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14 April, 2008

Memory Is Unreliable -or- Why Blogging Is So Important

On Saturday nite, a friend shared with me that the number one reason he likes me is because I have never bullshitted (or is it, bullshat?) him. He then proceeded to recount his memory of our first meeting as evidence of my having shot straight from the hip for as long as he has known me. However, while I do recall that first weekend we hung out, I did not, and even after hearing his story, do not remember doing what he so well recalls me doing.

In 1997, when I was still a card-carrying member of the music industry, I decided to attend the first ever of a music festival called Terrastock. It was being held in Providence, Rhode Island, over the course of an entire weekend in April, and I decided to go mainly because a lot of people I knew and liked were going to be there. The music was fairly peripheral to me (the fest tends to celebrate the psychedelic and the shoe-gazery—Bevis Frond, Damon & Naomi, Silver Apples, Bardo Pond were among the names on the bill,   none of which interest me. Although, I was not entirely without things to watch, because Neutral Milk Hotel, Thee Hydrogen Terrors, and Olivia Tremor Control also played, and I spent most of my time drinking with the male vocalist of Prolapse, a band that did not play). Folks, in general, were fairly surprised I was going.

Nonetheless, I did go and seeing how I had a car I agreed to drive my friend up to the big event, with the understanding that he was meeting two friends up at the show. Those two guys would be sharing a hotel room with us and then catching a ride back to New York, too. Thus, we all met at the venue, which was an old warehouse. And as we were introduced, according to the guy whose birthday it was this past weekend, he made some sort of disparaging comment about punk rock (probably spurred on by my general appearance, which at the time was very punk rock—close-cropped Manic Panic hair, big boots, etc.) to which I literally spat in his face. I do not remember that, but it was a very punk rock reaction, so I don't put it past myself to have done it.  

It's also worth mentioning that he and I ended up having to share a bed that weekend because my actual friend decided that it would make him uncomfortable to sleep in the same bed with me, so I ended in the sack with this virtual stranger. And now ten years later, even after I spat in his face, we still know each other. Hell, he loves the fact that I spat in his face and apparently still refers to me as "the girl who spat in his face" to the friend who introduced us and watched it happen. But that's not the point.

The point is that I don't remember spitting. And the other point is, I often get told stories in which I am a central character, but of which I have no memory. There is so much that I don't remember doing, and I am pretty certain, so much more that I don't even know that I don't remember. That's disappointing. It's scary. 

There are things that I have done this year that I have probably already forgotten. I'm now dreading that my brain will cast off into a dark sea the wonderful things that I do recall right now, and love recalling. Things that mean so much, one day I fear, they'll just be gone. That my mind will let them go. And there are things—distant and recent--that I just simply do not want to ever forget, but time is cruel. The brain is an inefficient and flawed storage device. How do I correct that?

So tell me our stories, friends. Remind me of the legends we lived so that in the end I'm not alone with just the shadows that creep around inside my skull? Yes, do promise to tell me our stories.   

Stupid, Inefficient Hard Drive


09 April. 2008

"A Skin, A Night" or Kelso Is a Sucker, Who Used to Be Carried In the Arms of Cheerleadersms of Cheerleaders

OK. I love me some The National.

Like, I seriously really love me some of that--as in I have listened to at least one of their records at least five days of every week so far in ’08. It’s a problem, I know. My friend Ben, an actual certified indie rock mogul, doesn’t get it. I know. But I get it, and cream for it, and now my little The National is doing a huge summer tour with Modest Mouse and REM (a tour I won’t attend because I don’t do shows where I get assigned a seat--arenas suck).

Now, to add to the band’s glory, some Frenchie went ahead and made a straight-to-DVD film about The National and the making of the "Boxer" LP. It will be available on May 20 and you can actually pre-order it now on The National’s Web site. This piece of merch really shouldn’t excite me, ’cause I’m way too jaded for this, but when I read about it, I got a tingle.

The movie will be called "A Skin, A Night", and I viewed the trailer for the film (you can too: view trailer), and I have to say, that even me--a card-carrying, band t-shirt-owning fan of The National thinks this whole prject comes off somewhat pretentious. Wait, seeing how the filmmaker is French, let me say trés pretentious. Oui.

I’m in a quandry--so many questions. Does there need to be a movie about the making of "Boxer"? Will I buy the damn DVD? If I do, will I watch it? If I do that, will I make it all the way through? Hmmmm... interesting inquiries, one and all, Bat-fans. Interesting indeed.

I guess what we need to answer thoe questions is to evaluate me. Therefore, let’s do that, shall we? 1) I’m a sucker for music that sounds pretty, but has really dirty/nasty/sarcastic context in the lyrics, just like The National makes. 2) I’m a sucker for music that makes me cry, even though no one else hearing it gets even the slightest inclination to cry, just like The National makes. 3) I’m into documentary/reality (non-competition) type entertainment. 4) I’m kinda really crushing on Matt Berninger (and that deep voice), the singer of The National.

Yeah, I’ll probably buy it. Such a sucker...

ABOUT TODAY by The National

"Today you were far away
and I didn’t ask you why
What could I say
I was far away
You just walked away
and I just watched you
What could I say
How close am I to losing you

Tonight you just close your eyes
and I just watch you
slip away
How close am I to losing you
Hey, are you awake
Yeah I’m right here
Well can I ask you about today
How close am I to losing you
How close am I to losing "

Gosh, why don’t they just get it over and kill me.
The National
The National Is A Movie

07 April, 2008

"Now We're Slavin'"--Futurama's Bender

The company I work for was sold over the weekend. They still have to go through the anti-trust schlock, but it's pretty much a done deal. A very large and well-known company bought us. It bought us for a $225 million. Holy geez.

I feel a whole bunch like chattel.

Amazing unto myself, I have been working where I work for what will be 7 years come this August 31 (I remember because I had only been there a week or so when the Twin Towers were hit and I watched that shit go down from my rooftop in the Lower East Side, when I was cool enough and stupid enough to be paying the cash to live on the Lower East Side). At this point, I am, aside for the principals, easily one of the ten most tenured people there. When I started, the company was a babe, nary a year old and with a tiny stable of employees. The part of the office I worked in was extra space in a wholesale fabrics store that was slip-shoddily walled off.

This was start-up, baby. It was small. I love small. I love start-up.

However, as with most start-ups, the idea is to grow, and make a name, and prove the company to be a needed and respect force in the industry. The company did just that. I suppose that I helped do that. And to the company's credit, I have been treated admirably.  I complain, but only because I always complain about everything. The truth is: I have a direct superior who stands by me, and a creative, fun, and talented staff to manage. Those are good things, all other frustrations aside.

The last time I worked for a company that got sold off, it took about a year before the organ was rejected by its new host, and then the layoffs started happening--yes, even to me (startling, I know, I mean how could anyone ever make the decision that they're better off without me?). However, that situation was different, the company that took over had no idea what the product it was dealing with was or how to sell it, and just mismanaged the magazine into the ground. This time around, it is at least comforting to know that the buyer has a full understanding of how their new cog fits in the greater machine.

In conclusion, I don't really know what happens now. I guess I have to learn to love big, booming, and corporate. Can I do that? I don't know. It goes against my every tattooed and pierced fiber.

I'm wary of even posting this. Perhaps there's a chap at the company we're merging with whose job it is to scour the Internets and evaluate the personalities and private lives of their new stable of workers, and then cut loose the crazies. Dear fuck, I hope not.

Tomorrow I have to go in an hour early for a company-wide breakfast meeting wherein the new suits will most likely lay down how it’s gonna be. Happy happy, joy joy.

Anyway. I guess the point is: not knowing how things are gonna work out is kinda sucky. And yes, that applies to more than just work these days. It applies to so much more.


By the way, music fans: I’m listening to "Alopecia" by Why? -- a band that makes music that is so unlike what I usually like, that it scares me how into the album I am. But the lyrics are great. The lyrics are better than great. "My crooked Chinese fingers groped the machinery of your throat" -- geez. I hope someone reading this will be kind, do work, and kill me with that line.

Nielsen logo

Who's My Daddy?

March 18, 2008

I Love the MTA -or- No, Really, the Subways are Peachy:
in which our heroine rants about her issues with public transit

Today, as rode the L train home from work and witnessed a goddamn honest-to-goodness fistfight between a seig-heiling white supremacist and an African-American guy (I kid you not, folks) as the train was traveling in a tunnel under the East River between Manhattan and Brooklyn, I began to reflect on something. Recently, the MTA, that is the evil empire that controls New York City’s public transportation system, saw fit to restructure (ummm, that means raise) the fares citizens pay for buying rides in bulk. So an individual ride is still $2, but the sucker I buy -- the 30-Day Unlimited Ride MetroCard – now costs $81 a pop (up from $76). Now, I can afford the extra $5 a month, that’s not the point. The point is the subways pretty much still suck.

Therefore, given the increase in the ticket to ride, I expect the MTA to do all of the following things to improve my commute. I know that some of these things are technically outside of the MTA’s jurisdiction, but I don’t give a shit.

1)Step on it. I really doubt that the trains are moving at anything that is close to their fastest capable speed. Get me there faster, people.

2) Blow a hole in the ground at Ave. A so there is an entrance/exit from the L in Alphabet City. The platform is already there because there is an entrance/exit at 1st Ave. However, the block of 14th St. that runs between A and 1st is extremely long. Just blow a hole in the ground already. Forget even building stairs, just stick a ladder in the hole and put a turnstile at the bottom. That’s a good enough for me.
3) Widen the staircases. When I get off the L at Union Square in the mornings, approximately 5,000 other people get off it with me, and then we wait on the platform, jockeying for position to get on the stairs to get up to the station and transfer or out on the street to fuckin’ breathe. And let’s not forget that as the 5,000 try to escape, there are a few hundred struggling to come down the stairs, stampeding against the flow. Either way, the scene is like one of cattle being run from the corral to that painfully narrow chute that leads to the abattoir. It ain’t pretty kids. It ain’t pretty.

4) Add turnstiles. There are stations that have just one turnstile at the entrance/exit. Like the L/G entrance/exit at the Northeast corner of Metropolitan and Union in Williamsburg. Even the stations that have two or three turnstiles, do not have enough. I should never have to wait to use a turnstile to enter the subway. Never. Unless some stupid school is taking a field trip via the subway and all the tweener pukes are lined up to get on. The MTA talks about the huge number of riders it has to accommodate, but gives us no way to actually get into the subways in a fast, safe manner. Stupid.

5) Ban dumb riders. Dumb riders include, but are not exclusively, those who: walk slowly, stop to look around, stop to watch buskers, do not remove their brats from their strollers, bring bicycles on the train, do not remove overstuffed knapsacks from their back, who rant about Jesus, sleep on the benches, change directions mid-staircase, and refuse to move deeper inside the car when there’s a platform full of folks trying to get on.

6) Ban buskers. OK, not all buskers. The subway performers who need to be stopped are those who perform on the actual train. It’s one thing to be on the platform and singing a song, it’s another thing to get on those skinny little trains and get in everyone’s face. Also, the guys who plug in to play. Please leave your amps at home, rock stars. I, along with most of New York, carry my own music with me and try to listen to it through headphones so you don’t have to, do me a solid, but an acoustic, and leave the amp at home. Finally, the plastic bucket drummers--I have a terrific dislike for the plastic bucket drummers.   

7) Chase away the free newspaper guys. These assholes stand on the street right at the mouth of an entrance/exit to stations and block the flow of traffic while aggressively trying to force one of their free dailies into my hands. I have screamed bloody blue murder in their faces. They are worse than the evangelicals. They are worse than the cockroaches. They are a menace. They don’t have to stop doing their jobs, just do it further away from the fucking bottleneck. Fuck.

I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but that’s a start. I’ll save any other ideas for when they raise the fares again in six months.

Hey MTA, You Owe Me

March 11, 2008

Yes, well, I haven't blogged in a bit. Sue me.

So, in a fit of borebom, I purchased a program that allows me to snip songs and convert them into ringtones for ye olde mobile phone. Before you scoff, let me say this: It was very reasonably priced. It also lets you make wallpaper and shit like that, but I haven't explored that arena. My sole focus has been on ringtones.

This ringtone generator is my new favorite toy. The problem is, I now sit around like a fool creating and adding new ringtones to my phone. And some of those ringtones will quite possibly never ever actually be assigned to play when the phone rings.

In order to cut down on the number of ringtones that will never actually ring, I have begun assigning custom ringtones to the people in my phone. This too is a bit dumb, as I get more text messages than calls. It is also stupid because I have very little recollection of which song I've assigned to whom. Rarely is there rhyme or reason (those of you who know me well should understand that).

It's OK when the three people who actually do call me on a regular basis ring thru, because I recognize those immediately, but every once in a while a song starts to play, and I get all excited to hear the song, but have no idea who is calling me until I retrieve the phone and read the name on the screen. And that is daft. The ringtone should clue me in, goddamnit.

Anyway, because I am a benevolent soul, I am happy to make you ringtones should you want them made. The catch is, of course, I have to be in possession of the song that you want made into a ringtone. I do not tolerate a lot of music (especially the hip-hop, the Top 40, the modern country, and the classic rock--except for The Kinks and The Who), so that could be an issue, even though my collection is quite large. Also, a lot of music I have on vinyl and thus cannot convert to ringtone status. That said, if you have ringtone requests, I will gladly make you some if I have the source of the sound you want. Contact me and we'll work out the deets.

No charge, friends, no charge. Why? Because I like your face. That's right, because I like your face, that's why.

Drive like jehu

You Want A Drive Like Jehu Ringtone For Your Mobi?
I Can Do That For You.
Just Ask.


January 28, 2008

I was going to break this entry into separate pieces and then post date one of them, but fuck it. The truth is that I’ve been lazy and self-absorbed. Why should I try and make it seem any different?  

This past week I had to try on a gown that I have to wear in a June wedding. Wait, maybe the wedding is in May. I guess I’m not sure of the exact date. I should figure that out. Anyway, the dress, thankfully, is classic and flattering and not a monstrosity. It’s black, and you can’t go wrong with black. I shall look marvelous in it.

Perhaps so marvelous that when I complete my descent into madness, this garment will be the only thing I ever wear. I will be seen parading on the streets of New York like a deranged socialite, all dressed up in this black satin number, generously tossing “dollar bills” I’ve created from newspaper scraps to passersby. I will swig whisky that I’ve disguised by having poured it into a glistening green champagne bottle. I will speak with a ritzy English accent. I will be referred to by my pitying neighbors as “the princess.” Seriously, though, good going bride and groom, you chose wisely.

Afterwards, we went down to a restaurant on the L.E.S. for socializing. Stanton Social. Anyone? It’s terrifically chic right now. It required a reservation. Essentially, they offer a very large and diverse tapas menu (American, Asian, Mexican, and other elements at play). On the surface the prices look ok--$8 to $15 per dish--until you realize these are indeed appetizer servings and the waitress recommends that each individual order three items to make a complete meal. Luckily the menu was very non-friendly for super strict and picky vegetarians, so I happily sat the eating portion of the dinner out and settled into drinking. Well, at least that was my intention.

I quickly realized the drink prices were crazy, too: $12 for a Maker’s Mark and ginger, I was miffed. But also happy to have a flask of Maker’s in my bag, and I excused myself to the rest room and topped off the drink when it hit the halfway mark. All I have to say is that the person who invented the flask needs to be celebrated. Kelso Jacks got the last laugh.

This weekend was manic. Saturday was errand city—my car was in the shop and the art show I was in for January wrapped up so I had to retrieve my work from the gallery, which of course demanded use of the car. So I had to arrange for all that, and then one of the zillions of Aquarius babies I know had a birthday party at a bar, but it started early (well, early for me—5:30 pm). Saturday just blew right past me. I feel like I didn’t even really live that day so much as it lived me.

I was also talking crazy talk at the party. I ran at the mouth about music and how it’s all I ever want to experience anymore. It is my sole comfort and my sole entertainer. I could care less about TV and film. OK, books I’ll still keep, but music, music I want to be. I was fantasizing that the world of science could somehow develop a pill that would relieve me of this mortal coil and in exchange I could become music. Like I said, it was crazy talk. And like I said even earlier, I am surely on a descent into madness anyway, so it fits the bill for me to talk in dizzy, insane sentences. My thoughts are not those of a person who is wholly connected to the world around her. My thoughts are difficult for even me to understand. My thoughts are as misty and uninformed as morning drizzle. My brain is a little grey rain cloud, and it is bursting.

Today. Well, today I woke up strongly suspecting that I have mumps. I have something. Yesterday there was a little soreness under the right side of my jaw, and today, there is a significant, hard lump. It hurts for me to turn my head to the right. I have called out sick from work (which I hate to do because I hate when someone on the staff I manage calls out sick. Lead by example, that’s what I say, folks.) I think I might be contagious, and if I’m not contagious, well, I’m certainly not all too attractive with this swelling distorting my jaw line. In the end, I guess what I'm saying is that being ugly is reason enough for me not to go to work.    

I am sufficiently worried about my condition however, and have a doctor’s appointment for this afternoon. Maybe I’ll go and find out it’s nothing. Maybe the doctor will examine me and say there’s no lump at all. Maybe he'll usher me into the strait jacket I've long been awaiting and finally I can be alone with my madness.

Stanton Social Interior
The Stanton Social:
Actual Booth In Which I Sat


Glands affected by mumps
Bad Glands, Bad!



January 19, 2008

I saw a friend this week whom I hadn’t seen in a while. I guess he’s really more of an acquaintance. Anyway, it was at a bar (surprise), and I walked right by him didn’t even notice him (and he’s something like 6’4”), but then again I also walked right on by the table of people I was there to meet. I guess I can be a little self-absorbed.

As I passed him, he grabbed my arm and said my name. When someone grabs me unsolicitedly, two thoughts run through my head: Who the hell is touching me? and Oh shit, whoever it is better not be someone I hate. I turned around, and when I saw who it was, I was relieved and smiled right back at him. He’s a pal of a pal--a guy who used to play in bands with a good friend of mine.  

While standing there talking with him, I was totally struck by how damn upbeat he was. He is, I should say. He is always that way, well, maybe he isn't always, but his public persona certainly is. Like a child, he gets giddy telling his tales, and it’s a ride and a half to hear him talk. His positive zeal about things is dizzying, whether it be his noise-canceling headphones (which I first heard about last time I saw him a couple months back) or his New Year’s Eve in Berlin (where apparently fireworks are completely legal for three days--a fact that the city's inhabitants take full advantage of, shooting bottlerockets and roman candles off at near riot levels). You get totally drawn into that passion.

Then it hit me, I’m the same way. I get all worked up over things and tell long rambling stories, however, there is one glaring difference: I’m usually on the rampage. He tells stories spun with wonderment, and I tell stories filled with rage. I actually was out one night and annoyed myself with my own negativity. I even purposely shut up after a bit because every story I told ended with this line: And I got so fuckin’ angry. If I were a character on a TV show, that would be my catchphrase and idiots all across the nation would be wearing it across their chests on t-shirts.

The more I reflect on seeing that guy the other night, the more I feel a little envious of his attitude, but I’m unconvinced I could ever wear it well. I’m not sure how I got to be so angry in the first place—maybe it was being a fat kid, or my Catholic upbringing, or being from Brooklyn, the list can go on and on—but it’s so ingrained in me now that I wouldn’t recognize myself any other way. And it’s tough, because I do love some people and things. I mean, really love them, and I try to make that known, but I fear that it gets lost, drowned out by the white noise of my all-too-regular seething.

I’m not sure if I had a point to this. I just felt the need to post something here, and this is all I came up with. So here’s to all the happy campers, you guys are a special breed. And to all of the little black clouds, hey, look for me in the storm.

This Photo Has Nothing to Do With the Topic of the Blog Post--I Couldn't Find Anything That Did. I Guess a Photo of Me Looking Angry Would've Done Well, But I Like This Photo Better. I Snapped It In Montreal. It is of Saint James's located on Rue de Sainte Catherine (so there).

January 13, 2008

I need to once again go on record to say how much I love not paying for drinks at bars. Bartenders who buy back, or who just flat out buy in the first place, are just peachy in my book. And of course, poor clueless boys who buy girls drinks in order to have an excuse to talk to us girls are nice too (even sweeter when the girls have no interest whatsoever in talking to the boys, but every interest in a free Guinness).

I’m getting pretty good at spending a whole night out and only taking a $20 hit (and that’s mostly in laying down tips). It’s good to be a regular. I imagine that I shouldn’t romanticize drinking and the bar life, but learned it from all my literary and music heroes. I am an innocent.

So I saddled up to the bar at Union Pool on both Friday and Saturday nights, and had myself a ball both times. Last night, with an arsenal of friends in tow, we took it outside to the bar’s large yard and sat around the fire pit. One of my pals made a bodega run and brought back marshmallows to roast, snapped some branches off trees for skewers, and we quickly became the crowd to hang with, which was a fairly fucking magical thing.

The only downside to sitting around a roaring fire on a January night is the smoke from said fire. The wind would shift every once and a while, and cries of, "My eyes, my eyes, my eyes are bleeding!" would ring out as the gusts blinded three or four of us at a time with a hot smokescreen. Smoke gets in my eyes, indeed, and it hurts like all hell. Also, though wood burning smells delightful as it's happening, the smoke lingers in your hair, your clothes, your skin, your damn soul... and you wake up the next morning smelling like barbecue.

There was a good influx of people coming and going, taking seats, chatting, laughing, rocking and rolling. Very social and very entertaining, especially once someone came up with the idea of making the area around the fire a “joke circle."

Now, my friend Ben (who was there) and I are just about the best joke tellers in the world (well, we’re more like a team: he hears the jokes, tells me, then I trim the fat and deliver them with flair and skill—ZING!). So we were able to jump right in and unleash a healthy number from our arsenal. Genius.

It was truly amazing the number of jokes that got told... everything from the simple schoolyard yukkers of youth to oneliners to pun-riddled groaners to severely blue material--not to mention the whole catalogue of dead baby and lightbulb jokes.

And, to ring my own bell, I was the only person who told a joke that later on received a request to tell that same joke again. An encore, fuck yeah! I was pleased because, it is by far my favorite joke of all time, I laugh and laugh and laugh at it. However, it is kinda offensive to women and when Ben tells the joke it kinda falls flat if girls are listening, but seeing how I’m a girl I can get away with it (I call that the Howard Stern principle). And so, with no further ado, the joke that had them coming back for more:  

Two guys who don’t know each other are sitting at a bar on a Friday night. The one guy looks around and says to the other, “Man, there sure are a lot of really beautiful women here.” The other guy, who is totally disheveled and ugly with acne scars and missing teeth, looks around and says, “Yeah, sure are, and the great thing is that I can fuck anyone of them tonight.” The other guy laughs and replies, “What? Are you kidding? Look at yourself man, these girls are too hot for you.” To which the other guy says, “Yeah, but I’m a rapist.”

Having now seen it written out, it is nowhere nearly as funny as when I tell it, but how I love it. How I do love it.   

Union Pool

Union Pool:
Where Everybody Knows My Name... Well, My Face at Least.

January 6, 2008

Last night a show that I had a couple of paintings in held its opening reception. It was a thrill. The art was well-received, and that is important, however, more important to me was the fact that a great number of my friends showed up to support it.

I tend to be terribly tough on the exterior and never let my friends know my real feelings, but last night was just heart-warming. Art shows are not terrifically entertaining events. Art is on walls, people wander around looking at it, there's some free wine and crackers, and that's about it. So for people to have come out for something like that for me was just great. I am thankful for every single person who went to the Phoenix Gallery just because I asked.

Thank you all for making my night. You rock.

If you missed the opening and still want to check it out, here's the info:

Waste Not, a group art show including works by Kelso Jacks.
January 3-26, 2008
Phoenix Gallery (in Chelsea),
210 11th Avenue (btwn. W. 24th and 25th)


In the Den of the Coneys
Saturday Night: Sunday Morning
on display at Phoenix Gallery in Chelsea through January 26

January 4, 2008

A new year, ay? Well, speaking for myself, I can't imagine a worse one than 2007, so I'm sort of optimistic about aught-eight. Plus, I like saying aught-eight, it is a pleasant sounding construction.

I have no real resolutons to share, never do. My main objective year to year is to try and survive. Thus far, I have been successful in that. I will keep trying to be creative, and have even started writing some fiction -- though my interest in that comes in fits and starts, so I will probably be an octagenerian by the time it starts to resemble anything of value. I like the character I've created, though, so that's good. He's self-destrucive and ambitionless, but a charming guy nonetheless.

Speaking of the written word, I got two words for you: HERMANN UNGAR. He died of appendicitis at age 36, so he doesn't have many published works, and I have read only one of them, but it is wonderful. The man had a dark and twisted and what must've been a paranoid soul. He was writing in the 1920s and was a Czech who wrote in German. The Maimed is what I read, and the madness of the main character is just incredible. I must now track down a copy of his Boys & Murderers, I mean that title alone is great.

I might add that the edition of The Maimed that I've got is gorgeous in of itself. It's from Twisted Spoon Press, which is an independent publishing house in Prague, and the book is a piece of art: super-thick paper stock, illustrations, uneven/unfinished page edges.

Yup, nothing like a good, harrowing tale held together in a sharp-looking container to start the new year.

The Maimed
The Maimed,
Brought to You By:

Hermann Ungar
Hermann Ungar