Hookers or Cake

“Every now and then when life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only real cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas. To relax as it were, in the womb of the desert sun. Just roll the roof back and screw it on, grease the face with white tanning butter, and move out with the music at top volume, and at least a pint of ether.”    - HST

I’ve had a few friends tell me that Tumblr and my site get blocked at their place of employment or at their school. It got me to thinking that perhaps I could send out a daily email. This also might be an excellent time saver for those that are too busy to wade through all the porn, kittens, and political gossip.

If you would like to directly receive my daily offering of silliness just (if the link doesn’t work).

Think of it as a singing cyber telegram - a cyber song of the self.

Om on the range - Jade

Did you know that Hookers or Cake began life as a pornographic blog? Perhaps that helps explain the name. I would post softcore, amatuer porn and write terrible poetry inspired by the pictures. Here is an example (for scientific use only! NSFW)

I’ve since learned that all forms of pornography are wrong. Interestingly its only men who have pointed this out to me. They love and care about women so much that they feel it thier duty to eradicate pornography from the face of the earth. I am with them. I love women too and I do not want them hurt by this dirty filth we know as pornography.

Tis a shame because I really liked looking at boobies. Actually its the face and the boobs in unison. Really it was the whole naked ladieness of giggling, jiggling radiance that I enjoyed. But its wrong, so no more.

The problem is that since I’ve given up porn I’ve noticed myself looking at even modestly clothed ladies, lustily. Yesterday I saw a newspaper ad with a woman wearing a brassiere and almost bit a hole in my favorite cardigan. National Geographic is off limits, so are museums. Those Spanish speaking TV channels are full of porn. Bouncing, laughing, full blown, temptresses - saying God only knows, to leering little fat men. Women’s tennis is out of the question with all the grunting and lunging. The WNBA is fine. Bjork? Nope, can’t listen to it for two seconds. There is a fruit stand on 4th street that I’ve learned to avoid. Full ripe melons glistening in the sun…

I’ve also become suspicious of nature. The way the sun warms me and makes me feel. The gentle fragrant breeze caressing my face. Have you ever pondered just what exactly a tree is doing to the sky? I’ve stopped going to the bathroom too as I found the process fundamental dirty, wrong, and suspiciously stimulating.

I’ve had to give up drawing. First it was curved lines, but now even using only straight lines, the way some of them would intersect… why it would make even Prince Rodgers Nelson blush. Piet Mondrain is a whore-monger!

I don’t know what shall become of me, but I love and respect women too much to view any aspect of them as sexually exciting or pleasurable. My sole interest in them is now purely analytic. We are friends and co-workers and business associate’s, except for the ones that dress like whores. Like my boss, Nicole who insists on wearing short sleeves. She shall be cast in a lake of fire for all eternity. She’d probably like that though. She’d probably find that one great big turn on.

Writing advice from a terrible writer

You know the old axiom, “Write about what you know.” Its splendidly stupid advice. First off, most of us don’t know a goddamn thing. We look stuff up on the internet and pretend to be cool. Second, writing about what our reducing valve (the brain) has figured out about the wild infinite cosmos is like watching a monkey sort rocks that are all exactly the same.

So my advice is, “Write about what you don’t know.” Allow yourself for once to be totally open and clueless. Ask impossible questions of the heavens. Find the strangest curiosity you have and listen to it. Follow it into the woods like a starving hunter follows game. Let it lead you into the murky waters of the unknown. Then sing the tale like a drunken whore in church. If details give you the fits, be simple and vague. You’ve got a bus full of clowns that need an assfucking. No one cares about the year make or model of the bus. Get to it!

Ohh and keep yourself out of it. No one cares about you, the bus has caught fire and the air is filled with anal sex and burning polyester. Get out of the way! We need to see how this ends.

Hey I put my full color Kurt Vonnegut t-shirt design on Zazzle.com. It features design elements from his books. My favorite is the fur collar covered with assholes.

Dude/ess
Lets be clear. There are only 100 successful writers allowed to live and breathe in America at one time.
The rest churn out genre fiction or whacky non-fiction to make ends meet. The really boring ones write YA adult fiction because they don’t know how to fuck and run guns. The real nut jobs scrap around doing freelance. They are wolves who get REALLY serious after a couple of drinks like some broke war correspondent. A few make their living as bloggers/associate editors and those poor fuckers WORK for a living! A bunch of tough acting maudlin drunks btw - sometimes they become great writers but by then no one cares.

So no, I’m no pro. I don’t even have an agent (big surprise I know) My books do pay for themselves and keep me in “supplies” The funny thing is though I don’t even want to write for a living. Not only because then I can still pretend I’m a undiscovered genieus and not have to go through the thousands of rejections but also because when you slave away at something it kinda losses it for me. Real writers work it really fucking hard (oftentimes WAY too hard) I’m just in it for the creative high and the occasional handjob. I like the creative process. The weird power and mystery of it. Writing whatever stupid crazy awkward thing comes to mind, like a foo. The rest is fucking work and lets be honest, I’m too high on designer entheogens to bother.

Stay Gold,

Pony Boy Curtis

30 years ago today Philip K. Dick was found unconscious in his apartment in Santa Ana, California as the result of a stroke. He never regained consciousness and died on March 2cnd 1982.

I’m selling some postcards I designed on ebay over the next couple of weeks to celebrate his life, work, and vision. All proceeds go to a great little charity called Read A Story which reads books to kids and them gives them a copy of the book to share with their family and friends.