And then Gaddafi came in, totally in drag. Not just eye shadow, which he was famous for, but a full evening dress, pearl necklace, and hose. Rouge on his cheeks. Four burly female bodyguards tailed him, holstering guns. Besides the slight dip in volume of conversation, no one at the party acted like anything was askance. Gaddafi’s were lips the red, it occurred to me, of that "Say goodbye a little longer" chewing gum, and it was that commercial jingle that played in my head as I watched him walking in heels like he practiced it.
PODCASTDrunk Monkeys RadioT2: Trainspotting
Danny Boyle and Ewan McGregor return to familiar territory in T2: Trainspotting. We take a look at that movie and other long-awaited sequels, and our homework assignments yield some unexpected thrashings of sacred cows in the latest episode of Drunk Monkeys Radio!
PODCASTDrunk Monkeys RadioLogan
::SKINT!:: The Drunk Monkeys Radio crew unleashes their claws for a review of Hugh Jackman's last film as Wolverine in LOGAN. Also on the show, reviews of Kong: Skull Island, Get Out, and a look at some of the most reluctant mentors in film history.
Cort was asleep when the car crashed into the side of his building. He’d lost his job only a week and a half earlier, and had taken to sleeping until the early afternoon. In the summer heat he’d started sleeping on the screened-in porch.
Imagine planting a garden. Imagine planting a garden of only yellow tulips. You love yellow tulips, the dusky smiles, stems’ green neutrality. Yellow tulips are your favorite. So mild.
“Again.” I waited for his response, anticipating a sigh.
“Again?” John checked his mirrors and signaled his emergency lights, but no sigh. There’s a plus.
“Oh, yes, again. Pull over,” I muttered, reaching for the paper towels. As I looked away, I felt his stare penetrating me. Too commanding, too bossy, too everything, once again. I knew.
The whole thing was rotten. A wet heap that piled in and on itself, leaving white flecks of paper hanging in the water like a snow globe.
He sighed.
“It’s all that extra ply,” he said. He tried to sound confident.
His head was an apple
chest proud, deadman's float
while rows of parents looked on
with drowsy interest
His ghost was with me that morning
Wandering round my room
While I tried to write,
Lifting the corners of my laundry,
Making the dust dance in the light.
I have, over the last month or so, been forced to consider the penis a bit more than I would like. I mean, I have nothing against penises, but boy oh boy, do you guys like to write about them. And talk about them. And reference them. All the time. Every day. The amount of submissions we receive that are totally centered around the gratification of dick is… well, I should say it is shocking, but it isn’t, really. And one can argue all writing is masturbatory, all writing is navel gazing, but I don’t necessarily believe that. I mean yeah, maybe if this was the movie Wonder Boys or something (I did not read the novel).
"T. Anderson can never be free—that is the beginning and end of the story. If he thinks he is freeing others, he is wrong. He is not."
“Call me right now! I can’t believe you lied to me AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!”
It was Friday at 3:42 pm. I was in a meeting when I felt my phone vibrate. Sheer panic is a very appropriate descriptor of my emotions at that exact time. Mix in a healthy dose of shame, disgust, self-loathing and add a bit of self-preservation. She knew. I had contacted the woman I cheated with after promising I would never do so again. And now she found out. How could I mitigate this? And could I lie to cover it up? Only to protect her, of course.
The Oscars have been over for a while, and I find myself thinking about the way the awards doom otherwise good movies to unreasonable scrutiny, and ultimately, dismissal. There is a long list of Best Picture winners that I personally wouldn’t call the best movie of the year. In many cases (for some reason, I keep thinking of The Artist right now), I wouldn’t even call them the best movie amongst the nominees for that year. Despite the fact that no one allegedly cares about the Oscars, Best Picture winners tend to piss off an awful lot of people.
In the very center of the grassy commons stands a regal statue of Thaddeus Wallace. One hand grasps a weighty tome while the other thumbs a jacket lapel. Wallace University’s founder faces the administration building and oversees the comings and goings of all students, but his bronzed eyes aren’t the only pair watching. Waiting. Looking.
They do so quicken
to warn don’t they?
‘specially those that
have never dared or
worse, but sadly, onced.
Earlier this year, Frankie Metro contacted me about doing a reading in Denver in August. It would get me back to the Mercury Cafe. I had always wanted to go back. I just didn’t know when I would get the chance.
Suddenly, given the chance to go back, I felt the weight of failing two years ago. It was an instant match for the anxiety I almost always, immediately feel, whenever someone asks me to read or perform.
And we’re gonna fly, as well? The first time I’ve done so in eighteen years? Lovely.
Here I am wearing June on my fingers,
earrings on my ankles, skinny dipping
in a public pool regardless of awe-struck
children, writing a note between gillyflowers,
slurping breakfast on the ice veranda, braiding
lavender though it’s long been brown.
COMICSMr. ButterchipsAlex Schumacher
Mr. Butterchips returns for Drunk Monkeys Volume 2, Issue 3!
You are in a new house. It is your fifth birthday.
The Charles River shushes your tantrums,
infrequent as they have become. The moon moth
is an introvert. Her wings light up the night like limes
but she prefers her Sycamore hollow.
Lay your head down to sleep with word for word transcripts of murder trials still ringing in your ears. One thousand stories from neighbors of lawless men. Their mouths open like baby blackbirds spewing out ink, instead of tiny songs, a river into the corridors of the dead.