Calling All Cars

Dead Lip Sucker

is
calling for the submission of short fiction, poetry, essays, creative cartoons, album and/or book reviews to begin the creation of an online arts magazine/blog.

All entries will be reviewed and feedback returned. Quality submissions will be considered for volunteer positions as staff writers.

Please note the guidelines and send submissions to reidmccarter@hotmail.com.

Short Fiction/Poetry/Essays: 1-10 pages in any standard 12pt font.

Album Reviews: 500-750 words on any album released within the last year.

Book Reviews: 750-1000 words on any book (preferably released within the last year).

Don't Go to Space

"Space Man About to Be Moon-Raped by Alien"

Amends Continued

It was pointed out to me that I may have been premature in a Hemingway post and that George Orwell was shot in the neck. This does not change my standpoint on Hemingway, only Orwell should be given note as well as another writer who fought in the Spanish Civil War and was awesome.

Here he is drinking tea and enjoying a cigarette as well as having a fantastic mustache and hairdo that I wouldn't have the nerve to wear. Thanks for "1984" and "Animal Farm" George, I enjoyed them both very much.

Amends

I have been about ten days at the front when it happened. The whole experience of being hit by a bullet is very interesting and I think it is worth describing in detail. Hard as nails [editor (Reid)]

It was at the corner of the parapet, at five o'clock in the morning. Very early -- sign of a hardass [ed. (Reid)] This was always a dangerous time, because we had the dawn at our backs, and if you stuck your head above the parapet it was clearly outlined against the sky. I was talking to the sentries preparatory to changing the guard. Suddenly, in the very middle of saying something, I felt -- it is very hard to describe what I felt, though I remember it with the utmost vividness. He was so tough that he remembers being shot (ed.)

Roughly speaking it was the sensation of being at the center of an explosion Orwell would know what this feels like because he was tough as old jerky (ed.). There seemed to be a loud bang and a blinding flash of light all around me, and I felt a tremendous shock - no pain He obviously doesn't feel pain, only irritation (ed.), only a violent shock, such as you get from an electric terminal; with it a sense of utter weakness, a feeling of being stricken and shriveled up to nothing. The sandbags in front of me receded into immense distance. I fancy you would feel much the same if you were struck by lightning. I knew immediately that I was hit, but because of the seeming bang and flash I thought it was a rifle nearby that had gone off accidentally and shot me. All this happened in a space of time much less than a second The bullet didn't want to stick around to get fucked up by Orwell (ed.). The next moment my knees crumpled up and I was falling, my head hitting the ground with a violent bang which, to my relief, did not hurt. I had a numb, dazed feeling, a consciousness of being very badly hurt, but no pain in the ordinary sense.

Like, Really

They may look funny doing it but at least they're not just sitting around watching TV. Nothing good is on really for rhinos except for sometimes when on Discovery Channel they show two of them getting down then it's like prime-time rhinoceros pornography but they can't even get the channel to come on for lack of opposable thumbs.

Sweat, rhino, sweat.

What a Man

See, this is what I was talking about before (there was no before). When I write I have a cup of coffee and something quiet on and you can bet that if I was wealthier I would own a foot bath or something to complete by little baby philosophy of creation.

In case you don't know that is Ernest goddam Hemingway laying down the law probably between writing epic verses about bedding foxy Spanish resistance members or catching giant fish in a little boat.

I don't advocate hunting but all I am trying to say is that the modern writer is such a little diaper wearer in comparison to some of the guys who went before. Hemingway was so dope he made the name Ernest hard as anything and probably seasoned his cornflakes with razor blades instead of brown sugar. See, if my hands were on a gun I would be as likely to level a bear as take off in flight but old-school writers were no suckers and they could show you this is pictures of them looking like they taught university classes while holding the lines in heated combat.

There really isn't any point here but that I had this picture and it always puts me at an automatic loss for words in trying to express how badass Ernie is.

Also, if you can be as awesome as all of that then years after your righteous old corpse is in the ground people will dress up as you and riot in the streets. The best part of all of it is that the man himself is so nasty that even when he was a fat, balding, alcoholic old degenerate that was the very image that old men everywhere would mold themselves into to celebrate him.

That is testament to a guy's greatness where I come from. I don't know about you.

A Surprise Candidate

From My Blog to Yours

Say now what? For every blog that comes onto the internet like so many barnacles on a whale an angel is said to drop from the sky and turn into the tiniest bit of precipitation (that little raindrop you feel on a clear day that isn't someone's spit).

Another angel falls today and behold it is another little piece of glass in the sands of the Gobi!

More to come . . . .