by Jerome du Bois
I bother with bothering Phoenix Writers Bloc for several reasons: they claim to be real writers, but they're not, and we're here to point to higher standards; some of them receive, have received, or will receive, or will apply for, public money --my money. Catherine's money. And two of them, Steve Jansen and Kevin Vaughan-Brubaker, have written critically about us. I'm just keeping up my end of the deal, boys. As for the rest of that shrinking outfit --from ten down to five now-- we'll share what they're up to this December First Friday --tonight, in fact. This month Writers Bloc will feature . . .
zines
I struggle in vain to find a form of communication more irrelevant in the age of the internet. Maybe carving glyptics on clay tablets. Where does one find these little paper treasures? Oh, you have to go to Unchanging Clichés in East Tempe, or metroflapadoodle waaaaay out in Apache Junction or somewheres. Or you used to. Now you can just go downtown, to Sixth Street Studios, to examine the printed infantilism this silly crew has tweezed from within their navels. (And if you think the epithet "silly" is too harsh, read the "bios" on this page. Just scroll down.)
From the Writers Bloc Website:
Come join us this Friday, December 2 for the Writers' Bloc Zine Show: A Celebration of Local Underground Literature. Check out locally made zines in the gallery room, including Modest Proposal, Your Invisible City, Male Pattern Radness, and Introverts Unite! Admission is free.
I searched these titles on the internet, which unearths the so-called "underground." Underground Literature. What a joke. Every one of these so-called zines is a tiny tendril in a myspace basement, a damp darkness where many skanky mushrooms grow. These are neither blogs nor sites, but maggot-white parasites. Except Introverts Unite, whose domain name is now nowhere, on the eve of the big zine show; good work, Steve Jansen, I'd expect no less from the likes of you.
When visitors step into "the gallery room," will copies of the four --count 'em: four-- zines be exhibited in oak-and-glass vitrines under spotlights, or will the visitors ackshwally be able to handle them?
Four zines.
Admission is free. But let me, with Catherine's help, provide more reasons for you to avoid this exhibition, these people, and everything they stand for.
This was . . . created . . . by a little brat named Brandon Huighens. Catherine and I have been gritting our teeth ever since we saw it, for at least two reasons.
First, the infantile, lazy lettering is a mere disguise. What you are looking at, viewer, reader, emerged from an aggressively talentless arrogant little prick, with aesthetic syphillis of the brain, who considered the vast expanse of fonts, colors, formats, and effects at his actual fingertips, and said, "No, I'd rather scrawl. After all, I learned all I need to know in kindergarten, where my art teacher said, 'There are no mistakes in art.' So now, you must accept whatever I put out there."
No, you twit, we don't. Both Catherine and I have created whole alphabets --clean, sharp, and all twenty-six characters consistent with one another --by hand, with wood, with lead, with plaster, with paper-- beautiful letterforms-- so you don't get away with your worthless lazy gesture, Brandon. It's beyond insulting.
Second, look again at the drawing on this announcement. This is a cartoon of Hunter S. Thompson. With a pistol in his hand.
I swear I do not understand why Mayor Phil Gordon or Phil Jones would get behind these people --I mean Cindy Dach and Greg Esser and the rest of the dwindling dingleberries down there.
Read the caption: "Writers Bloc Comes Doctor Recommended."
I wrote in my piece about Amy Silverman that she had a quotation from this evil piece of human slime posted above her desk. I haven't refreshed myself on the details of his demise, but the rough facts remain:
Not long ago, Hunter Thompson blew his brains out while sitting at the kitchen island of his house in Colorado, while on the phone with some ex-intimate, and while at least two of his adult children were asleep in the very house at the time.
You go look it up.
But now, the people who pay their dues at the failing Writers Bloc enterprise --yes, we see them casting about for local landlord lifeboats-- these people have cast their lots with a limp, dead medium and a cruel, dead self-murderer.
Good luck in the new year.
Posted by Jerome at December 2, 2005 10:45 AM | TrackBack