if you’re wondering what to get me for my birthday…

Just a suggestion, but pretty much anything from McSweeney’s up to and including Dave Eggers would be most appreciated.

As you may know, it’s been tough going for many independent publishers, McSweeney’s included, since our distributor filed for bankruptcy last December 29. We lost about $130,000 — actual earnings that were simply erased. Due to the intricacies of the settlement, the real hurt didn’t hit right away, but it’s hitting now. Like most small publishers, our business is basically a break-even proposition in the best of times, so there’s really no way to absorb a loss that big.

We are committed to getting through and past this difficult time, and we’re hoping you, the readers who have from the start made McSweeney’s possible, will help us.

Over the next week or so, we’ll be holding an inventory sell-off and rare-item auction, which we hope will make a dent in the losses we sustained. A few years ago, the indispensible comics publisher Fantagraphics, in similarly dire straits, held a similar sale, and it helped them greatly. We’re hoping to do the same.

So if you’ve had your eye on anything we’ve produced, now would be a great time to take the plunge. For the next week or so, subscriptions are $5 off, new books are 30 percent off, and all backlist is 50 percent off. Please check out the store and enjoy the astounding savings, while knowing every purchase will help dig us out of a big hole.

Many of our contributors have stepped up and given us original artwork and limited editions to auction off. We’ve got original artwork from Chris Ware, Marcel Dzama, David Byrne, and Tony Millionaire; a limited-edition music mix from Nick Hornby; rare early issues of the quarterly, direct from Sean Wilsey’s closet; and more. We’re even auctioning off Dave Eggers’s painting of George Bush as a double-amputee, from the cover of Issue 14.

This is the bulk of our groundbreaking business-saving plan: to continue to sell the things we’ve made, albeit at a greatly accelerated pace for a brief period of time. We are not business masterminds, but we are optimistic that this will work. If you’ve liked what we’ve done up to now, this is the time to ensure we’ll be able to keep on doing more.

Plenty of excellent presses are in similar straits these days; two top-notch peers of ours, Soft Skull and Counterpoint, were just acquired by Winton, Shoemaker & Co. in the last few weeks. It’s an unsteady time for everybody, and we know we don’t have any special claim to your book-buying budget. We owe all of you a lot for everything you’ve allowed us to do over the last nine years, for all the time and freedom we’ve been given.

Once this calamity is averted, we’ll get back to our bread and butter — the now-legendary Believer music issue is already creeping into mailboxes everywhere; Issue 24 of our quarterly is in the midst of a really pretty silkscreening process; and in July the fourth issue of Wholphin, our DVD magazine, will slip over the border from Canada, bringing with it some very good footage of Maggie Gyllenhaal and a Moroccan drummer who messes up a wedding in an entertaining way. And then a couple of months after that, we’ll publish a debut novel from a writer named Millard Kaufman. This book is exactly the kind of thing McSweeney’s was created to do: The novel came through the mail, without an agent’s imprimatur, and it was written by a first-time novelist. This first-time novelist is ninety years old. It was pulled from the submissions pile and it knocked the socks off of everyone who read it. Millard may well be the best extant epic-comedic writer of his generation, and he stands at equal height with the best of several generations since.

Whatever you can do to help in the coming days, we thank you a thousand times. We’ll keep updating everybody on how this is going over the next few weeks; for now, pick up a few things for yourself, your friends, for Barack Obama. More news soon — thanks for reading.

Yours warmly,
The folks at McSweeney’s

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and now, at the end of days, as the sun sinks, spent, into eternal darkness through sulphurous, striated clouds of irradiated effluence, R’lyeh rises from the abyss, and Nyarlathotep writhes and shrieks in unholy glee at his anchor desk, at last we see the signs clearly

The man who took this iconic photograph:

Kim Phuc

is also the man who took this iconic photograph:

Paris Hilton

And there you have it; the devolution of civilization, right before our very eyes. As Jezebel says, Paris Hilton is the Kim Phuc of 2007. And Nick Ut is apparently the Cassandra.

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yet another Which Goth Are You? quiz

This one was kidnapped at midnight, stripped naked, dedicated to Hypnos and Persephone, and posted far away from its origins here.

Take that in any form you’d like. You could be a DJ, you could paint, you could write, you could even code. Still, you hold whatever you do as Art. You are passionate, and you can also try too hard.

What kind of goth are you?

Created by ptocheia

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R.I.P. T.Paul Ste Marie

TPaul memorial skullTpaulT. Paul is a legend in Vancouver, and the city is smaller, damper, darker, and far less colour-saturated without him.

Last year, when he had an aneurysm, the Shebeen Club hosted a benefit for him which raised the altogether life-altering sum of $100, but he just said thanks, it’ll buy groceries, it’s the thought that counts. He was a true gentleman and lowlife of the finest kind, and I cannot do better to honour his memory than to steal the words of his friend Napalm Dragon from T. Paul‘s own website:

On Thursday, May 31st, the Iconic T. Paul Ste Marie passed away at the age of 41.

He leaves behind a legendary struggle to make the most of life, while embracing and fostering the creative spirit of anyone who dared take themselves seriously. He was a friend to the emergent Artist, and a mentor to many. He opened doors, and he will be missed.

If you knew of him, you liked him.

If you knew him personally, it was a rare glimpse into a Man who persevered though monumental struggles, to find his place and create his own success. “I Can’t” did not exist in his vocabulary.

T. Paul Ste Marie, was best known for many things.
Among them:
•       Opening the doors for many emerging and eccentric musicians and
performers
•       Pioneering the contemporary Slam Poetry Scene
•       Managing and Promoting some of our most beloved performers of the
Vancouver Underground and Sub-Cultural Community
•       Being a slick hipster and Cigar Box Artist
•       and taken anyone who dared take themselves seriously… Serious.
•       He was a mentor to many.
•       He gave Vancouver spice and Savoir Faire.
•       and for those of us who LOVE burlesque, he was there in the
renaissance.
He lived his life on stage, struggling in private.
He will be gravely missed and remembered by anyone that met him, and
all of us he fostered.
We owe much credit to him, he lived the life of legends and made the
most of what he had.
——-
The next drink is in his name.
For those of us that want to say our peace, and share in remembering
him, there will be a tribute. (and what a party that will be)
Good bye T. Paul,
Safe journeys (where ever that is).

To you I tip my hat in honor of your fine and Passionate Invocation….

INVOCATION

We need

PASSION
to put words into context
to formulate a pretext worthy
of our cut-and -paste verbalaching to be heard
thunderclap blurred
quake-shake that thundering word herd
to
play those changes
that rearrange us
rain down rhythmic rhyme-time
jazz-jazz-jazzy clime
axe teases
in the licks chaotic
brrrrap-bap-bap-0-matic
PASSION
bring on the axiomatic
round sound midnight drumroll fury-
ocity
velocity
squeeze beat angel wings
’til they sing sweet
drink the bebop sax
the wing drip wax
of them that flew too close to the sun
fillin’ holy souls and tongues
with the ever changin’
always in the now
manic minds eye milkmaid
leading the tongue tied
to the teat that paid the fare
with their jailtime press
and their pain was not in vain
they were paving the wagon train ruts with gluts
of tarry thick ideas
fresh with bloodsweat extract
doin’ that literal literary lowstick limbo
into the next generation
of word play sensation-
alists
like us
thinkin’ ’bout
what to say
and how to say it
that beat in rhyme
and time to play it
We need
PASSION
to bask in extremes
to set our wet absurdist dreams
in flight
through tarpaper night satellite kite crowded skies
where our white noise pen toys
spin spiderweb thin
sinewy monkey limbs
limberly groping at new poetical chins
our fingers licks spittle
thick with ripe hype glory
pricks the juice-blown words
tasting flying syllables
invisible chords tying them
to howling celestial forms
storm voices that are
politic / lunatic / heretic
our kinetic kites collide
in starry night skies
with leaky loud electric pens

ur ecclectic process begins
where it never left off
sound richness
rhythmic hitches
content stitches
together
pop-pop-poppinn’ a hole
in the whole of time
art serving purpose
continues expansion
in the Universe of Rhyme
We need
PASSION
to invoke the everyday
everyman
tin pan alley trashcan huckster scam
slam sing-song banter
that is simple
sinful
with those blam blam blam gunshot phrases
that glazed ham
canned heat
edge of your seat
repartee
because we learned from those who told it
who origami folded visions

selling passers by
wordy purple fishes
from their oceans of sand
We’ve got to
EXPAND
on this vocabulary
form a mental constabulary
arresting ignorance at hand
because knowledge
IS
power
the sting bee in the flower
that pollinates and seeds
with concepts overgrowing
the weeds of conformity
building bridges of wisdom
over the dull beige schism
torn by sitcom mentally
and wisdom culminates awaiting cultivation
by our visual cortex
spiritual vortex whirling
helix twirling out
the answers to our prayers
and the spoken word blares
from invocation
to creation
occurring within
the process
of lookin’ for words to say.
AND SOME DAYS THEY SPLIT ATOMS
AND SOME DAYS THEY KICK STONES

today they find our voice.

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dating for dominatrixes

catwoman, nine lives
or is that “dominatrices”? Yes, technically it probably is, but the things we do when we’re dumbing down our blog for the sex trollers, eh?

So I was at a party some but not too many years back and I got into conversation, as one does. Now, this party was held by my friend Hermione, who is stylish, sharp, artistic, not a half bad writer, and, most importantly for party purposes, possessed of a wide and colourful variety of friends attained through the exploits conducted during her wide and colourful past. Not that her present is colourless, but relative to the bad old days it’s at least somewhat beiged-out in acceptable Canadian fashion.

One of her friends is a pretty well-known fetish designer, and it was this woman with whom I was chatting. She was much more interesting than the two Gaysian pretty boys who were friends of friends or said they were and who dosed my drink with roofies and sat around watching and giggling all night. Apparently I’m lots of fun when I’m wasted on the stuff, but how would I know if I hadn’t asked the person I woke up next to the afternoon after? Eh? How I located those long-lost earrings in the state I was in I will never know, nor why the furry scarf seemed like the thing to wear to bed. Nor do I wish to know, quite frankly, but I do wish I’d had some of the stuff around to dose myself with when I lost my lovely winter hat, as the superhuman accessory-location ability it apparently confers on me would draw me to the sadly-missed article like Greek playboys to LA celebutwats.

But enough of me: you want to hear what happened when Felicia hooked up with the fellow she met online. What happened was this:

She was in need of a little company, and being busy growing her own company single-handed, she didn’t exactly have the time to make the scene at Sin City every goddam night, even presuming Sin City was on every night, which it is, but only if you exclude 29 days out of every 30 or so, and that would be a very peculiar way to count indeed.

So she looked for love online.

Now, if you’re a fetishist of any experience you already know there’s quite the online community for just about any particular peculiarity, including but not limited to the look-but-don’t-touch underage Gothic Lolitas and the touch-but-don’t-look blackout scene. My own particular favorite example was one Yavanna told me about: a site on EZboard dedicated to restrictive Victorian clothing. This couple had set a webcam up in their dining room and living room and they’d come home from work, change into restrictive collars, ties, bustles, hobble skirts, etc, and then cook and eat dinner and watch tv and do all the other dull, everyday things that people do in their mufti, only they were doing it in these Petticoat Junction outfits, for money.

Seriously, I gotta get me a scam like that. Wonder if there’s a *looks down* overall and thermal undershirt and sneakers fetish market? Mebbe not.

So, Felicia went online, looking for love. Lust, actually. Felicia is a smart girl and she knows that asking Bill Gates to supply your soulmate when his own mother had to tell him to pop the question from her deathbed is somewhat unrealistic. But boy, can he connect you with the vast, horny multitudes for cheap, meaningless hookups, as countless VPs of various Microsoft customers can probably attest. Oh wait: those ones got the expensive LA hookers. My mistake.

And what did Felicia find there? She found a man who wanted to be abused. Oh, not branded, not the whole bloodplay thing. He just wanted a woman who’d make him feel like a complete doormat for a few hours now and again. And if there is one thing Felicia is good at (my friends and I, we have so much in common) it’s making a man feel like a doormat, particularly when he is asking for it.

So she emailed him. When you’re the dom, there’s no sense waiting for him to make the first move, right? Right. And he emailed back eagerly. And this went back and forth for awhile until she and he came to an agreement that he would show up at her apartment at a certain date and time and that she would do whatever she liked with him.

And he showed up, quivering with eagerness, and she led him to the hall closet, handcuffed him to the rail, closed the door, and then she turned around, took off the leather, put on jeans, a t-shirt and an apron, and cleaned her apartment.

She let him out the next morning and he could not wait to see her again!

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