Archive for August, 2008

RSS This #4

Richard Nesberg
The (Inter)National Webovision

When YouTube hit the intarweb in 2005 a fundamental change occurred in the way media is assembled, distributed, and accessed. Sure, underground outlets for film, television, music, and art existed long before YouTube. However, never before in modern times had the capacity existed for the average person to disseminate information and content on such a scale. While internet videos or web shows or webisodes or video podcasts et cetera were certainly on the intarweb long before YouTube, it was this site that launched the genre into the public consciousness and gave it a credible reputation or at least an identifiable style and quality. But YouTube is hardly the focus of this topic. And before we can usher the topic in we must define the genre. The aforementioned titles can suffice but I am of the school that prefers Tom Green’s term; yeah, Tom Green, the “my bum is on the Swedish” guy. Following his bout with cancer, a lackluster film career, and divorce from Drew Barrymore, Tom Green decided to launch a full-blown television studio in his LA living room. His pioneering efforts truly forged the model for live, internet webcasting and through all the technology issues and actual troubleshooting on how to do webcasting, his work would enable people like Leo LaPorte to build their own internet studio twit.tv. The term Tom came up with was the National Webovision—actually International Webovision, but he thinks National sounds catchier. As more people like Tom and Leo construct their live video feed for the web, more internet webstations are becoming legitimate entities too. An example is Revision3 (Rev3), stating on their website, “Revision3 is an actual TV network for the web, creating and producing its own original, broadcast quality shows.” Rev3 boasts about two dozen weekly/daily shows on technology, arts, web culture, etc., with their flagship show, Diggnation, covering selected stories from Digg. Brick and mortar television networks are increasingly turning to the web too. Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim
premieres their prime content online Friday before it really airs on television Sunday night. More mainstream television networks are getting into this content delivery model, this little internet fad that’s been going on for twentywhatever years, generally offering their content online the day after it airs. Apart from these and other International Webovision pioneers are podcasters who increasingly are switching format from audio to video. The inherent nature of the internet allows anyone to get content online. While democratizing the media, the way content is delivered and assembling viewership via social networking, the internet will eventually be taken over by the mainstream media or the governments or corporations. Which will suck, but there will be something better by then, like Internet 2…

Follow Richard in the internet fastlane at: twitter.com/rtn

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Matthew Friday
The Other Side of the Platform

‘I’m getting a double bed tonight.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah. Well good.’
‘I know what you wanna do in that, Kas.’
‘Shut up, Gemma. Not interested in any of that.’
‘I believe you, I believe you.’
‘Shut up.’ (more…)

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Talk Hard #3

Mikael Covey
Eat Sleep Breathe and Reproduce

The capacity to speak, to say something, is a great privilege. Not that we can’t say whatever we want, or spout off about anything whenever we feel like it. But the assumption that there is someone listening, or reading this. That they are paying for this with their time. Our limited mortality being the most precious thing we have, and to give some of that over to reading this – it better be worth it. I would have to tell you the most important thing I can. Otherwise I’m wasting your time, a part of your life. (more…)

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Shane Allison
Searching For Allen Ginsberg

I looked for you when boys called me a fag in junior high.
I needed you when Ira Miller poured milk in my face.
I searched for you at age 12 when I discovered the wonders
of masturbation in Aunt Tillie’s bedroom,
in front of her black and white Zenith TV.

I wanted us to play with my sister’s dolls together.
Where were you when I was walking in my aunt’s high-heeled shoes?
We could have broke into my mama’s make-up bag, smearing lipstick on our mouths.

I want to tell you about the first time I swallowed semen.
His name was George.

I searched for you on a filthy mattress in some dude’s window-tinted van.
Where were you when Jack kissed me in a game of Truth or Dare,
when Nick stood me up at the movies and never opened my love letters?
I needed your shoulder to cry on.

I searched for you in Dennis’ one bedroom apartment as he licked my ears,
suckled my boner and rubbed my hands with lotion after it all.
I thought you came back reincarnated as his smoke-gray cat.
I searched for you in the reflection of Ben’s windshield, in Robert’s ocean-blue eyes.

I searched for you in the underwear of frat boys,
in the medicine cabinet mirror of John’s apartment
before he left me for a red head from Boston.

Is that you Allen, darling, in the produce section
squeezing apples as ripe as my nipples?

Wish I were there when you read your poetry
on the steps of Florida State University,
when Reagan wouldn’t say the word AIDS in public,
when you shot poetic loads in his Republican scalp.

I search for you in smoke-filled coffee houses,
in every man’s apartment I have ever been in.
I search for you in the tearooms of Columbia University,
the teacher’s lounge of Brooklyn College.

I search for you in the lobbies of bus stops,
in the personals section of gay porn magazines.
I search for you in piss porcelain urinals of shopping malls.
Check for signs of Jewish ejaculate in the rings of gloryholes.
I search for you through the concrete jungle of America.

Thought I heard your voice in the voices of guys who would ask,
“Hey man, you gotta big dick? Can I see your dick?”
I’ll read Kaddish for a hand job Allen.

You appear in my dreams, butt-naked and sweaty beneath my covers
wearing one of my strawberry flavored condoms. Your Beatnik lips circle my erection.

As Collin Haley mounted me in a multiplex movie theater,
I wanted you to be there to watch
and fondle your crotch in the row across from us.

As I look up into the face of the guy in Tom Brown Park,
his dick stuffed in my mouth like a turkey drumstick, I wanted it to be you.
I want you to be apart of my nutritious breakfast.
I want you in my bedroom naked under the covers
wearing one of my strawberry flavored condoms. And in the morning,

Let’s talk about poetry over coffee and English muffins.
Let’s get naked and smoke pot on the hardwood floors of my apartment.
Let’s go whistle at the boys on Christopher Street.
Tell me what’s the best time for you and I will be there.


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Ben Stainton
My Name is Terry

The police never found the body.

Mr Smith left his sprinkler on all night.

I call him brother but he never listens.

Thursday. In the canteen,
Gary pulls a rubber knife on Craig.
The girls laugh.


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Jack Henry

Back in my days of youth, in the semi-rolling hills just below the mountains of the Angelus National Forest, at the ass in of Los Angeles, I lived a normal life. Typical all-American kid, doing typical things such as riding bikes, swimming at the public pool during the summer, walking up the street to the liquor store for candy, playing stickball in the streets and chasing girls.
These were days before my nuts dropped and the realization that girls would or could be something more struck my like a drunken elephant center at a Mexican circus.
Simple days.
Normative days.
Things change.
In my advancing age I have had time for gentle reflection and those visions often turn to where it all went wrong.
One, when my balls drop and the mystique of women changed from simple curiosity to morbid fascination to rampant lust and utter misery.
Two, when writing poetry became more than a tool to gain the attraction to young women to a devise that developed into utter madness.


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The Review #1

Charles P. Ries

By: Gloria Mindock
Ibbetson Street Press
25 School Street
Somerville, MA 02143
Price: $13.50 / 62 Pages / 45 Poems
IBSN: 978-4303-1034-1

In her third book of poetry, “Blood Soaked Dresses” Gloria Mindock raises horror to transcendent allegory. With language that has a lyrical soft quality to it, her new book of poetry becomes the perfect vehicle to express moments (sad, horrific, and glorious) that are set in El Salvador during its civil war from 1980 to 1992. When we see the massacre of innocents continuing in Kenya , Somalia , Darfur , Iraq , Afghanistan – the list becomes painfully endless. Her book becomes a timeless poetic prayer for peace. (more…)

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Matt Fallaize

if in the meantime she said
you want to think about culture
i suggest you look sideways

the flat is the gap
in the shoreline’s teeth
lights drawn across indigo

a peninsula
becomes the sea
look for the seam

we joined the crowds
in not talking and we reacted
as starlings do

flux in the malls
a shift in the crowds
a flex in the body

politic the silence
of aldermen advertising
their glories abandoned cinemas

leading men walk
through scenery you
can see through their

great hanging jaws
have already killed once
sacrificed a man

a father of twelve
his body on a pyre of books
pushed burning to sea


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Greg Oguss on Pop Culture
Coming Soon to an Intarweb Near You

This month’s regular programming of Cash Rules has been preempted. Instead of the usual arrogant column on a selection of random shit you’ve grown accustomed to seeing in this space over the past several months, you’re in for a special treat. The following is a promotional tease for an anthology I’m editing on pop culture in the digital age entitled God Is Dead But That Ain’t What’s Givin’ Me the Blues. The anthology features fiction, essays, blog-style rants and poetry. Some of the contributors are Gloom Cupboard folks like novelist and columnist Richard Nesberg and our founding editor Richard Wink. Other participants include a jet-setting Peruvian blogger who rocks an iced-out silver neck-chain bearing the letters C-U-N-T, the founding editors of Slurve Magazine, and an alcoholic bass player from Houston who goes by the name DJ Jesus Christ. Without further ado, here’s a discarded draft of an introduction I wrote for the book, which will no doubt show up in the tenth anniversary Director’s Cut edition loaded with those fab extras that get the fanboys all hot and bothered. (more…)

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Presenting: Dave Bryant

Slow Death Of Another Trade

I watch the fluorescent tube flicker.
I am still stuck here, but it’s dependable.
There are gentle erosions to mark the passing of time.
The bumper telephone message pad is almost finished. (more…)

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