paradise

Hello, wow. Good to see you today, write.as.

Good to see you today, too, Ian. What a great read that was.

And CJ, what a wonderful thinking point, as opposed to a talking point. Or an interlocution point. Though I don't know if a lot of people know what “interlocution” is. It sounds vaguely like some sort of eyeball torture.

But maybe... you know how some people really get off on toil and torture? Maybe the made-up-definition of eyeball torture/interlocution is fit. We toil over the things we love to read, giving our eyeballs the gift of eyestrain and long term blue light wavelength damage. Enough that I like to wear those Karl Lagerfeld-like plastic shades most people's grandparents have to wear outside in the sun, else their eyeballs are scorched to dust inside their skull. This is way past macular degeneration.

We are macular degenerates!

Us rebels!

Eyeball torture!

Interlocution!

...

And so, digital penpals we are.

---

Dear world,

Why am I so much better at writing goofy blog posts while I'm loafing, than writing snazzy, conversational blog or newsletters when I'm working? I mean, I'm sure I can unpack all the reasons why — and you can too! — so maybe we shouldn't even go there.

Why don't we just keep loafing, writing love letters to our micro universe, enjoying the trees and the forest, making sentences that are far too long for commercial tastes?

Omg. Speaking of long-as-shit commercial sentences that are so fucking pretentious you'll have to have an enema afterward to remove the compacted bullshit from your colon:

Hey, top-shelf talent at Harvard Business School that thinks Wall Street is full of dinosaurs, do you want to dress like your granddad at Goldman when you could be wearing a James Perse T-shirt with a Cucinelli sport coat and that pair of Stan Smiths, the ones you put on and take off without even having to untie the laces, while incubating the next big thing in the laid-back office utopia that is WeWork? I don’t think so.

This is what Hemingway app— you know, that nifty workhorse that grades your papers against an 8th grade reading level, much like its namesake Ernest — has to say about that:

Grade 14 Poor. Aim for 9. Words: 87

An 87 word-long sentence?

Gawd, and I thought I was a persnickety rambling fuckface.

Trophy gets handed to king narcissist fuckface over there at one of those domino Conde Nast buildings.

(Conde...

...Nasty?)

So maybe I should let my kid play 13 hours of Apex/Fortnite/Call of Duty so he can avoid the liberal hell which is the nouveau college campus. I would barf shit-colored-rainbows if he churned out copy like that.

I mean. It's almost 2020. Why even write these days?

Just kidding.

Writing is the shit.

Writing to you fuckfaces is the shit.

I never have writer's block with you assholes.

It's just a rockin' rollicking black-and-white time here in the punkwrite zone.

Ever ben to Barney's Beanery? It's this totally dope 70s relic dive bar on Santa Monica and Holloway in 90069 West Hollywood. Dingy seats, 24hours open, a few arcade games you can beat the shit out of your friends with, and the worst public restroom I've ever smelled in my life. Photos of all the awesome fuckfaces who go HERE after their concerts at Key Club (rip) and Viper Room. (Hey Slash)

(fuck, I'm starting to sound like Conde Nasty now... sorry for the name drops).

I just wanna say, right now? This feels like that. Its this totally lived-in establishment, with games you can beat your friends at (vice versa applies) that's just so damn comfortable, even when dirty celebrities show up. (But I don't think there are any celebs on write.as, so that makes it even more special)

Anyway.

Fuck Barney's Beanery. And their Kobe beef hamburgers.

Whatever happened to ZINES

and punk books?

I wish I was near Powell's City of Books again. They would know the answer.

The only lit my city gets into is how “LITTTT” their drunk flameouts go. Seriously. Closest indie bookstore is 2.5 hours away in a different state.

Oh, nm. We just got one on 4/19/19. Well. Good. Field trip time.

It is, hilariously, called “Writers Block”.

Can't make this shit up.

Another day in, Paradise

— .:~:..:~:..:~:..:~:..:~:..:~:..:~:..:~:..:~:..:~:. published not proofread. #NeverLookBackspace! Words, Ideas, Magic copyrighted by Zem in Paradise. this is confidential communication. Protected by US and International law.