1. Marina and the Marine →

    A tapable story

    I did this one too.

  2. Lee is nice and cool and sent me some good questions that I answered to the best of my ability for his new site frxtl.com.

    Lee is nice and cool and sent me some good questions that I answered to the best of my ability for his new site frxtl.com.

  3. theneweryork: We posted a new story: http://theneweryork.com/pornography-calculation-train-tourism/ Pornography Problem 1: You are in the compartment of a train moving westward on horizontal tracks at the speed of 72 km/h against an eastward 13 km/h wind. It’s raining and droplets fall on the windowpane. A particular droplet has a diameter of 5mm.  The coefficient of friction between droplet and glass is 0.01. Calculate a)    the angle at which the droplet will travel against the glass in relation to the ground, b)    the velocity of the droplet on its linear path. For the sake of simplicity consider that: a)    the train rides smoothly on its tracks, b)    the droplet’s mass remains integral, c)     it’s nighttime and you see the interior of the compartment reflected on the darkness outside, even though you turned to face the window because you wanted to give some privacy to your best friend, Luke, who began to make out with the Italian exchange student, Mirabella, whose slender and expressive fingers (which you had watched dance in the air as if imitating the blooming gestures of wild orchids while she talked excitedly about Vivaldi’s concerto for viola and caused you to fall in love with her) are now wrapped around his cock. I like this one.

    theneweryork:

    We posted a new story: http://theneweryork.com/pornography-calculation-train-tourism/

    Pornography

    Problem 1: You are in the compartment of a train moving westward on horizontal tracks at the speed of 72 km/h against an eastward 13 km/h wind. It’s raining and droplets fall on the windowpane. A particular droplet has a diameter of 5mm.  The coefficient of friction between droplet and glass is 0.01.

    Calculate

    a)    the angle at which the droplet will travel against the glass in relation to the ground,

    b)    the velocity of the droplet on its linear path.

    For the sake of simplicity consider that:

    a)    the train rides smoothly on its tracks,

    b)    the droplet’s mass remains integral,

    c)     it’s nighttime and you see the interior of the compartment reflected on the darkness outside, even though you turned to face the window because you wanted to give some privacy to your best friend, Luke, who began to make out with the Italian exchange student, Mirabella, whose slender and expressive fingers (which you had watched dance in the air as if imitating the blooming gestures of wild orchids while she talked excitedly about Vivaldi’s concerto for viola and caused you to fall in love with her) are now wrapped around his cock.

    I like this one.

  4. An important picture.

    An important picture.

  5. cuttyspot:

    [CHUCK YOUNG VIDEO INTERVIEW RESPONSE]

    *

    Chuck Young is ‘managing editor at theNewerYork Press, manchild, husband, dad, etcetera’

    he answers my questions on a sunny front porch via a puppet pirate, whom Chuck talks back to

    Chuck keeps a ‘straight face’ the whole time, even amidst his own humor

    here are my favorite moments:

    ‘Josh believed me to be the reincarnate of a middle school friend that he lost to time, so he showered me with misguided trust & affection.’

    ‘I write myself into everything I write. It’s a habit i’m trying to break, as I’d rather my writing be about you where I’m merely a footnote.’

    ‘when you factor in the Internet, literature becomes a performance piece’

    ‘but I do remember buying Dr. Dre’s The Chronic when I was in the 6th grade. You know, that was the first one I bought with my own money on my own. I popped it in on the minivan ride back home with my mom, & ya know the first seconds are a jail cell clink & ‘welcome to death row motherfucker, so I remember her face getting pretty red’

    ‘we’re here to express ourselves in a myriad of different ways to move in be moved in order to feel in better & smarter ways & pass those smarter ways to our kids, I think, until everyone is cool as fuck & everything is less sad’

    I’m good at serious journalism.

  6. cuttyspot:

    [JOSH RAAB VIDEO INTERVIEW RESPONSE]

    *

    Josh runs the NewerYork Press

    the NewerYork Press is one of the most exciting new presses - one of my personal favorites - & seems to be getting increasing attention

    check it out, submit to it, for reals

    Josh, as far as i can tell, does not have a Facebook

    this surprises me, but maybe he’s just hiding there somewhere

    here are my favorite moments:

    *

    ‘theNewerYork is trying to be experimental without being obtuse. We’re trying to tell a narrative & put pressure on the reader to put it together his or herself’

    (about his relationship to the Internet) ‘when I am in my room alone, it’s dark & grotesque. When I’m in a cafe, I’m productive & I’m changing the world. When it’s in the kitchen, it’s opening me up to culinary discoveries. When I’m on the couch, it’s freakin’ weird & I’m interviewing myself. It’s just weird’

    ‘depressing as usual (comma) with room for optimism (comma) lots happening (semi-colon) (exclamation mark) (question mark) constantly changing but as always it depends on how you look at it’

    This mah dude.

  7. theneweryork: We posted a new story: http://theneweryork.com/the-sailboat-which-was-skinned-alive/ The sailboat which was skinned alive On the shore the air is vibrating as landed shellfishes keep clapping in the net. Inside them small eyes watch every movement of the working fisher boys. Not far away on the dock the captain is skinning his sailboat with his old knife. Sharks swim into the harbour, following the metallic smell of blood. Later, seagulls bruise the sky with their sharp beaks. As nightfall slowly spills out from these wounds, the open water lures the fisher boys. So they filch the tortured boat, while the captain is still cleaning the flayed skin. He’s going to sew a brilliant wedding dress from it to his lover, who is always complaining about his boat. ‘You love that damn dinghy more than me, why don’t you just marry it?’ The skinned boat sails the sparkling waves: the salty water burns it’s flesh, and hungry sharks nibble it’s ramp. It hoots the pain among the stars, while the fisher boys roll wine butts on its rasping deck. After an elated night, seagulls scratch out the sun from the clouds. The sailor boys line-up on the board, and their erect penises salute to the dawn. From time to time they yell at coral reefs: ‘Can you top this?’ and they stick their hips out laughing wildly. Drips of sperm falls into the water and turns into pearls. A mermaid collects and stitches them into her hair. After a few hours the boys fish out the mermaid and rope her to the prow. The fervent sun dries her body, and falling scales plop into the water where they turn into silver coins and gawping treasure-cases swallow them in the bottom of the sea. Now and then the mermaid sings sad chants about unrequited love, her voice hushes the sirens, and makes the jellyfishes hug themselves with their stinging tentacles. On the shipboards the leisured boys listen too, and take a long pull at their bottles, while they fantasize about distant islands, burried treasures and adventures, and turquoise lagoons where busty red crab-women snap their claws. The sailors ambush them behind the cliffs, then they whoop and dash forward with nets in their hands. ‘No supper for you tonight my friend, if you don’t screw one!’ they tease eachother, while running in the sand. What a fight! The crab-women’s pincers are deadly weapons, and several unfortunate boy’s cut-off penises hop and draw a red line in the sky. (Squawking seagulls catch them in their flight.) The singing of the mermaid stops, when finally the boat wrecks on a giant coral reef. The kiss of a loose girl glows in red on the drowned sailors foreheads, as they sink deeper and deeper. She slips a few silver scales into their pockets, so they can pay the underworld’s ferryman later, or maybe they won’t need them, maybe the little rascals will steal his raft too. The mermaid watches as their young bodies lay in the gawping treasure-cases, and swims away. Somewhere on the shore waterspay wreathes around the heated rocks. Here at the captain’s wedding the bride, all dressed up in the skin of the boat, falls into the sand, just before she can say yes. She coughs salt water into her shaking hand, and a few blinking shells. Inside them the sad, remorseful eyes of the dead sailer boys stare right at the captain. This is a cool one.

    theneweryork:

    We posted a new story: http://theneweryork.com/the-sailboat-which-was-skinned-alive/

    The sailboat which was skinned alive

    On the shore the air is vibrating as landed shellfishes keep clapping in the net. Inside them small eyes watch every movement of the working fisher boys. Not far away on the dock the captain is skinning his sailboat with his old knife. Sharks swim into the harbour, following the metallic smell of blood.

    Later, seagulls bruise the sky with their sharp beaks. As nightfall slowly spills out from these wounds, the open water lures the fisher boys. So they filch the tortured boat, while the captain is still cleaning the flayed skin. He’s going to sew a brilliant wedding dress from it to his lover, who is always complaining about his boat. ‘You love that damn dinghy more than me, why don’t you just marry it?’

    The skinned boat sails the sparkling waves: the salty water burns it’s flesh, and hungry sharks nibble it’s ramp. It hoots the pain among the stars, while the fisher boys roll wine butts on its rasping deck.

    After an elated night, seagulls scratch out the sun from the clouds. The sailor boys line-up on the board, and their erect penises salute to the dawn. From time to time they yell at coral reefs: ‘Can you top this?’ and they stick their hips out laughing wildly.

    Drips of sperm falls into the water and turns into pearls. A mermaid collects and stitches them into her hair. After a few hours the boys fish out the mermaid and rope her to the prow. The fervent sun dries her body, and falling scales plop into the water where they turn into silver coins and gawping treasure-cases swallow them in the bottom of the sea. Now and then the mermaid sings sad chants about unrequited love, her voice hushes the sirens, and makes the jellyfishes hug themselves with their stinging tentacles. On the shipboards the leisured boys listen too, and take a long pull at their bottles, while they fantasize about distant islands, burried treasures and adventures, and turquoise lagoons where busty red crab-women snap their claws. The sailors ambush them behind the cliffs, then they whoop and dash forward with nets in their hands.

    ‘No supper for you tonight my friend, if you don’t screw one!’ they tease eachother, while running in the sand. What a fight! The crab-women’s pincers are deadly weapons, and several unfortunate boy’s cut-off penises hop and draw a red line in the sky. (Squawking seagulls catch them in their flight.)

    The singing of the mermaid stops, when finally the boat wrecks on a giant coral reef. The kiss of a loose girl glows in red on the drowned sailors foreheads, as they sink deeper and deeper. She slips a few silver scales into their pockets, so they can pay the underworld’s ferryman later, or maybe they won’t need them, maybe the little rascals will steal his raft too.

    The mermaid watches as their young bodies lay in the gawping treasure-cases, and swims away.

    Somewhere on the shore waterspay wreathes around the heated rocks. Here at the captain’s wedding the bride, all dressed up in the skin of the boat, falls into the sand, just before she can say yes. She coughs salt water into her shaking hand, and a few blinking shells. Inside them the sad, remorseful eyes of the dead sailer boys stare right at the captain.


    This is a cool one.

  8. theneweryork:

    Enjoying the various ghosts that can inhabit your thoughts…on the shitter.

    A number two with issue two.

  9. theneweryork: We posted a new story: http://theneweryork.com/an-anonymous-letter-addressed-to-myself/ An Anonymous Letter Addressed to Myself I am writing to tell you something I don’t feel like I could tell anyone else. Not that I am embarrassed or panicked (of which I am, in fact, both), but because I feel like it might be the key to unlocking your brilliance (which isn’t really locked up, but lately you seem to pretend it so). In any case, you need to know this. I like my coffee strong. A tablespoon of soy. Two sugars, not sweetener. I cherish this part of the morning. I’m at the office, in my job, which I don’t loathe, but dislike enough to appreciate the private, quiet parts of my day. Like going to the restroom. Especially when it’s Number Two, because you know more than anyone else that I have spells of constipation and stage fright when it comes to pooping in unfamiliar places or around company. So usually, I love taking a dump at work. Not today, and here is why. I did the deed. I flushed. And then I realized the toilet was broken. Sometimes this can happen, things get backed up, but when you remain calm and collected, it usually all works out. Isn’t that what you once told me? So I patiently waited for it to stop running, for the universe to unfold as it should, as it usually does. It didn’t. So I thought positive thoughts and didn’t take my eyes off the water level. I flushed again. Still, the turds only rose with the surface of the water, dangerously skimming the top of the bowl. With my face burning, I fumbled frantically through the cleaning closet for a plunger, even though I’ve only done this sort of thing once before in the privacy of my own home. When I finally found the plunger, I discovered it was broken, too. Somehow it had been so used and abused that the rubber had turned almost entirely inside out, rendering it useless in my situation. I tried anyway. All it did was shred up the toilet paper and splash water around, causing the poops to move in circles, hovering, almost tauntingly above the hole. Then I thought, What would Alexis do? Now I had options. I could wash my hands, walk out, and pray no one else had to use the restroom for the rest of today. I could put a sign on the door. But what if someone saw me? What if they knew I was the last one in there? Or I could scream, storm out into the office and demand to know who dropped a doo and didn’t flush. I could pin the blame on someone who wasn’t there to defend themselves. I devised intricate schemes in my head about how I could invite a well-trusted friend to my place of employment and disguise them as someone off the street who just needed to use the restroom, have them fake it, and leave, and then have a random stranger to blame as the culprit. In retrospect, I guess any of these things would have been ballsier than what I actually did do, which was fish out each of my feces with a broom handle and discard them into the trash can. At this moment, I realized the essence of my own humanity. It was humiliating and at the same time, glorious. I can’t explain this enough to you, Alexis. The glory of it is imagining whoever the poor asshole is who is going to take out the garbage tonight because later that day, I went back into the restroom to rinse out my coffee cup, and without even thinking, opened the trash can to toss in the paper towel. It smelled ungodly. So I am writing you in hopes that my story will lift your spirits while you are slumming in the depths of your misfortunes. I hope you don’t think less of me when I tell you that while I am looking forward to the mass company email with the subject line reading: “TO WHOEVER SHIT IN THE OFFICE TRASH CAN…” I will simultaneously be thinking, “Things could be worse, at least I’m not Alexis.” Which is funny because you were the first person I thought of. But what I really hope you are thinking now is that things could, in fact, be worse. You could have shit in a trash can this morning. And for that, Alexis, no one could ever really love you for. This is a great Poo Story that you might’ve missed.

    theneweryork:

    We posted a new story: http://theneweryork.com/an-anonymous-letter-addressed-to-myself/

    An Anonymous Letter Addressed to Myself

    I am writing to tell you something I don’t feel like I could tell anyone else. Not that I am embarrassed or panicked (of which I am, in fact, both), but because I feel like it might be the key to unlocking your brilliance (which isn’t really locked up, but lately you seem to pretend it so). In any case, you need to know this.

    I like my coffee strong. A tablespoon of soy. Two sugars, not sweetener.

    I cherish this part of the morning. I’m at the office, in my job, which I don’t loathe, but dislike enough to appreciate the private, quiet parts of my day. Like going to the restroom. Especially when it’s Number Two, because you know more than anyone else that I have spells of constipation and stage fright when it comes to pooping in unfamiliar places or around company. So usually, I love taking a dump at work.

    Not today, and here is why.

    I did the deed. I flushed. And then I realized the toilet was broken. Sometimes this can happen, things get backed up, but when you remain calm and collected, it usually all works out. Isn’t that what you once told me? So I patiently waited for it to stop running, for the universe to unfold as it should, as it usually does.

    It didn’t. So I thought positive thoughts and didn’t take my eyes off the water level.

    I flushed again.

    Still, the turds only rose with the surface of the water, dangerously skimming the top of the bowl.

    With my face burning, I fumbled frantically through the cleaning closet for a plunger, even though I’ve only done this sort of thing once before in the privacy of my own home. When I finally found the plunger, I discovered it was broken, too. Somehow it had been so used and abused that the rubber had turned almost entirely inside out, rendering it useless in my situation. I tried anyway. All it did was shred up the toilet paper and splash water around, causing the poops to move in circles, hovering, almost tauntingly above the hole.

    Then I thought, What would Alexis do?

    Now I had options.

    I could wash my hands, walk out, and pray no one else had to use the restroom for the rest of today. I could put a sign on the door. But what if someone saw me? What if they knew I was the last one in there? Or I could scream, storm out into the office and demand to know who dropped a doo and didn’t flush. I could pin the blame on someone who wasn’t there to defend themselves. I devised intricate schemes in my head about how I could invite a well-trusted friend to my place of employment and disguise them as someone off the street who just needed to use the restroom, have them fake it, and leave, and then have a random stranger to blame as the culprit. In retrospect, I guess any of these things would have been ballsier than what I actually did do, which was fish out each of my feces with a broom handle and discard them into the trash can.

    At this moment, I realized the essence of my own humanity. It was humiliating and at the same time, glorious. I can’t explain this enough to you, Alexis.

    The glory of it is imagining whoever the poor asshole is who is going to take out the garbage tonight because later that day, I went back into the restroom to rinse out my coffee cup, and without even thinking, opened the trash can to toss in the paper towel. It smelled ungodly.

    So I am writing you in hopes that my story will lift your spirits while you are slumming in the depths of your misfortunes. I hope you don’t think less of me when I tell you that while I am looking forward to the mass company email with the subject line reading: “TO WHOEVER SHIT IN THE OFFICE TRASH CAN…” I will simultaneously be thinking, “Things could be worse, at least I’m not Alexis.”

    Which is funny because you were the first person I thought of.

    But what I really hope you are thinking now is that things could, in fact, be worse. You could have shit in a trash can this morning.

    And for that, Alexis, no one could ever really love you for.

    This is a great Poo Story that you might’ve missed.

  10. theNewerYork Press: Experimental Best Man Speeches →

    theneweryork:

    Urban Dictionary defines Shakini as, “Equivalent to having a dream where you do something really awful, something unforgivable, like killing all the kitties. But then you wake up and you have that pure joyous relief. Imagine that, happening to your genitals, over and over for hours on end.” I think that’s what we’re witnessing here today, friends, between (insert groom’s name) and (insert bride’s name).

    Urban Dictionary defines Lion King That Hoe as, “when you f*** a girl from behind, cum on her back, take some on your thumb, turn her over and make a line on her forehead with your thumb, whilst whispering ‘Simba’.” I think we heard that whisper today, friends, at the altar and it was beautiful.

    A new thing I’m starting over at theNewerYork Tumblr: Best Man Speeches that are just Urban Dictionary definitions. It’s a play on, “Webster’s Dictionary defines…” as a speech staple (like you didn’t know that. what? do i think you’re a bunch of dummy fuckwads or something?).