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**PRINT: No. 34.2: Part dictionary of the outrageous, part chronicle of the manic twists and turns of American life, Atlanta writer Jamie Iredell's BOOK OF FREAKS (due fall 2010 from Future Tense) is A+ material, the best of its bits spawning raucous laughter and righteous anger read after read after. Check out several of the "freaks" in this issue, part of our mini-broadsheets series, along with Nashville-based Gabe Durham's similarly structured selections from "Fun Camp," a work in progress, on the back side. Durham is Keyhole Magazine's new editor. **PRINT: COLD WAS THE GROUND, by Chicago's Scott Stealey, is No. 34 in our broadsheet series. Gina, protagonist, a rather lonely condo dweller/office manager, strikes up a fleeting friendship with one Porgo, an Eastern European construction worker who is burying on her property what Gina takes for a time capsule. But the metaphorical fix is in -- Porgo, an ESL student, may be leading Gina in directions she can�t exactly get her head all the way around. Enjoy. Chicago writer Stealey is editor of the Please Don�t online mag. **WEB: BAND CONSIDERS ITSELF A VOCATION Mickey Hess |
BAND CONSIDERS ITSELF A VOCATION
---
Mickey Hess
Detached garage band breathlessly rocking. Sonic collage, an impressive range, a brilliant adventure! Band's well-dressed, field hands stare. Big ending, throat-shuddering band's athletic. Vital edge, Paul Bunyan honesty. A lab creation of pep-squad standards, rap, and down-home, alcoholic, religious songs. A political tower full of flamboyant loners. The literary equivalent? Dangling modifier.
Dozing off, reporters vie for engaging band positions.
The damn band was sunning itself, then movies thrived. Long caustic moments in the sun, its intentions agreed upon. Sunning itself, taking off clothes and sunning itself standing up. Doubt anything's ever been stranger (like, for instance, sinking patriots or teetotalers fast running). Singer got out of his shorts, being personable, conspicuous.
Square knot tolerated, this band of influential men saw reporters commit a felony, sunned till a club elected them Sophomores of the Year. "Everyone should show up for some big fun," the restful sorority called.
Advice for the sorority: "Nothing ventured," that being the word of the flailing, prancing guitarist. Wouldn't find any more record deals.
"This fag's dancing's got to go," a reporter reacted, wished the garage guitarist a social fading out.
Vince the groundsman thought that they must intend to put on a no-talent show.
***
Vince's condemnation destroyed their big hit, but the band saw that the simple stuff meant more than growing impatient. They were just throwing sounds in a circle. Tempo was going to be permanent, but now fans cried for something diffused, slowed-down. "Just take it easy," singer yawned. "Drum on, but let's shut the smoke machine off. We'll slow down and stretch. Fuck band practice."
Drummer gradually accepted this. Disappointed, he vowed, "I've decided that last straw will annihilate this career." Band relinquished themselves to watching the drummer extract himself, stumble twelve unsteady paces. They fired the joyous youth, but he'd already quit.
They sat down to mess hall over-easy eggs, every thought blowing against the lessons a man could assume. Band was bewildered with mistakes, and their focus slumbered, so they put up sound effects and dedicated the night to drunken postures.
Look -- band's furniture in the bathroom. Oh, the confusion. They toppled a pair of La-Z-Boys, discovered the transportation phone, then turned to the Trenton Motel Six. They were disappointed.
Vagabond measured them up, the posturing drunks. A ride to the lake, then back to the motel. They played bed-dodge and threw plenty of dandy property from the windows. At dawn, the band went to confession.
***
Front man's birthday parade went to buy sufficient champagne for a hilarious celebration. Blood donors thought the party wasn't dedicated to gathering enough plasma.
Gory accidents dropped the singer down a few flights of stairs. "Mom called, she's furious and impatient," went the infirmary's on-call nurse, holstering bleach.
"See-saw show. Aren't all these women demanding?" Drummer appeared, made his day, protesting no more.
"The size of front man's small intestine has been looking bad," the doc remarked. "Unluckily, harm is going around, no b.s. And we'd love to get this singer well. That's the idea."
Front man grinned.
"I'll donate him two kidneys," the drummer exclaimed.
***
They cut them out
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