guarded, as if he was about to tell me a secret. “I got the snow if you want it, man.”

I became alarmed, but I didn’t want to show it. “Uh, no thanks, I’m good.”

“Sure thing, man.” He shook my hand again. “You have a pleasant afternoon.”

I nodded and hurriedly walked to work.

I shook off the drug-selling incident and began my workday. My first customer was a shifty-looking but religious fellow, as evidenced by the cross chain he wore around his neck and the two he had tattooed on his shoulders.

He was wearing a sleeveless shirt that said “It’s Adam and EVE, not Adam and STEVE. Get it right!”

This put me off right away, but a true artist serves the public regardless of differences in opinion.

“Good afternoon, sir, how may I help you?”

He scanned the menu boards behind me for a moment, then directed his attention to me.

“Gimme a roast beef sandwich with Swiss cheese and sauerkraut, then cover the whole thing in gravy, then put it on a toasted hamburger bun.”

I waited a moment for the “please,” but when it didn’t come I decided it would be better to move on than start a confrontation over ordering etiquette.

“Certainly, sir, one moment.”

I went to the back and wiped down my preparation board. I put the bun in the toaster, awaiting the perfect moment at which to start the toasting process.

I laid out three perfectly sliced pieces of roast beef that I had cut after I arrived at work, pausing to study them for a moment before going to the fridge and getting out two equally perfect slices of cheese.

I put the gravy under the heating lights so it would reach the perfect temperature for when I applied it to the beef/cheese combination.

With a skill earned only by years of practice, I swiftly assembled the roast beef and Swiss cheese, pressed the bun down into the toaster, poured the gravy and prepared wrapping paper just in time for the bun to pop back out, a lovely golden brown.

With the sandwich in hand, I returned to the register.

“This is quite the work of food art,” I said jokingly to the man. “Please enjoy it. Would you like anything else with it?” He shook his head no. “Let me ring you up then.”

I typed quickly and easily on the cash register. Toasted hamburger bun, roast beef, Swiss cheese, gravy. He reached into his back pocket and got out his wallet.

“Okay, sir, your total comes out to $6.66.”

The man’s eyes became very wide, and he developed an exceedingly alarmed look on his face. He dropped his wallet and reached up to grasp his cross chain tightly.

“Awww geez,” he said, backing up toward the door slowly. He let go of the chain and crossed his pointer fingers in the “stay back” sign, directed at the sandwich.

“Fuck this shit!” He turned and bolted out the door and down the street.

I was flabbergasted. What had just happened? I went and retrieved his wallet, running out the door to see if I could catch him before he got too far away, but it was too late. He was gone.

I called the police to report that he had lost his wallet, then took the sandwich from the counter and brought it back into the kitchen to inspect it. What could have happened?

I took the sandwich apart, and bit-by-bit I began to realize the horrifying truth.

I had forgotten the sauerkraut.

Letter after Walking by Maria

2009-08-30T20:53:00.002-04:00

I write to you in haste because the rain is so light and kind and I must get back outside in it. Earlier I carried flowers in the belly of my shirt and I felt like I was holdling you, feeling your petals through the thinness of the cotton. You have let me carry you just like that, just as you have carried me from bedroom to bathroom, kitchen to car. All of this can get to me, and water pours out of my eyes as some sort of anchor. It is alright to cry, it is okay if I go all in this, if only to know what it feels to feel. I will hold it even if you grow inside of me and then beyond me through my fingernails. I opened up my shirt and let the rain fall on you while never letting a petal drop. I wouldn’t waste an ounce this time. With shyness I say I never wasted an ounce, and I know you already see this in me.

I remember the field I picked you from, the kisses I blew without hesitation. I remember the butterfly that floated casually over head as if it didn’t know that I was falling in love with it - as if it didn’t realize that I would have built a city in homage to it if a city is what it wanted, though I know quite well that no butterfly would crave a city. I pulled you from the field and I felt awful about that, really. I wondered if it hurt, and if you could be okay with that - thankful, even. Could it be that the being held in my hand is more than enough and the holding you in my hand can make me satisfied with this gravel that scratches underneath my feet, and this rain that falls on the back of my neck like morning kisses?

Day To Day With Ezra Pound

2009-08-29T00:30:00.005-04:00

Ezra Pound, painting by Wyndham Lewis, 1938–39.

Ezra Pound is brilliant. We can all agree on that. I have been reading some interviews with him, people’s accounts of meeting him and of course gobbling up more of his work. (You can listen to him reading here.) But one thing that I noticed is that in most of his photos he looks either 'blown away,' stern or luminous. Which sparked me to write this. I would really love some feedback on this because I feel I am missing something if not a lot of things.

Day to Day with Ezra Pound

We sit on an interior park bench. A homeless mother is beside us, pleading with her crumbs to be attractive enough for doves. But there are forty pigeons. You teach me to stay as tranquil as linen, the even threads laid upon itself and calming one another.

You’re the center of modernism, she’s the trademark abuser, and I’m the abstract glass of religion. In mediation you say “We come back placed. Broad shouldered, bald men who smoke cigars return briefly as exhaust and vodka drinking moms are the air between coffee and the lid.”

You explain that you’re going to Italy to listen to Nico and smoke hardened cigarettes. A woman will walk across your bed wearing only your vest. You’ll smile, dazed. In a room that over looks a farm you keep a toothbrush, a book and socks.

You are amazed by everything. It was the bike paths and now it’s the birds being flounced by the updraft from the highway. But the contrasts are fluorescent, the flock recovers and shakes from a cloud like a dash of pepper, synchronized and settling onto a telephone wire, whispering something in French.

Settling one knee, you remove my shoe and study my feet to evaluate my steps – you say, “Jellyfish feet.” And I am offended. “You float. These blue marble veins are throughout. Baby toes like cantaloupes, they take you from the door in fruit salad sandals. What is your preference? Where are your photos? Have you ever seen anything? If reincarnation is exploration, dying is the imagine steam, you will return as blindness.”

___________________________________________

In other news...

The Broad Set Writing Collective has a reading coming up!

September 18th. 7:00pm @ Brickbat Books in Philadelphia. Address: 709 South Fourth Street.

Please come by. We are going to have free beer, a fresh magazine and after join us for surrealist writing games at the pub around the corner.

Also, the amazing people at PANK Magazine continue their remarkable…ness with their take on some 'awkward topics.' It's a good read, check it out!

Toa Lin's new book comes out soon. He was nice enough to send me some stickers. Take a peak at Tao's blog for more information on "Shoplifting From American Apparel."

Lastly, Skive Magazine 12 is out! Buy a copy or download the free verse at the Skive Website. Check out the great stuff inside and also my work pages 206 & 207. Audio coming soon.

Why The World Is a Square

2009-08-22T17:56:00.000-04:00

There you were.

You were staring at me from those lovely glasses you wear when you need to read or drive.

I was immediately captivated.

You said, "I dropped my pencil."

I said, "I think I love you."

You told me that your mother said you would never understand men. You think she was right.

I smile and start to sweat.

Your brother walks into the room and asks why we are both sweating.

"Because the air conditioner broke again and we were just running," comes out of my mouth like magic.

I stumble awkwardly out of the room.

Two weeks later you give me a cake with no writing on it. I still believe you to be my soul mate.

You call me on the phone and tell me that you don't want to wear a white dress to our wedding. I nod as if you can hear me. It's a nervous tic of mine. I kiss the phone softly when you say goodnight.

At this moment, two satellites who have grown fond of one another collide in space. They do not love like we do. They should have been more careful. The sun looks on with burning interest. The moon laughs and the earth just keeps spinning.

Sometimes I dream at night and I see our children and their children and so on and they are all smiling. There is lighthearted music playing in the background. They are all wearing black turtlenecks. I sweat awkwardly again.

When we die our souls will fly through the air in sweeping semi-circles and continually crash into each other. Despite your lack of arms or hands, you will hold me and beg me to stay near you in your own voiceless way. I will oblige, never having loved you more than in that moment.

Rolling Hill Pines Apt. Complex

2009-08-15T07:00:00.000-04:00

It was a Saturday when it happened. I remembered because I had nothing to do that day but smoke cigarettes from the third story balcony and make constellations from the butts that littered the grass. A group of people arrived at our apartment complex; a non-descript number of them, somewhere between 11 and 54 professionally dressed grown folks lined up outside. I assumed the suits and fine dresses were to put people at ease.

All at once they spoke in unison to the tenants of Rolling Pine Hills Apartment complex located off of Route 27 in historic Mill Hill, NJ:

“People of Rolling Pine Hills Apartment complex located off of Rt 27 in historic Mill Hill New Jersey; please leave your domiciles and converse with us. We appreciate your attention away from your digital cable, internet porn and private drinking and assure you we will not take much of your precious leisure time,”

I was excited. Something like this so rarely happens and finally I could meet and greet my neighbors. Publicly, I wanted good relations with them so that I would not have another incident like the one that forced my mother and I to move from the Hidden Creek Village Apartment complex right off Route 99 in cheap Little Egg Harbor. I added another star to the grass and went inside to tell my mother the news.

However, she had beaten me to the punch, and was putting her shoes on as I opened the door.

“Did you hear?” I asked.

“Yes, now go downstairs.”

Looking at the other apartment doors open I tried to make eye contact with my neighbors and give them my trademarked smiled but to no avail. They stared at the group of strangers gathered and made no attempt to act in a neighborly way. It was Hidden Creek Valley all over again.

Most of the tenants gathered on the parking lot, some with baseball bats, some with erections and some with children. Juxtaposed with the group of professionals they looked quite shabby.

“Good people of this fine community, we mean you no harm” said the professionals.

Bats were lowered and erections went flaccid. Children remained the same.
“We have come to your fine domiciles for two reasons. First: to convince you, using Einstein’s theory of special relativity that you are all beings made of pure light and that you have all collectively manufactured the physical world around us through the selling of kidneys and the flexing of calf muscles.”

Some wise ass shouted: “I’ve been trying to tell them that for years!”

The crowed awkwardly laughed and agreed quietly to each other, recounting particular times the wise ass would sneak into their bedrooms while they were at work and leave informative, but tacky, pamphlets on their kitchen tables.

“We could bore you with the details but you already know this” said the professionals.

“Secondly, we would like your help with a search we have been conducting. Using the most high-tech physics available on the free market we have shot enough atoms at other atoms to determine the nature of the origins of our universe. We have discovered that it was a collision of a toy lightsaber manufactured as merchandising item from the Star Wars universe (of whose origins we are also investigating) and a large 1500 watt Microwave oven.

My mother gasped. The crowd gasped.

“After consulting numerous Ouija boards, we have come to the conclusion that the answer to the meaning of life can be found here. We have searched many communities of beings of pure light, and this group assembled before us is by far the brightest. We humbly ask your permissions to perform a search for these unmoved movers among both the people and possessions of Rolling Pine Hills apartment complex.

My mother began to cry, and I started another cigarette.

It was Hidden Creek Valley all over again.

****
Listening to: Cables by Big Black

The Silver Pen and the Men in White Suits (One of Them Has a Beard)

2009-08-09T21:58:00.003-04:00

First of all I apologize for the length of this piece. I thought about doing it in multiple parts but decided it wouldn't work as well. Let me know what you think and absolutely feel free to criticize it.

By Dr. Mullin

Religion has never played a big part in my relationships, which would explain how a semi-pious Catholic and myself – a raving Atheist – were able to coexist peacefully and even sleep together for two years without much of an incident outside the typical fight over stupid shit that, in the end, doesn’t matter at all.

I was lucky enough that it never came up that I think religion is a crutch for the weak and the excuse of all excuses to explain the unknown, and it never came up that she believed in a greater being and an afterlife and that everything happens for a reason.

And when I got down on one knee four months ago, she said “yes” without so much as a, “So how is this ceremony going to go, exactly?” I was fortunate.

Well, until about two hours ago, when she called me to tell me that she has been cheating on me for the past two months. And when I tell you that it’s because, “Jake, you’re just not a good Christian,” I hope I’m not the only one who sees the magnificent irony there.

And this brings us to now. I’m the only one home. I’m standing in the upstairs bathroom, same as I have been for about half an hour now, just staring at myself in the mirror. With an occasional glance, of course, to the nifty little piece of hardware I brought in with me.

This gorgeously morbid piece of machinery is a Ruger .22 rifle. Not quite something Arnold might carry around on him, but it should do the trick – at least that’s what I’m hoping. I’ve never done this before, obviously.

No, it’s not mine. It’s my little brother’s, which in and of itself is a little strange. It would be weirder if he hadn’t started carrying around knives some time in the past year. Don’t know why – and these aren’t just knives, mind you, they’re KNIVES, like two steps under Rambo himself.

I decided to get it from his closet when I realized that I was too angry to just let this bullshit go. I’ll be honest, my first thought was finding out who the other son of a bitch was and taking him with me, but I realize that she would never tell me anyway. Fucker.

And it doesn’t matter. All I want to get out of this is an end to all this crap – how the hell am I ever going to trust another woman again when the one I thought was perfect totally fucks me over like this?

Go ahead and call me a pessimist if you want, but you can go fuck yourself. I’m a realist, and reality sucks ass. Take it or leave it, kiddies.

And on the plus side, maybe she will realize it’s all her fault and feel like shit for it. That would be a nice bonus.

The gun’s loaded, but I’m not. Maybe I should be. Might make this whole thing a lot easier. I’m wondering if I can actually go through with it, if I can actually point and pull the trigger and not give a damn about what happens next. I think I can.

Time for the sickly-sweet embrace of death to take all the pain away. Wait – what? When did I become a manlier version of the singer from HIM? Fuck this shit. I pick the gun up, aim at my temple, and squeeze.

* * * * * * *

Huh. Somebody got it right with the bright light bullshit. It’s like being an inch and a half away from the sun. Must be an after-effect of the bullet tearing my brain apart. Neat stuff. I’m wondering what happens – wait, how can I still be conscious if I’m dead?

FUCK. It didn’t work.

I’m probably looking into the lights over my hospital bed right now. Someone must be operating on the side of my head, trying to remove the projectile. My parents must be in the waiting room.

This is how it would go. My dad has one hand on my mom’s right leg – he’s always on that side – and the other hand on his cell, getting a therapist all lined up for me. My mom’s crying, face in hands, wondering “What in the world could have pushed him to such an extreme?” The nurse at the front desk is watching them in empathy, thinking, “Fuckin’ kids these days.” It’s a male nurse. He’s overweight, which I think is funny somehow.

I open my eyes to see what exactly is going on, and the light dissipates. Now I’m looking up into a very pure, blue sky. No sun in sight, but it’s very warm and bright here. Where the hell am I?

I sit up at a slight angle, using my arms to brace myself. I look around and notice that my surroundings are distinctly…fluffy. Like I’m sitting inside a pillow. I’m scratching my head in disbelief and I find the wound on the right side. No blood comes off on my hand, which I think is odd. It feels like the forces of nature created a miniature Grand Canyon on my person. I hate the Grand Canyon.

When I’m done being fascinatingly horrified with my boo-boo, I stand up and see that there are people all around me, some seated just as I was, some standing, looking confused like I am now, and some walking ahead to some distant point on the horizon. Well all right then. Let’s see what goes on here.

The fluff is about ankle deep, but it doesn’t obstruct my movement. I wonder what’s underneath it? I dig through what I can, and the “ground” below is soft and kind of squishy. Definitely not dirt. Or anything else that ground should be made of.

A few minutes into my walk, I see what looks like a tollbooth up ahead, surrounded by tall, regal looking wrought-iron fence. Maximum-security type stuff, but for rich folks. I start to get closer to the booth, but notice a line of exorbitant proportions is forming in front of me. I join it. And wait.

An older gentleman wearing a hospital gown and bracelet gets in line behind me. From what I can tell he has no grotesque injuries, which may explain why he is staring at mine with soft intent and sadness. I ignore him.

The line moves relatively quickly, and just as I am becoming second in line to step up to the booth, the old man taps me on the shoulder.

“Did you do that?” he asks, gesturing toward my gaping hole.

I’m thinking intently about lying to him, saying I was the unlucky victim of an ill-advised game of Russian roulette because me and my drunken pals were all bored, but I decide not to. Why would he care anyway?

“Yeah, I did it.” He looks disappointed. “What? I had my reasons, and that should be more than good enough for you. You don’t even know what happened, so why don’t you just lay off?”

He turns away, but I can’t tell if it’s because he is chastened or if he thinks he is wasting his time on the young whippersnapper in front of him.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I ask him.

“It was my time,” he says. He shakes his head unhappily. “I’d was in the hospital for about a month, managing to hang on. For a second even I thought I might make it.” He looks down at his feet. “We were wrong. We were all wrong.”

I raise my eyebrows at the old man, and since he continues to stare sadly at his feet, I decide not to bother and turn around just in time to see that my time at the tollbooth has come. I step forward.

The curiously dressed man in the window doesn’t even bother to raise his head from the list he is poring over. “Name?” he says, in a voice that is unfittingly high pitched.

I squint curiously at him before answering. “Jake Douglass.”

He makes a check mark on the list and looks up at me, and now I’m face to face with what appears to be a 13-year-old boy. Who has wings. You have no idea how confused I am right now. This has to be a dream. Do people dream when they die?

“You know,” he says sternly, “you really shouldn’t have done that. Not going to do you any favors up here, that’s for sure.”

I can’t take this kid seriously. He’s trying to lecture me while wearing fairy wings? For real?

He consults the list again. “All right. Well you’re apparently going in for a talk before we send you off to your final destination. Not sure why, but don’t question the boss.” He points slightly behind me. “Take that hallway to the second door from the end.”

I turn and look, and there is indeed a hallway, just as fluffy as the rest of my surroundings. It looks more like a tunnel, considering that we aren’t actually in a building, as far as I can tell.

“Hang on a second,” I say, turning back to him. He looks perturbed that I haven’t just obeyed the instructions and gotten on with it. “You said, ‘up here.’ Where exactly is ‘up here?’”

He looks at me, puzzled, like I should obviously know the answer to my own question, and so turns once again to the list in front of him for the answer. “Aha, that would explain it. Instead of going to the second door from the end, head all the way to the end of the hall. Go on now. I’m not the one who can help you.”

“No, wait, what would explain it?” He must be tired of me by now. He makes a motion to someone behind me and suddenly I find myself accompanied by two men wearing white suits and sunglasses. The old man is watching me now, shaking his head.

“What, are you going to just take this sitting down?” I ask him. “Why is everyone so judgmental? Who are you people? What the HELL is going on here?”

Everything has stopped. I’m facedown in the fluff, one of the men in a white suit and sunglasses is holding me down using some kind of MMA tactic that I don’t know how to wrest myself from. The other man gets down on one knee and brings his face uncomfortably close to mine.

“Listen,” he says slowly. “We don’t want any of that kind of language up here, you got that? Now if you please, we would like to escort you to the door at the end of the hall without any further incident. How does that sound?”

I’m being lifted up before I have a chance to respond, and the two men are ushering me down the hallway to the door at the end. There are doors only on one side of the hallway, random hard points emerging from an otherwise soft, cushy environment. Like these men in white suits.

We’ve reached the door. One of the men opens it and gestures inside to a completely dark room. At the risk of ending up on the ground once again, I have decided to comply this time, and so enter the room. The door shuts gently behind me.

A single, tiny light source emerges from the ceiling and illuminates what appears to be a very comfortable chair in front of me, resting atop a short pillar of fluff. The stuff is literally everywhere. I presume this is a signal, so I sit down in the chair.

The chair is indeed very cushy. Just as I settle in, the entire room is awash in light. I cram my eyelids closed in an effort to protect my retinas, even shielding them with one arm while I grip the chair in discomfort.

“Good afternoon, Jake,” I hear a voice in front of me say.

The light is still there. “Uh…hi there,” I say, still squinting.

Finally the brightness subsides, and when my eyes are done adjusting I see another man in a white suit seated behind a desk about five feet in front of me. This one isn’t wearing any sunglasses. He’s looking at me, smiling a very kind smile. I have no idea why, but he does have a pretty awesome beard.

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” he says. He looks down at the desk.

I look around me, puzzled. He appreciates what? I guess he must have one of those Bluetooth earbud things and is talking to someone on the phone.

Without looking up, he issues a single laugh of amusement. “No, no, we don’t use those up here. No need.”

Interesting. I think I know what’s going on now. Go fuck yourself, beard guy.

He looks up at me, and I can see nothing but fury in the face that used to be smiling at me. Now he’s looking back down at the desk in front of him. He appears to be consulting some kind of folder.

“You guys are big on lists and stuff here, huh?”

“Jake, you shouldn’t be so happy with yourself considering your past actions, but then again you really don’t have any idea what is going on here. So, I don’t expect that I will find you quaking in your boots like some of the people we get up here.”

“Damn straight you won’t.” I point at him sternly. “I don’t know what you jokers are trying to get away with, but you can bet your fancy wardrobe I’m not just going to go along with it.”

“Trust me, Jake, we aren’t trying, anything. We’ve been doing this forever. I would say since the beginning of time, but since I was the one who began time, that would technically be incorrect.”

I laugh at his last comment. “How does one ‘begin’ time, might I ask?” I shake my head incredulously. “I don’t know what you’re on, dude, but seriously, I just want to get out of here.”

He looks up from the desk and smiles at me. “And once we are done here I would be more than happy to grant that request. We just have a few things to go over.”

He stands up and walks around the desk to get closer to me, bringing the chair along with him. He sets it down in front of me and sits.

“So let’s start off with an introduction,” he says. “I don’t think it’s quite fair to you that I know everything about you and you know nothing about me.”

“I know you apparently read minds,” I say wryly. I’m taking this very well, considering.

“Indeed you are,” he says. “This is going to be a little bit hard for you to understand, considering your beliefs – or lack thereof – but I will put it very shortly.” He smiles broadly at me. “Jake, I’m God.”

I just stare at him for a moment. Then I burst into laughter.

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say buddy.” I look around. “Next thing you know Elvis and Santa are going to come through that door over there holding hands and then Nicholas Cage is going to develop a new facial expression.” That strikes me as being even funnier, so I laugh some more.

“I’m glad you find humor in all this,” he says. “Truth is, you committed suicide, and as such you have a lot to answer for. Not only that, but you spent the last seven years of your life denouncing my existence.” He shakes his head. “Can’t say I’m a fan, Jake.”

“Oh, please. You honestly expect me to believe that since you sit me down in a fluffy room and ‘read my mind’ and have winged 13-year olds working for you that you’re a god, huh?”

“Not a god, the God.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Jake, sooner or later you will realize I’m telling you the truth.”

“No, sooner or later I will probably wake up from this dream on a hospital bed with my friends and family distraught in the lobby and the police waiting to take me away to serve my time for trying to do myself a huge favor.”

“If that’s what you want I can certainly give you a second chance to redeem yourself and dedicate your life to my service.”

“To your service, huh? Is that service like in the fast food industry or service like, ‘Congratulations, here is your ball and chain and here is where you will be sitting, now row the goddam boat?’”

“Row the what boat?”

“Oh knock it off and answer my questions.”

He stands up and clasps his hands behind his back. “Very well. What is it exactly that you would like to know?”

“I want to know how I can get out of this stupid dream and just die and get it over with.”

He chuckles, then starts pacing the floor in front of me. “Well, Jake, for starters this isn’t a dream. And you are dead. Very much so, in fact. You’re in Heaven, my kingdom.”

I tilt my head in disbelief. “Look man, I know full well this is a dream. Why do you think this doesn’t hurt?” I gesture to my head wound. “You never feel pain in dreams, and if this sucker doesn’t hurt then this can’t possibly be reality.”

The smug look I’m giving him is suddenly interrupted by the absolute most unpleasant sensation I have ever felt – immense, skyrocketing pain grips my head, and I fall out of the chair, screaming.

“This pain?” he asks, just barely audible over my racket. “I’ve been gracious enough to relieve you of it since you’ve been here. And I will continue to do so if you agree to cooperate.” He leans down to me, as I am now writhing in the fluff. “What do you say?”

“YES! FINE!” I yell, and the pain stops instantaneously. I stay on the ground a moment, catching my breath, and then transition to a sitting position and look up at him. “What the hell, man?”

“I do what I must,” he says. “Please have a seat back in the chair.” I oblige, and he stands before me, arms crossed. “Suspend your disbelief for a moment, Jake, and you will know the truth.”

“If you are really God, then you already know that nothing you say or do is really going to make me believe,” I say. “Might as well give it up now, champ.”

“As supportive as that is, I don’t think I will.”

“Suit yourself. Hope you don’t mind having your time wasted.”

“Not particularly, no.”

I scoff. “Oh, that’s right, I’m sorry. You created time. You have as much of it as you could possibly need, right?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“Fine.” I cross my arms and lean back in the chair. “You give this kind of treatment to all the Atheists who end up here?”

“Yes, I do. I feel that it is important to explain to them exactly where they went wrong and give them a chance to redeem themselves, like I stated earlier.”

“Well to be honest I don’t think it’s too hard to figure out where I ‘went wrong,’ but sure. Go to town.”

He laughs. “You’re right Jake. So I’ll spare you the lecture, since you won’t appreciate it anyway, I don’t think. I’ll cut right to the chase.”

Finally.

“You have a choice to make,” he says. “The first option is that you return to Earth. You can accept the consequences of your actions and lead a fuller, better life in service to and belief in me.”

“Sounds super awesome.”

He ignores my sarcasm. “The second option is far less pleasant, and I think you might know what it already is.”

Interesting. “So first you’re going to have to tell me how facing the people who love me and going through mindless therapy that will, inevitably, just fuck me up more, is going to be pleasant, and then you’re going to have to elaborate on that second option.”

He’s either ignoring the f-bomb that I dropped or he didn’t hear it, because he’s not reacting this time.

“I’m ignoring it.”

Well then there we go.

“The second option is for me to send you to the underworld, where you will be forced into painful, never-ending manual labor in the service of the fallen angel, Lucifer.”

“So how is that different from you bringing me back to life, if I am in fact dead? Way it seems to me, I’d just be in your service – probably equally painful – until I died naturally, wouldn’t I?”

“If that’s the way you choose to look at it, then yes. Or you could view it as an opportunity to enrich your life and the lives of others around you, and then retire to the comfort of my kingdom when you pass away of old age.”

“So this is basically just a glorified old folks’ home then, huh?”

“Not quite. We do have a younger population up here as well.”

“Interesting. What’s the deal with bringing babies and people in their 20’s up here then, huh? Why not let them keep living?”

“It’s not up to me, Jake.” He sits back down in his chair, crossing his right leg over his left. “I know what’s going to happen, but I don’t make it happen. My direct influence ended after I created the universe.”

“So then you just watch with your popcorn while countries are turned to rubble and entire civilizations are lost to genocide?”

“I made a decision, Jake. I created humans to be a thinking species capable of walking on both sides of the moral line. I decided to let humanity figure out how to solve these problems on its own, and in turn make itself stronger and better.”

“Have you noticed that it’s not quite working?”

“Consider that your species has only been around for a few thousand years, Jake,” he says. “The evolution of the collective psyche takes much longer than that.”

I think about this for a second. “Like how long? Hundreds of millions of years or something?”

He smiles. “We’ll find out someday.”

“Oh, sure.”

He walks back over to the desk, still smiling, and picks up what he was looking at earlier. It’s a file folder. It has my name on the front.

“What’s that? My file?”

“Yes Jake.” He leans down and opens up one of the desk drawers, taking out a long, thin wooden box with no markings on it. “Do you know what this is?”

I roll my eyes at him. “Harry Potter’s wand?”

“No, Jake, but –”

“Voldemort’s wand? He’s gonna be pissed, you know.”

He shoots me a look that transmits nothing but “I’m fed up with you” and opens the box, pulling out a very shiny silver pen.

“Drew Rosenhaus’s wand?”

“This is the pen I use to judge people with, Jake.”

Well that’s not high and mighty of him at all.

He ignores me again. “I am going to use this pen to send you to the appropriate place after our conversation is over. It’s up to you. Is this file going to get bigger, or not?”

I decide that I am finally fed up with all of this. “So how many people do you pull this shit on during the course of a day? Because in all honesty, I’m surprised I lasted this long without blowing a gasket and ruining that fancy suit of yours.”

“Jake, you couldn’t harm me with the most powerful weapons mankind has ever created.”

Yeah well read this thought, asshole. I’m willing to try. Your fun is over.

I stand up from the chair and start run-walking toward him, and he doesn’t make an attempt to move or go for some kind of object with which to bludgeon me. The chair would do nicely.

I’m a foot away from him now, and I cock back my right fist. I put all my power and weight behind the punch I throw at him.

The room is full of men in white suits, all of them wearing sunglasses except for the one with the beard. I’m buried in a pile of them. Now I’m on my feet, being dragged out the door and back down the hallway and now to the right.

Now I’m being unceremoniously dumped down some kind of shaft. It looks like an old-fashioned well you would find in a Victorian backyard. It’s really hot in here.

Funny. I can’t seem to recall whether or not that punch actually landed.

Summer Sadness

2009-08-09T19:36:00.009-04:00

Since we are in the mist of summer and there seems to be a theme going, I will only add to it haha. I wrote this piece a while back and actually submitted it to Willows Wept Review but it got rejected. I don't know what's wrong but I feel as if something is missing with it so maybe you can help. Let me know?

Summer Sadness by Glen Binger

We did it on the beach tonight. Sex, I mean. We had sex on the beach about an hour ago. I’ve never had so much sand wedged in that crevice before. But at least the summer’s clear stars made me feel like my existence mattered. I know for a fact that she didn’t make me feel that way. She used me. For money, for rides, for sex. Anything really. Anything but a relationship.

“You gonna be around tomorrow morning?” She pulled her head through the white t-shirt.

“What else am I going to be doing?”

“I don’t know.”

We stood up and walked back to our bikes up on the boardwalk in silence. I wanted to die.

“Okay,” she pedaled off. “I’ll call you later.”

I walked my bike to 7-11 across the street and got a buttered roll.

“Do you have any Dutchies left,” I asked the clerk.

“I think,” she replied. “Rollin’ a blunt, huh?”

She reached below the counter, then came back up and handed me the cigar.

“Yeah,” I muttered, not the slightest bit surprised.

I paid the three dollars and left walking back towards the beach after locking my bike to a telephone pole next to the store.

*******

I flicked the roach of the blunt away and pushed my foot down, smothering the butt. My cell phone started vibrating. It was her. I didn’t answer it. I turned the phone off instead, crossed my legs and laid back into the cool sand. My eyes opened for only the starry, black canvas glued to the ceiling in front of me. The waves crashed in the background, giving off a natural, yet soothing, oceanic sound.

I let the stars pierce every piece of my exposed skin like a thin layer of chilly mist. I developed a likening for them and embedded the feeling into the front of my mind. It reminded me of the feeling I get when I ride a bike at night – pedaling as fast as I can as the smooth summer air forms and wraps around every curve of my body, no matter how soft or how jagged.

Then before I could think twice I was back at 7-11 unlocking my bike, getting ready to sprint-pedal down Ocean Avenue. My summer sadness was irrelevant as long as I could enjoy myself. As long as she wasn’t around. As long as I was alone, riding my beach cruiser down Ocean Ave on a weekday summer night. Only then did my existence matter.

-------

Currently Listening To: John Mayer, "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room"

Summer and Summer Again

2009-08-07T15:25:00.006-04:00

The water was filled with jellyfish and seaweed and you refused to get in.
“You’ve never even seen the Atlantic before,” I said, “What did you come all the way here for?”
New Jersey is famous for the shore even though the water is opaque. The first time I went to Florida, I couldn’t believe it. I had never seen sand under the water, or fish, or my own toes.
“I’m not really a beach person,” you said.
“How can you not be a beach person if you’ve never been to the beach?”
You made fun of my accent and I did the same to you. You asked why I chose to move here after traveling around all over the place, and I asked you how you could stay in the same place for so long.
I stood knee deep in the water and you sat on the beach, staring around at the families swimming and sunning themselves. I wanted to keep going but I came back for you.

I like light jacket weather and the colors of the trees. You’re used to warm weather and wide-open spaces, which Jersey City doesn’t afford. I took you to New York and showed you Central Park, which you agreed was nice. I took you to the farmland that no one realizes we have, and it reminded you of home.
I’ve lived in a dozen cities. The empty factories and abandoned warehouses that make you so uncomfortable are just part of the scenery for me. It’s the open spaces I can’t stand. When I met you I was planning on getting out of there as fast as possible. You were planning the same thing, but as I watched you standing in someone else’s field, after a few months of city living, you looked happy for the first time in a while.
I glanced all around me, wondering who might have been watching, feeling exposed without trees or buildings. You wanted to keep going but you came back for me.

I can recognize the sky when it’s about to snow, and the right kind of snow for making snowmen. My aunt wanted me to stay with her at her timeshare in Florida again, but I decided to stick around. I never mentioned it to you, and I never mentioned you to her.
Later I thought it might have been a mistake. But if I went down there I might not have wanted to come back, and you made me want to try to stick it out.
“I don't know if I can stay here for much longer,” you said as we made pasta.
“I thought you wanted a change of scenery,” I said.
“I did, but I think I need another one.”
We ate dinner in silence, and drank our New Year’s champagne long before midnight.

It was impossible for the weather to decide anything anymore. It was snowing one day, then sixty degrees the next.
You argued with me about why I felt restless, even though you felt the same way. You said I could never be happy anywhere. I reminded you that the only reason you came with me was because you weren’t happy.

Since I left school, that was the longest I’d stayed at a job, and stayed with a person. The weather finally decided to stick to hot and muggy. I packed up my suitcase to head south, and you packed up yours.
“Are you going home?” I asked.
“No,” you said.
“Well, where are you going?”
“Somewhere new.”
“Me too,” I said.

The August 1st summary

2009-08-04T13:38:00.010-04:00

August 1st was the inaugural Broad Set Writing Collective reading. I waited outside The Starry Night Café going through Mary Oliver’s dazzling poetry collection, Thirst, thinking how it was odd that I had never read the piece Messenger despite having the collection for two years. I was nervous. What should I say to begin the event? I thought about the first time I read in front of Dr. Hess’s classroom and how I sat down, looked at the class and said “You guy like the Knicks? Neither do it.” Some laughed, some didn’t but that little stupid comment set some kind of tone which I was able to build my confidence off of. With that in mind I decided to tell the 35 people in front of me that I had tried relentlessly to get Queen Latifah to MC the event. Then I explained that she was busy and they were stuck with me. I would get into the more serious stuff, the listing of the thank yous. I wanted to be careful here. I didn’t want to gain any sort of rhyme for each person helped us in a unique and wonderful way and a rhythmic 'thank you' implies I am going through the motions. I truly wasn’t.

First I thanked Sam Ciero for his work in creating the Lo-Fidelity.

I thanked Laura Mortkowitz, which caught her off guard, for copy editing the magazine.

Then I thanked Lauren Cerand for her guidance and for her fantastic contributions.

I also thanked Dr. Hess for being a mentor and role model (roll, if you read the magazine, gotta love typos) for all of us.

I thanked everyone for being there and explained The Broad Set briefly. Then I read this poem because it creates an understated tone while explaining how a lot of us live.

Messenger

My work is loving the world. Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird — equal seekers of sweetness. Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums. Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn? Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished. The phoebe, the delphinium. The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture. Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart and these body-clothes, a mouth with which to give shouts of joy to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam, telling them all, over and over, how it is that we live forever.

-By Mary Oliver

The reading itself went beautifully. Kiley got everyone going with her poignant piece. Robin had us all clapping with her piece. (Robin, that final line is perfect.) Glen, Andrew and Sam got us all laughing with their experimental pieces about Buildings, Bananas and Doctors.
We were done right at 8:00pm which allowed us to exit into a cooling blue night. We sat outside at a local tavern and held our beers up together and congratulated each other of coming together as a group and making something amazing happen.

We laughed louder than anyone and eventually began playing surrealist writing games which we learned in Dr. Hess’s class.

On the way home I felt like a kid the day after Christmas. You may know the feeling where maybe you wake up the following day and remember all the great presents you have now. And you get excited and run to play with them. Only the gift I got on August 1st was accomplishment. It feels better than any Power Ranger toy I ever got.

______________________

I would like to take this opportunity to announce our second reading. September 18th 2009 at Brickbat Books in Philadelphia. Things start at 7:00PM and there will be free beer. If you come out with us after you can join us in our surrealist games.

Secondly - I am giving away 20 free copies of Lo-Fidelity, The Broad Set Writing Collective Edition Featuring Lauren Cerand. All you have to do is promote the magazine on facebook, your blog, your twitter or whatever and e-mail me the link, along with your address. It could be as simple as 2 sentences as to why we rock. If yours is the best one, I will buy you a drink at the Brickbat reading.

Broadsetwritingcollective@gmail.com

Paranormal Crisis by Andrew Kaspereen

2009-07-27T16:31:00.001-04:00

Fearing that I had grown predictable in my age and comfort with society, I decided that my life was better served in the service industry. I cast a pink slip of triumphant resignation to my employer in the business world, left my loft apartment in the city for a small and modest condo on the city’s edge, and began soul searching. Roughly twenty minutes after I began said search, I discovered my passion.
Ron, I thought to myself, you’ve got so many discernible talents. Take your passion for making your own vegetable, how many people can do that? What about your skill in hand drawing maps of the rougher areas of Camden, New Jersey? With skills like these, you could do anything.
But what was my passion going to allow me to accomplish? Surely a deep understanding of my many facets should have yielded a bold, new direction in my life. Yet, it seemed it was not to be at that moment. Defeated, I turned on the television. Now without cable, I was unable to get the extended channels, but living in the city I was able to get the bare- boned basics.
On the television was an infomercial for help with home owners. “Times are hard,” it began playing soft music and showing unemployment centers with lines out the door, panning to an outline of the city, and then changed to an old woman being handed a giant pink slip that said medical care denied. The voice returned. “With so few things in your life being out your control, wouldn’t it be nice to feel secure in just one thing?” Suddenly the music stops. All of a sudden the words “REFINANCE! REFINANCE! REFINANCE!” and “HELP US HELP YOU!” in bright neon colors.
The rest of the commercial was forgettable, so much so that I quickly fell asleep.
I dreamt about being in a room with a ghost sitting on a couch and heckling me for being old. He looked like Mark Twain.
“You aren’t young anymore. Buy me a discount movie ticket.” he said.
“You’re dead.” I said.
“You bring up a valid point. Are you still happy?” he asked.
“Alright, please leave before I start shouting.” I said.
Then I woke up. I decided I needed breakfast. I made my way to the kitchen.
As I fired the stove, I was struck like a small deer on county rode in the twilight by a brilliant idea: Affordable ghost hunting. The market was brimming with opportunity for discounted services and I was just the man for it. I always prided myself on my ability to haggle. That is to say that I felt competent in the area of making a deal. In high school I was voted “most likely to convince that a compromise of some kind was likely to be mutually beneficial for both parties of the dispute.”
Getting the ad in the paper was very simple. I called and offered to pay them. Being a newspaper, they were slightly perplexed by the idea of money, but I was able to convince them to “play ball” as those who are knowledgeable in slang might say. The add read like this: “Have Ghosts? Have little to know money? No Problem! Let the experts at Ron’s Ghost Punishers take care of everything.” After the ad there was a number to call.
I neglected to mention that I had never actually encountered a ghost, but I figured that ghosts were a lot like people, just able to go through walls and slightly transparent. My philosophy was if you could talk to a person, well, a ghost couldn’t be too different. It wasn’t like they made it seem on movies with the backpack vacuums and coolers filled with poltergeists. Hell, I didn’t even own a cooler or a vacuum. In my previous path in life, I was a bit of a business man; I went to meetings, sometimes without a clue as to the sort of meeting I was about to enter. How did I survive? I decided that preparation of the mental nature was everything. I had to walk into the meeting as if I was walking on water. It worked moderately well, except with religious clients who felt I was trying to mock their belief systems.
Preparation for this job came in the form of waiting by my phone, which was now corded, as I was trying to find joy in the simpler things. In my lifetime, I had been a very simple man in terms of desire, no wife, no children, a goldfish named Raul for company, and the occasional viewing of a boxed DVD set of “Matlock” that my grandmother left me when she passed into the great hereafter. Now, I had begun to find my life slightly lacking. I needed fulfillment.
Fulfillment did not come in the four days I sat waiting for a phone call. The things that did come were thirst, hunger, boredom, personal frustration, a desire to call the cable company and ask for cable again, a deep philosophical inquiry into the soul, and analysis of the socialist party of America’s persona l viewpoints. The waiting always seems to be the hardest; at least that’s what I’ve been told.
On the fifth day, the phone finally rang. I jumped and quickly grabbed the receiver. “Ron’s Ghost Punishers, this is Ron; how may I help you?”
“Yeah, hi Ron. My name is Anton Lido. I got this ghost in my basement and he keeps messing with my laundry. I mean, I don’t care that the whites are out of order and mixin’ with the colors, but it’s my wife. She keeps complaining about it. I keep tellin’ her, I say, Sheila Damnit, that ghost is tearin’ us apart. She just doesn’t want to listen, though.”
There are few things more nefarious than a person who messes with other people’s laundry. It is a sacred establishment, like communion at church or the Special Olympics. I understood Anton’s struggle. Before I answered him, I had to think. What sort of things would a paranormal expert ask? “What can you tell me about the Ghost?”
“Well, he messes with the laundry and he is a heavy set man in a flannel shirt. I think his name is Sam, but that’s only when I hear him talkin’ to someone, who I suppose is him unless he has Ghost company or something.”

“Alright, let me write this down.” I said as I sat there without a pen and paper. I found pretending to sound official helps. “Is he impolite or dangerous?”
“Not at all; in fact, he’s very polite. I feel bad askin’ him to leave, but Sheila is talkin’ about separation. Polite or not, that’s my wife. I saw your ad, and I figured what the hell do I have to lose?”
“I understand completely, where do you reside?”
***
That evening, I went to the Lido residence to meet with the ghost who I was under the belief to be known as Sam.
Anton answered the door. He was a middle aged man, balding and dressed much like he described Sam. “Hey there, Ron. Funny, I thought you’d be younger.”
I smiled. “Well, with age comes wisdom I suppose. Let’s go to the basement and I’ll see what I can do about your laundry problem.” I winked at him for emphasis. Sometimes actions like that make customers feel at ease, at least that’s what I was told by a close friend in the service industry. I myself always felt as if the salesman was trying to come onto me, but I am a man that is filled with suspicion at all times.
I walked into the basement. As I descended the stairs I saw a pair of oversized white briefs land in front of my feet. The sound of Sam’s voice became audible. “I should have been a pilot or something.”
And just like that it was the moment of truth.
I stepped off the final step. Before addressing the ghost, I decided to survey the scenery of the basement. It was unfinished, seemed to be in disrepair, and exactly the sort of place a rapscallion who liked to upset the order of laundry would nest himself. As I finished my survey of the basement, Sam noticed me.
“Oh, hello there. Who are you?” He seemed fairly polite.
“Hello, my name is Ron.”
“I’m Samuel, but you can call me Sam. What year is it?”
“It’s 2005; why are you throwing the Lido’s laundry? Don’t you realize…”
“2005? You don’t say. I died in 1980. I worked at a train station in maintenance. It was great because I could ride the train for free.”
“ That’s very interesting, but you avoided my question.”
“Have you ever been on a train?” he asked.
“Yes, once when I was a young man; now about my question?”
He smiled. “Of course, I’m sorry. They don’t tell me things here. The wife doesn’t like me much. I suppose I’m looking for something.”
Now I was getting somewhere. The stereotype about ghosts is that they have unfinished business. All I had to do was figure out what Sam’s was and he would be gone. “And that would be?”
“What is that?” he asked.
“What you are searching for?”
“Oh right, the meaning of life.” he said casually.
“Aren’t there other places to look than a laundry basket, besides what does it matter,m,l/ you’re dead.”
He seemed to be taken aback. “Well there’s no need to call names, Ron.” He stopped for a moment. “As for the laundry, there is a great deal we can learn from unlikely places.”
I smiled. Perhaps the ghost and I weren’t so different. “Sam, did you die in this house?”
“No. I died in Cleveland of a heart attack, I just floated around for a while and then settled in this basement.”
“Sam, perhaps you should try a laundry mat.” I said.
“That makes sense. A change of scenery would work for me.” He started to float a little higher. “Alright, I’ve decided. Take care,” and with that was gone.
I went back upstairs and gave Anton and Sheila (who had a pronounced Adam’s apple and what looked to be very powerful forearms) a thumb up to illustrate my success in vanquishing Sam. Sheila smiled and gave me a firm and uncomfortable hug, as well as a fresh store-bought rhubarb pie. I asked them for one hundred dollars, they provided and I left.
After dealing with the Lido’s, the phone rang sporadically. Most of the time it was telemarketers, but occasionally it would be a business call. There was one day where I was called by an older woman named Janice Wentworth. She had a problem with a poltergeist that was disturbing the order of her garden supplies in her shed.
I arrived outside her shed just before darkness. I opened the shed slowly, not sure if I would meet the ghost or a projectile of the garden variety. The shed was small enough, I had to duck from hitting my head, but it did have a decent length in terms of floor space. I walked to the center. “Hello?”
At first there was nothing, but then a loud sound. “Who are you?” As the words echoed in the shed a small elderly woman in a shawl. She was floating three feet in the air. “You aren’t Janice.”
“My name is Ron, I’m here to, to, help you.” I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to tell her to leave. I figured it was best to ease my way into it. “What’s your name?”
“Have you ever loved someone, Ron?” she asked.
“I’m sorry?” I asked. Had she really just asked me if I ever loved someone?
“Have you ever known the love of a woman,” she paused for a moment, “or a man if that’s what you prefer?”
“No ma’am, I’m very work-oriented. That and my parents never really got along as well as they should have. Well that and I was relatively shy in romantic avenues and I never really understood the idea of double-dating…”
She held up her translucent hand to stop me. “I understand. Why are you really here Ron?”
Feeling oddly out of my element, I was honest with the ghost. “I am an affordable ghost hunter who Mrs. Wentworth hired to remove you from her shed.”
“Oh, well that’s rather rude of her.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “Why are you here anyway” was what came out.
“A shed is a place of honesty.”
I stood in silence, expecting her to say more. When it did not come, I decided to inquire for further meaning. “What?”
“You were just honest with me one moment ago, were you not?”
She had a point, I was very honest. “You have to leave. If you don’t I’ll look incompetent.”
She looked at me and smiled. “Failing is alright, Ron. You just have to know what to do with yourself when you fail. I have been looking for honesty amongst these tools for weeks. All I have found so far is dirt.” she paused. “Janice is nice enough, but I knew it was only a matter of time before she sent someone here to ask me to leave…”
“But you aren’t going to?” I asked.
“Not today, I still need to look in the shovel. That’s always a good place.”
I realized that I couldn’t talk her out of it. I turned around to leave. As I left, the ghost called out to me. “Ron, you are going to be alright.”
I smiled to myself. Perhaps the ghost knew me better than I knew myself. I walked out and shut the gate and drove home in silence, thinking about the order of the universe, dirt, and the fact that I should have charged by the hour.
That night I fell asleep on the couch, still in my clothes from the day. I dreamt I was on my couch and the ghost who looked like Mark Twain was hovering over me again. “Hello, Ron.”
“Hi Dad.”
“You’re not as young as you used to be. You can’t use a computer like your nephew and you don’t like reality television.”
Instead of lashing out, I took it in for a moment and smiled at the ghost of my father. “I found the meaning of life today, Dad.”
“What? Really?”
I nodded.
“Tell me, I need to know!”
As I went to open my mouth I saw Sam and the old woman from the shed come in through the ceiling. Behind them were dozens of other ghosts. There were tall ones, fat ones, animals, and even some larger plants, all swirling around me clamoring for answers. The room faded and I opened my mouth to speak. “I’m old and don’t know what I want anymore. I tried hard to figure out what I needed and I assumed hunting those with unfinished business would lead me to an answer or fulfillment of some kind.”
The ghosts stared at me and shouted in unison “And?”
“Well it didn’t work. In fact, I’m poor and I live on the outskirts of the city by myself. I’ve never been so bored and without purpose in my entire life.”
“Get to the point!” shouted Sam.
“Tell us!” shouted a large cactus.
“We need to know!” yelled the old woman.
I took a deep breath, opened my mouth and prepared to tell them the sum of my life and everything that I was trying to accomplish, feel, and see. Just at that moment of intense self-realization my television woke me up.
On the screen was an advertisement. “Know something others don’t? At a dead end job? Why not take that knowledge and make some money…” it was cut short as my power went out. Then I got another idea.

The Broad Set Writing Collective proudly announces its first reading!!

2009-07-21T18:47:00.006-04:00

Please come out and show your support. Just by showing up you will receive a free copy of Lo-Fidelities latest magazine featuring fiction, non-fiction and/or photography by:

- Lauren Cerand. Publicist for Ben Greenman, Jean Thompson, Jonathan Baumbach and many more.

- Dr. Mickey Hess. Author of Big Wheel at the Cracker Factory, and Hip Hop in America; A Regional Guide

- Glen Binger. Editor for 50-1 and editor of Lo-Fidelity

- Sam Ciero. Lo-Fidelity Editor

This is going to be a great event with an after party to boot. No need to RSVP, just come and be prepared to have some fun. The train from NY takes you right to Belmar.

(also see alternate flyer)

_____________________________________________

In the coming weeks we will have a review of 500 Days of Summer, an interview with Director Aaron Narr, a music profile on our own Andrew Kaspereen with exclusive MP3s, a review of Stephen Elliott's The Adderall Diaries and much more creative writing from our talented artists.

I was also like to thank Sam Ciero, Kiley Rummler, Glen Binger and Laura Mortkowitz for all their hard work. With out these people we wouldn't have made the progress we have. This is only the beginging for The Broad Set.

Brand Scott Gorrell's During My Nervous Breakdown I Want To Have A Biographer Present

2009-07-18T12:18:00.005-04:00

Those in the literary community have learned that, like music, a lot of an artists work can be found for free online. There have been arguments as to the level of commitment that brings out in the reader. Brand Scott Gorrell of Muumuu House, is a poet who is unafraid to take a leap where many of us shy away. He is at the forefront of free online publications. He doesn't shy away from the heat in which he may recieve and ultimately is writer using technology to create new angels in literature. This is blaitently evident in the title of his newest work titled During My Nervous Breakdown I Want a Biographer Present. Who would have the guts to make that the title of their book? Not many. But it works.

Mr. Gorrell’s poetry gives you a lot of details which sometimes will garner a reaction similar to “Why do I care about this?” but beyond these questions rests a subtle psychology and occasionally reminds us not to overlook what surrounds us. A great example of this comes in the poem Alienated Afraid of Furniture in Bedroom. (Courtesy of Lamination Colony)

Alienated Afraid of Furniture in Bedroom

i am on the bed and everything feels wrong

i have gotten into an argument with the bed and in a fit of rage i have bludgeoned it with my fists

i am laying in the dry bathtub with my jeans on

the shampoo and conditioner are quiet and they don't move an inch

not an inch for anything

i feel accommodated and like a face that stretches until it becomes

something

i want to kill the shampoo and conditioner

i want to squeeze their insides on my face

____________________________________________________________________

Glen Binger and I had the chance to speak with Brandon about his latest work, online publications and his insights into the writing process.

What do you consider 'During My Nervous Breakdown I Want to have a Biographer Present' to be about?

A 24-year old male in Seattle, Washington exploring a specific range of emotions while he works as a copywriter in an office environment, develops relationships over the internet, walks on the sidewalk, involuntarily wakes at 4 AM and can't get back to sleep, fantasizes about things like love, sex, death, 'the apocalypse', and aliens, and other situations.

Your poems often have a distinct attitude. Is this an attitude that reflects your own personal emotions or an attitude that is developed for the purpose of your poetry?

I think the attitude in the poems I have written reflect how I wanted the poem to 'feel' when they're read, as if the 'attitude of the poem' was another tool I could use to influence how the poem is perceived. A lot of the time I don't feel the way that my poems 'feel'. Some of the time I do.

How long does it take you to create a poem? How long have you been working onDuring My Nervous Breakdown I Want to have a Biographer Present?

It takes between 15 minutes and 3 months for me to create a poem. I worked on DURING MY NERVOUS BREAKDOWN for 8 or 9 months.

A lot of your work has been published online. How valid do you feel online publications have become with the diminishing emphasis on print publications?

It seems, in the sense that you ask, that the validity of any publication is measured by how much 'literary street cred' (a general consensus of 'respect', typically attained through certain powerful actions or behaviors, such as publishing the most unique, highly relevant literature on a regular basis or publishing the newest literature by the 'up and coming' writers with the most 'reach' (i.e NOON)) it has, how much 'literary street cred' its editor has, how much 'literary street cred', generally, the contributors have, how 'good' the publication looks, the publication's 'reach', and whether or not it's associated with a university or non-profit. It also seems to me that the 'mainstream', for the most part, associates 'literature' with 'books/print', rather than 'e-books' or websites.

How did you actually get to know Tao? How did that help with getting your poetry book published?

Two years ago, maybe, I found Tao’s blog. A couple weeks later, I had a very short thing published at 3:AM Magazine. I emailed Tao saying that I got the thing published. Then I think we started emailing each other and eventually Gmail chatting and 'became friends.' Our friendship probably helped get my poetry book published because, I think, Tao prefers to publish his friends.

Have you ever written a title and thought “that is too long” and shorten it?

I can't remember ever doing that.

Often writers feel as though they get more feedback through online publications as opposed to print, how do you feel this influences your work? Do you feel you get to know your readers on a different level than most because of your online availability?

Feedback on the internet is generally negative, lately, and sometimes it upsets me. I think it influences my 'work' in such a way that I get more critical of it, because I start feeling, when I'm writing, that I don't want to give people 'shit to talk shit on' anymore. Concurrently, I sometimes know that certain things will piss certain people off (i.e. NERVOUS ASSFACE, or the short story contest I held on my blog), and feel okay about it, because I generally assume that that type of attention (intense negative shit talking) helps to further define and reinforce myinternet/literary persona, provides 'angles' for journalists, influences people to think about me at a higher frequency than they had before, and increases my 'reach'. Whethernegaitve feedback upsets me or not is usually situational; if I'm happy and feeling validated by success or attention I'm getting on the internet or in physical realty, or feeling, maybe, 'zen' about things, I usually don't care. If I feel depressed, or see other people 'doing better' than me, there's a higher chance I'll feel upset by negative feedback. I generally feel good about receiving positive feedback.

I feel that I know my readers on the same level as other writers that use the internet the way I use it. I don't know how my relationship with my readers compares with writers that don't use the internet the way I do.

What was your favorite part about the book publishing process?

Creating and editing THE BRANDON BOOK CRISIS.

If you could change anything about the publishing process, what would it be?

I wouldn't change anything about Muumuu House's book publishing process.

How is the book tour? What's the wildest or most interesting thing that has happened so far?

The book tour is good. I'm almost finished. I felt very interested in almost every person I met inSan Francisco; my interest level was higher than it had been 'in years', in terms of people, I think. These people included, but are not limited to, Mike Young, Chelsea Martin, some ofChelsea's friends, Reynard Siefert, Jimmy Chen, 'Emily Hendrix', her friends, Clayton Banes, JoshKlienberg, and some other people.

What are your future plans on furthering your writing career?

I'm not sure right now. My novella, MY HAIR WILL DEFEAT YOU, was rejected by Melville House. I feel like there's a 70% chance I'll 'end up' editing that some more, then trying to get it published elsewhere.

What is the first thing that comes to mind when I say the word 'blog'?

Jeffrey Brown's drawing of a line in my book

Life Outside a Toaster by Peter Richter

2009-07-13T22:06:00.007-04:00

Life Outside a Toaster

In the morning, waves

of grey sun ice the counter tops

and I stand in my sleep

and scratch my arm.

I watch my skin peel away

like curls of wood

under my finger nails.

I feel my age and

this unavoidably makes me think

of toast.

As my parents began to split

I had more time alone in the house.

I was six when I started making

my own breakfast and lunch.

I would lift the toaster

from the bottom cabinet to the counter

and a wheat storm would dust my fiddled hair.

I would rebalance myself,

wheeze and squint and cough

as rays of sun blared through the cloud around my head.

It was hard for me then, to

understand how that much bread got into the bottom of the toaster.

As I grew though, I found different breads,

some already tan,

some that I would press together with my palms,

some made with cheap grain and

some that were old and falling apart at the edges.

Those were the pieces that burnt and fell to the bottom.

____________________________________________

Here is a song for all The Broad Set members. You wouldn't think it would be motivating but it is ... The Carpenters - We've Only Just Begun. Who thought you'd see that on this website. damn.

The Broad Set Writing Collective will be reading in Belmar, NJ later this summer - stay tuned for details.

Dr. Mickey Hess's (aka Uncle Flexible) new book drops November 30th! Hip Hop in America: A Regional Guide

Did you read the Ben Greenman Article? Don't miss out his new book Please Step Back or this interview!

For those interested in Poetry, The Coachella Review posted a great intervie with the legend himself, Billy Collins. Insightful, poetic (duh), smart and well written, this interview is a big help to those looking to grow in their poetic abilities!

And if you have been living in a whole and missed out on Opium Magazine's latest issue titled "The Longest Story Ever Told" visit their website!

_____________________________________________________________

Edit: Tuesday, July 14th 2009 1:50 PM

Stephen Elliott is coming out with a new book in September titled The Adderall Diaries. The Broad Set Writing Collective would be honored to have an advanced copy of this book as to review it, enjoy it and give it a proper home. Stephen Elliott is the author of My Girlfriend Comes to the City and Beats Me Up. I am excited to read The Adderall Diaries as his prior work is outstanding.

Join the Graywolf Giveaway!

...or

Buy the book here!

Untitled, Drunk

2009-07-11T12:21:00.004-04:00

Not quite sure what to do with this one... I wrote it this morning and I like the concept and its brevity, but something doesn't feel quite right. Any feedback at all would help. Thanks, guys! And no, I wasn't drunk when I wrote it. haha

Untitled, Drunk

Barefoot, pedaling faster, he feels alive in the salty midnight air. He is drunk and riding his bike away from the bar to the only place he feels secure: the beach. It’s not like anything he’s ever experienced. He shivers exactly the same way he does when he hears music. Pins and needles, dulled and rounded, rush up his spine, directly into the vertebrates of his neck. Pedaling even faster, he wishes he could control the handlebars of his bicycle more closely but he is distracted by his impaired thoughts of the shuddering bounce the music now in his head is giving him. It’s a feeling he can’t describe to anyone. Not even the headlights swerving from the lane coming at him. He tries to avoid them by shifting his weight, making the bike turn a sharp right. Fortunately for him, the car sees the reflectors on his pedals and corrects itself back into its lane in plenty of time. However, the sharp right he took to avoid the vehicle caused him to smash directly into the back of a car parallel parked on the side of the road. He is launched over his handlebars, over the roof of the sedan, straight onto its hood. As he straightens himself back to his feet, he takes detail in the damage done to the car. The rear bumper is dented from the bicycle, but he doesn’t notice this at first. He first notices the dent in the hood left by his, now bleeding, forehead. It doesn’t worry him. He looks at his bicycle. The front tire is bent into an oval unable to ride. He becomes upset in his drunken state. But quickly, the dulled pins and needles spread throughout his body, calming him. He picks up his bike and starts walking, still in the direction of the beach. Music resumes its volume in his mind. And he misses the salty breeze blowing through his hair.

---

Currently listening to: Death From Above 1979, 'You're A Woman, I'm A Machine'

Shake it, girl

2009-07-08T07:00:00.000-04:00

I hate the way you move your hips when you walk. Watching that natural rumba from across the room makes me long to drink my drink so deep that the gin fuses with my consciousness until I become the juniper berries whose only desire is the warm sun, the cold ground and to grow UP.

I, however, remain firmly rooted to the ground - drunk with desire but too drunk to do much.

Untitled

2009-07-07T12:47:00.004-04:00

I need help with a title for this. Any suggestions are good suggestions :) I'm also looking for some feedback on if there's anything I should think about changing. Thanks!

She speaks in cursive. And it used to be the reason he loved her.

Now, she throws obscenities at him like sloppy snowballs.

They hit him, right in the chest. But not hard enough. They feel like a pair of rolled up cotton socks. She was never very good at speaking cruel words.

As her words loop and twirl -- like an unchoreographed dance -- out of her mouth, the mouth he used to kiss and the mouth he used to love, he's standing still. Like a figurine.

He can't hear her words, because his silence is too loud, but he can see them. Getting knotted together and not making sense.

He wishes he knew how to hear. And not just see. Because even though her words are ugly he’s almost positive that her voice is beautiful.

Currently listening to: "Over the Rainbow/What A Wonderful World" by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole

Interview One; Ben Greenman and His New Book Please Step Back

2009-06-30T13:11:00.008-04:00

Ben Greenman and His New Book, Please Step Back

Ben Greenman is the Non-Fiction Editor of The New Yorker and the author of the new book Please Step Back. He is a major player in the literary world and an overall creative mind. He is the author of Superbad, (McSweeneys, 2001) Superworse, (Soft Skull, 2004) A Circle is a Balloon and Compass Both: Stories About Human Love, (Macadam/Cage, 2007) Correspondence,(Hotel St. George, 2008) and Please Step Back. (Melville House, 2009) He is a contributor to Moistworks,McSweenys and Fictionaut. If you haven’t read his pieces about Twitter or Alex Rodriguez you’re really missing out on two gems.

I was lucky enough to hear Mr. Greenman read twice (Once at Rider University and once at Brickbat Books) over the past year and speak with him each time. Below is a little Q&A between Ben and I. If you have any follow up questions, post them as a comment and maybe we can do a follow up interview with the help of our readers.

- What is your favorite baseball team and player?

Now, it's hard to say. Probably the Cards and Pujols. But of all time? Chicago White Sox when Frank Thomas was great, which was almost always.

- When visiting Rider University you spoke of “Correspondences,” a piece based largely on your own life. What non-fiction aspects did you incorporate in “Please Step Back?”

Well, that book is very autobiographical, too. Even though it's about a rock star in the sixties and seventies, I used many of my own experiences, particularly when it came to managing creativity and marriage.

- In mid-May you made a playlist for the New York Times, which included a variety of songs from past decades, and on the popular music/literary blog "Moistworks" you frequently contribute pieces accompanied by older songs. With that in mind, what contemporary music do you find yourself drawn to?

Oh, I like most music. I like hip-hop when it's good, country when it's less commercial, garage-band revival acts, space rock, geezer rock, anything.- In your interview with Time Out New York, you stated that the 1960s have become somewhat clichéd, but to the contrary, the '60shad a district personality.

- If anything, what did you do in "Please Step Back" to break the stereotypes of this time period?

I tried to think about how someone living in the sixties would actually experience it: in other words, which events would be a big deal, which might pass unnoticed. How people would understand the war, for example, or the assassinations of great leaders, but also smaller events like personal upheaval, drugs, individual cases of civil rights.

- What did you do to bring to light the personality of the1960s that many parents typically have trouble articulating?

I think it's hard to imagine how compressed major experiences were --how closely linked pop culture and politics and race relations were --especially from the vantage of the present day, when things have become relatively Balkanized.

- Can you see the influence of Sly Stone in any of today’s musicians? If so which ones?

Sure. He influenced nearly everyone: Ice Cube, John Legend, Outkast, Lenny Kravitz, everyone. Sometimes it's direct, and other times it's through intermediaries.-

- The art work for “Please Step Back” is vibrant and abstract. Were there other designs that you considered and if so, how did you know this was the right one for you?

I had some suggestions and ideas for the publisher, and they went away, worked with their designer, and returned with the book. I was very pleased with it from the first time I saw it.-

- Throughout your career you have used a variety of publishers. There was Hotel St. George for “Correspondence,” Soft Skull for “Superworse” and McSweeneys for “Superbad.” Is their any reason for this? Is their any advantage?

It has something to do with the nature of the projects, and something to do with the nature of publishing. I expect that the next book will be with another publisher, because it'll be different. I could be wrong, of course, but I'll probably be right.-

- What do you have planned next?

There are a few books: a novel, a collection of stories, a collection of essays. And then books beyond that.

________________________________________________________

Thank you to Ben Greenman, Dr. Mickey Hess and Lauren Cerand! This was a really great experience and I appreciate all the time you guys took to help create this interview. I am very lucky to have met and become friends with all of you.

Also - Please scroll down a bit and take a look at the new creative writing piece we have from Brian Long, Kiley "Keeks" Rummler and a mystery writer ~ oooo spooky ~ (It's not Michael Jackson) Leave a comment if you have some time.

Annnd - Check out this song, it has NOTHING to do with writing but who couldn't groove to this during these humid summer days? Gibson Brothers - Cuba. (circa 1979)

2009-06-29T21:24:00.006-04:00

Sorry this is kind of lengthy but they don't call me Brian LONG for nothing...hopefully this story is better than that joke:

Demolition

Robert opened his orange, green, and white lawn chair onto the hot sidewalk. The sun's heat was causing the pavement to boil, it was hot enough to cook an egg or whatever cliche you prefer. This would not stop Robert from enjoying this moment; he sat in the chair with his red cooler by his side. He stared at his toes that were sticking out from his sandals that left tan lines of various shapes on his feet, as he worked his lower body into the ass-grove that he had spent years forming in the chair he pulled two cans of beer out of his cooler and placed them in the holders on the sides of his novelty hat. Beer dribbled from his mouth as he drank from the tube connected to the cans on his hat staining his "Ed's Lamb Ribs Shack" t-shirt. He checked the battery of his video camera and made sure he hat set the alarm of his wristwatch correctly.

About three blocks from Robert's chair was Staple Factory. Founded by William Staple in 1908 Staple Factory was the city's leading supplier of paperclips. The irony of the name was lost on its founder due to his notorious lack of a sense of humor which was as often been cited as the cause of his second divorce. Recently the Staple factory had fallen on hard times due to the controversial redesign of their product which caused a local nursing home resident to suffer a heart attack because of his inability to handle change to the quote: "one thing that had been a constant in his life" due to the stipulations of the lawsuit we can not reveal anymore details of what followed but the factory was closed and the city decided to tear it down in the most dramatic of metropolitan ways: an implosion.

Robert eagerly checked his watch every few moments, he was a former disgruntled employee of Staple Factory. He hated the buzzing lights, he hated his co-workers, he hated his cubicle which was the furthest from the windows and the closest to the coffee machine which sounded like a rusty rake scrapping against a chalkboard. His official position was quality control manager, a job which basically meant filling out reports and mailing surveys to clients but the quality control supervisor would always force Robert to do his jobs. So, once at the beginning of the week he would visit the factory, watch the workers as they watched the machines bend each paperclip into its appropriate form and then write a report on his findings which was due at the end of each week. When he received word of the factory's closing he silently walked out into the parking lot and proceeded to yell at the top of his lungs in what can only be described as tongues.

The high beep of Robert's watch snapped him into focus, he turned on his video camera and pointed it and focused on blue sign that read "Staple"

"This is gonna be good," he said to himself. The countdown rang throughout the city like a voice from the heavens.

5...4...3...2...1

The thundering boom knocked Robert out of his chair, he looked up in time to see the building being swallowed in a cloud dust.

"YAHOO!!" he cried as he leaped to his feet and then took off towards the blast site faster than a child chasing an ice cream truck driven by Santa. He reached the fences surrounding the wreckage in a manner of seconds. Standing near the gate was his friend Al from the blast crew when he saw Robert running towards him he opened the fence and waved his friend inside.

"Alright man make this quick then get outta here," Al said.

"Al, you're a wonderful human being!" Robert had made a sacred promise the day he discovered that the building was being demolished and thanks to the help of Al he would be able to fulfill it. He climbed a pile of wreckage wearing a white breathing mask until he found the blue "Staple" sign.

"Here's to 20 miserable years," he said. Robert unzipped his fly and urinated on the big blue "S"

Robert awoke the following to the sound of a knocking at his door. Severely hungover and wearing nothing but leopard print which he wore during, as he put it, "prime party hours." He crawled out of bed, stop at his washer machine, threw up in it, and then opened the door.

"Good afternoon sir," a delivery man handed Robert a fruit basket with an envelope attached. Robert drew an illegible scribble on the delivery man's clipboard for a signature and walked into his kitchen. He opened the card that read: "For twenty years of faithful service." In the card was a large severance package check which Robert folded up and placed in the elastic of his underwear. He stared at the fruit basket, feeling what he assumed was sadness that he could never return to the office he began to miss, to the smiling faces that greeted him when he entered the building, and the pleasant soothing sound of the coffee machine. He unfolded the check and saw that it was made out to William, his supervisor. Robert placed the basket on the ground and did what he always did when things seemed like they couldn't get any worse: he took a piss.

A (Peace) of Prose

2009-06-29T21:11:00.003-04:00

The sky is that perfect brilliant blue. The kind of blue you imagine oceans surrounding far off islands look like. Clear. Pristine. The sun is an electric burst high up in the sky. Blinding almost. Almost. You're lying down on your favorite towel. As wide as Texas and covered in a green and blue pattern that doesn't make sense unless you concentrate on it. But, you're eyes are closed and you are smiling. In the distance you can hear little kids shrieking while playing tag with the waves. Not the mean kind of waves, but the kind that roll lazily -- as if the heat affects them too. For a moment you see it -- like visions of gravity -- and relax. You aren't floating or flying. You're just being. In this instant you know everything -- everything -- is where it's supposed to be. The real world of finals, jobs, student loans, falls away. No, not fall, but crumble. Bit by bit, like a soggy cookie that disintegrates in milk. This is the kind of moment that people who take drugs try to achieve. You see it. You feel it. And absolutely everything is o.k. and everything matters.

Marlboro Reds & Duck Shit

2009-06-28T21:17:00.003-04:00

So this is a story I wrote for Dr. Hess's class. I really like it but I want to know what other's think about it. *sorry I haven't posted anything new. I'm trying to make time to write*

As usual Adam was smoking a cigarette – a Marlboro Red – and silently blowing the smoke out in tiny circles that reminded me of the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland. We weren’t old enough yet to buy cigarettes so he would ask the Mexicans that would sit in front of 7-11 to go in and buy them for him. I was always embarrassed while we stood behind the convenient store, near the dumpsters, waiting for whoever was getting them. It would make me feel homeless and dirty. I never got used to that feeling. Adam never cared. He thought it was all anarchy-esque, like he was beating the system by having some unsuspecting Mexican buy him smokes for six dollars a pack. I went along with it though because this was the boy had I lost my virginity to and was certain I loved. It’s funny what you think love is at fourteen years old.

We were bored teenagers looking for something, anything to do. It was too hot for the beach but too nice to be inside. I called it an In Between Day because there’s nowhere you can be that’s comfortable. We had been walking around for almost an hour when Adam and I decided to stop at the park so we could cool off. We spotted a willow tree, the kind with those long, flowing branches that look like tired fingers, and sat underneath it. The shade was a welcomed transition from the scorching heat. When the wind blew it felt more like an April morning rather than an August afternoon.

“You know what we should do?” Adam exhaled a steady stream of smoke and turned to look at me.

“What?” I looked back at him. We were sitting on the ground trying not to move around too much because landmines of duck shit were scattered recklessly around us. We had some how found unmarked territory.

“Burn ourselves with this cigarette to have matching scars. Right on our wrists or something,” he looked at me intently and I could tell by the way his eyes were focusing on me that he had been thinking about this.

I hesitated, but only slightly,

“Yeah, it’d be like ‘our thing’,” I replied and immediately wondered why I was agreeing to this. I didn’t want to tell him that it was a dumb idea; I wanted to impress him with my ability to go along with anything. Like the burning hot tip of a cigarette was no match for my coolness.

He took two more drags and then held it out to me.

“You wanna go first?” Same intense look that made his eyes squint together. Like he was concocting some kind of master plan or maybe it was the sun that was now streaking through the branches.

“Sure,” I gently took the cig that he had almost completely smoked down to the filter. I switched it over to my right hand and turn my left wrist up towards me. Adam could tell I was nervous. He leaned in closer to me and whispered,

“I love you. This is just one more thing that will keep us together. These matching scars. We’ll always have them.”

He always had these one-liners that seemed out-of-place coming from a fourteen year old. It’s not that I didn’t like them but I felt like I wasn’t quite ready to understand what he really meant. Now, they make me think of cheesy romance novels; the kind that are on display at the counter of a Shop-Rite or something.

I looked back at him but didn’t say anything. For a second I actually thought about chickening out and not doing it. But the next second I was pushing the burning tip of the last Marlboro Red in his pack against the desolate white skin of my teenage wrist. It instantly burned me and I wasn’t ready for that. I thought, on some level, that it would take a minute for me to actually feel it. Instinctively, I pulled my hand away. In my head I was hoping that I hadn’t held it down long enough for a scar to actually form, maybe just a tiny red mark that would go away before the summer ended.

Adam grabbed the cigarette out of my hand and held it to his right wrist for a solid minute. I stared at him in complete shock. I couldn’t understand how he could hold it against his skin for so long and not be crying. With the cigarette still pushed against his wrist he turned to me,

“See, this is how much I love you.”

Review for "YOU or the Invention of Memory"

2009-06-26T17:51:00.005-04:00

I'm very, very, extremely sorry I'm so late at posting this. I'm insanely busy (as most of you know) and I'm trying to do this as best as possible. This is my first review ever, so please bare with me.

Provoking. This is the first word that comes to mind when I finished this book. It provoked me to think about all my memories of love and if they were actually real.

"YOU or the Invention of Memory" by Jonathan Baumbach dives into the meaning of memory and love and how the two are intertwined. Baumbach does a fantastic job of making the reader confused at the beginning, and I don't mean this is a bad way. He boggles your mind, then, while continuing on, you begin to get a firmer grasp on what is happening. It's not the usual straight-forward type of book that we read everyday (if you do read everyday) but a book that will be impacted in your memory. You'll question things about yourself and experiences you've had while at the same time, try to figure out if what you are reading is actually plausible.

Baumbach's writing is impeccable and fresh. It's something we can all learn from. Most everyone can relate to this story on some level because we all deal with memory, whether it's something that has in reality happened or something that we think may have happened.

I suggest everyone pick up a copy of this book if they are looking for something different that will challenge them.

Kean University's Mastery of New Jersey Arts; The Helen and Carl Burger Gallery Opening

2009-06-22T13:15:00.015-04:00

Kean University's Mastery of New Jersey Arts; The Helen and Carl Burger Gallery Opening

Someone once explained to me that given a regional geography there is a corresponding method to gardening. Different weather patterns, varying rock densities in soil and the inevitable squirrel-like intruders, mean each location has a distinct way of planting, nurturing and protecting their harvest. In Argentina they build each plant up on a hill of soil, and then dig around the hill. This allows rain water to roll down the supporting mound and into the surrounding divot, thus additional water goes directly into the roots. It made me think: How important is the growth of a person, or a state for that matter, to that which surrounds it?

New Jersey is often overlooked; with New York to the east and Philadelphia to the west, often we pass through, perhaps acknowledging each other only as “faces in the crowd; petals on a wet, black bough.” (Ezra Pound) Like the Argentinean method of gardening, New Jersey welcomes the influences of its surroundings because - it is what surrounds us which nurtures and allows us to thrive.

Last Saturday, Kean University opened an exhibit titled “Six New Jersey Masters.” As a flourishing University, “Six New Jersey Masters” displayed the works of real people from New Jersey. This is a tribute to the people of New Jersey. The exhibit features Harry I. Naar, Malcolm Bray, James Kearns, Miquel Orsorio, Keith Smith, and Rhoda Yanow. The exhibit was curated by W. Carl Burger.

I got a chance to speak with Mr. Burger. His excitement for the arts was contagious. “I have this affinity for young people and the arts.” He said with his hand on my shoulder. “It’s great to see you kids out here.” He went on to explain that Kean University is creating a fertile environment for New Jersey's youth. It will truly be amazing to watch how our generation will build upon what was displayed at this exhibit.
__________________________________________________________

// The Spring Stream // Ink on board with watercolor // By Harry I. Naar //

- “The Spring Stream,” crafted by Professor Harry I. Naar of Rider University, is a unique piece as it incorporates hints of watercolor amongst the depth of the forest. Professor Naar explains, “You think you know nature, but then you take a closer look and it reveals even more to you.” The watercolor forces the viewer to look inside the piece instead of at it, consequently reinforcing the idea of depth and detail in nature. Harry I. Naar is a representational artist who practices traditional techniques while integrating contemporary theories. View his work and an extensive bio at his website.

// (photo two of) The Spring Stream // Ink on board with watercolor // By Harry I. Naar //

// Largo // Oil, charcoal on canvas // by Malcolm Bray

- This piece was a personal favorite of mine because it represents the variety at this exhibit. Malcolm Bray is linked the art work of the New York Abstract Expressionists. There is a level of organization and most interesting, Bray uses energetic strokes of charcoal. The charcoal adds depth and a contrast point at which the other colors are compared to.
See more of his work at Artnet.com.
_____________________________________

The Helen and Carl Burger Gallery will be featuring an exhibit titled “HEADLINE NEWS” from September 16 - November 3, 2009, which will feature Headlines from the 19th century. The exhibit will also feature information about the problems facing the print news media today. “Six New Jersey Masters” runs until July 16th in the Center for Academic Success Gallery on the campus of Kean University.

* For more photos, Click Here.
* See the stunning work of W. Carl Burger here.

Thank you to Kean University, W. Carl Burger and Professor Harry I. Naar for their help, generosity and overall enthusiasm for the arts