Cincinnati Inkmouth

tuesday tuesday tuesday

corey bennett — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 20:48:11 +0000

get it?

i don’t.

here is what I am reading as of now:

The Boy Detective Fails by Joe Meno on Punk Planet Books

The book begins by praising Billy Argo, the young detective, who with his sister Caroline and their friend Fenton, solve various mysteries plaguing their town. The book continues way on into Billy’s life, which I found to be an interesting concept – a once boy detective, now a man. It’s like, what ever happened to those hardy boys, did they grow to become real detectives, or did they sort of lose their minds in college and became odd jobbers, looking to score some hard drugs.

I wish I could go on about The Boy Detective, but I’d hate to spoil even a single drop of the plot.

As I read one book, I am usually partially into about two or three more. It’s the whole notion that we, as teenagers, or as people never really finish anything. Sometimes I read books simulataneously, but I find myself remembering bits of plot and placing them into the wrong timelines. That reminds me of when I cannot discern a dream-reality to a life-reality, taking dreams as memories. Very befuddling stuff.

As for another:

The Name of the World by Denis Johnson

Ah, good old Denis Johnson. I have read one other of his: Resuscitation of a Hanged Man. I am not too far into this newer book as of now, probably about a hundred pages. All I am going to say is that it is a really interesting look into academia, as well as life after a death in the family. His books remind me of the winter, the coldness. He describes to me the human condition in all purity. Hitting every note i’ve heard once before in my own life or even still hear today.

Who’s next?

cheapmeats — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 17:34:00 +0000

Sunday afternoon web surfing virtually landed me at Literature Map. Check it out.

good article about writing, or creating in general

ryanc — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 00:59:11 +0000

http://jayhathaway.wordpress.com/2008/09/13/runner-up-ization/

a new egg leaking at the knees

ryanc — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 01:49:36 +0000

hello.
my name is ryan c*ntsbruck.
corey invited me to join this humble collective of minds.
i don’t know how much i have to offer but i am capable of thought.
hopefully, that’s enough.

I’m currently in love with beat literature.
more from me later.

An End and A Beginning

cheapmeats — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 03:03:41 +0000

I just finished reading Frederick Exley’s A Fan’s Notes and, frankly, I’m a bit sad to be done with it. Sad because I felt so attached to Exley: the drunken misadventures, the loneliness, the madness, and the longing. I sat on my front porch reading the last few chapters yesterday. I took a few breaks and a few drinks and stared up above the rooftops thinking about the language, the beauty of it. What a fantastic fucking read. I’ll miss you ol’ pal.

I gave myself a few moments to dry the tears of loss then picked up Junot Diaz’ The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I received the book as a gift sometime last year and found it in a pile of the-yet-unread. I’m a couple chapters in and feel pretty good about it. Junot won a Pulitzer for this baby. Yeah.

Snake the pipes

cheapmeats — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 02:04:36 +0000

I started running with purpose again today. After a few months of taking it easy-which has meant coming home from a day of work and lighting a cigarette in the same minute as opening a cold beer and then another and another until the night becomes a blur- I felt ready to dig my dick out of the dirt, pull myself up by my bootstraps, etc. Running, for me, is a spiritual journey. I don’t mean to get all New Age, but I fucking mean it. There is something about running that clears my head, gets me thinking about what I need to do and unplugs the mental bathtub of creative thought, snakes the pipes. Getting past the first mile and a half can be torture, but almost immediately after that point the bliss pours through me like maple syrup over a tall stack. My mind swaggers with confidence. Everything I see around me becomes a part of a short story or the first chapter of a novel. It’s a goddamn wonder why I ever take a break from these runs.

It’s time we put this on the bed.

corey bennett — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 19:31:56 +0000

a rifle in the airport

cheapmeats — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 03:55:20 +0000

I stayed up all night waiting for an early morning taxi to take me to the airport. I was half asleep, wearing the same jeans and t-shirt I had been wearing since the beginning of the tour. I smelled awful. It was a combination of sweat that dried slowly after every show, leaving white rings on the front of my shirt and around my shoes, and the stale smell of beer and cigarette smoke. I tried to cover it up with aftershave and deodorant, but every time I moved a new pocket of powerful stink rose from some part of me.

After days of not feeling the high I so needed after the 20 minute nightly set of blistering, feedback-drenched, controlled chaos, I stopped looking for it. I played through each set with other things on my mind. We were playing bars, supporting a bigger name band, that would hold the crowds who came out eagerly in support of something as mysterious as a band from Japan that usually got some favorable article written about them in the local entertainment weekly newspapers.

The show was everything I hoped it would be. We set up our equipment extremely close to the front of the 2 foot high stage. It was our way of creating a small space to stand, so the giant venues felt confined, in a good way. When we switched on our amps, the people began to move away from the bar and from smoking outside onto the linoleum-floored space in front. I could feel a thick tension building between the crowd. The local kids were being pushed around by thuggish frat boys and the kids were pushing back. As we played the first 10 seconds of the first song, a glass was smashed to the floor and bouncers swarmed, grabbing a bloodied friend by the throat and pulling him away. His screams and struggles incited more of the same from others. Without pause we continued playing as the bouncers tried to mop up the mess just in front of the stage. The crowd grew frighteningly aggressive and jumped on the bouncers to get a better look at us. The bouncers fought back with the graceful ease of prize fighting giants. The kick drum tipped over and the drummer stopped playing, which meant the rest of the band stopped too. It happens. The crowd continued moving in violent protest. The drum was set back up and the song continued into another. I looked back at the drummer. His face was twisted in pain and anger. The drums were taking a beating like I hadn’t seen in a while. The stress and frustrations of eating bland vegan dinners and sleeping on hard floors in cat-piss infested apartments had come to a full eruption in the young man. His drums would pay dearly for every upturned nose at gas stations, every goddamn piece of equipment that had to be loaded and unloaded from the cramped, borrowed van. A few more minutes into the set and the kickdrum tumbled forward again. Instead of fixing it, he drummer bagan throwing the rest of the drum set into the crowd. Both the guitarist and I looked at each other and moved toward our respective amps, providing this freak out with an appropriate dose of eardrum-splitting feedback. The show was over in less than 7 minutes and it had the energy of a drunken fist fight.

At the airport I was seriously asked by a bag checker if the contents of my bass case was a firearm. A rifle in the airport. I looked like a maniac. The deep bags under my eyes and messy hair. The denim jacket and stretched-out shirt. I smiled at the checker and my face felt like it would crack open. When it didn’t, I said “no gun, just a guitar.”

Holders of the thresh.

corey bennett — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 02:48:45 +0000

While quickly browsing NPR.org, i came across this story: Benji Hughes Crafts An ‘Extreme’ Debut

After a listen, I can say that I enjoyed my preview of A Love Extreme.

His voice is very reminiscent of Beck, Stephen Merritt, and Mark Oliver Everett from the Eels depending on the song you choose. So for those of you who love love songs, those who cruise the strip with plenty of love-driven sorrow only to be medicated by love songs of this century, give Benji Hughes a try.

He’ll probably massage your spinal cord while gently brushing your bodacious chest with his flawless mane.

The Problem with Problems

cheapmeats — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 00:33:16 +0000

After a weekend of Purple People Bridge walks, drinks, Krohn Conservatory strolls, drinks, the extroadinary adventures of Freddie Exley’s A Fan’s Notes, and late night Olympic TV viewing (with drinks, of course), I found myself, in the early Sunday morning hours-when most of the West Side population is recovering from a night of upheaval or preparing to seek forgiveness from their god- with the want and need to exert physical strength. Maybe this feeling hit me because of the sculpted athletes on said Olympics. It wouldn’t be the first time I viewed certain athletes or celebrities with a combination of admiration and loathing. More likely, to sweat out some of the liquor consumed over the past few days. It was in this frame of mind that I drove the old truck to the hardware store, walking the aisles in search of heavy bags of soil or dog food or whatever else might prepare me for a day of hard yard work . Since I don’t have dogs, the fifty pound bag of topsoil seemed like my best bet. I mean, what would I do with fifty pounds of fucking dog food even if I did have dogs? Most likely, I would throw the bag over my shoulder and walk around the yard, swatting at mosquitos with my free hand, a Marlboro Light dangling from the corner of my mouth, while the dogs-probably twin golden Labs named Victor and Chauncy- would stare at me in disbelief. I might work up a sweat, rip open the bag of food, and watch Chaunce and Vic eat while I opened a cold beer.

I stood in the hardware store staring at the bags of dog food. I began lifting one after another, arranging them in new piles. The dog food dust mixed with the smell of booze leaking from my open pores. It was a wondrous moment. I imagined myself winning the gold medal in dog food arranging, breaking all records of speed, neatness, and smell.

And so begins my dip into blogging. What once seemed like a bad idea to me feels like a good one, like a five mile run after smoking a pack.