Recently Read: Snuff by Chuck Palahniuk

Snuff is Palahniuk’s 9th novel of his illustrious career as one of the nation’s best selling fiction writers. The man is a genius, most say, and most days, I would be completely in agreement with this statement. When some of my friends criticized Rant as being illogical, and poorly constructed, I stood by my man Chuck, and defended the clever narrative style, the interesting method in which he developed a character through journalistic style word of mouth profiling. I defended it because I truly believed it. I believed that Rant was a work worthy of praise and defense, one that was and would forever be meritorious of my attempts to illuminate others to my way of seeing it, regardless of their level of agreement.

Today, I find myself still thinking he is a genius, but I find myself disappointed in this 9th book.

Palahniuk’s work is usually rife with originality, in content as well as in narrative style. But in reading Snuff all I could think was that Chuck was rushed by some agent to meet some kind of deadline for a publisher. The book builds on the narrative style that was, to me, such a success in Rant, but drops the journalistic detachment present in the 8th book. The result is a first person account of one event as seen by 4 different people.

The book’s plot is interesting enough, and in true Palahniuk style, you can’t help but walk away feeling as if you know all the deep secrets of the adult entertainment industry, including secrets to obtaining a husky voice, a healthy glow and avoiding a face lift for years. But it all seems rehashed, contrived and forced, and for Chuck, that is just unacceptable.

I think the biggest problem with this novel is expectation. As a Palahniuk fan, I entered into it expecting something amazing, I mean, it’s Palahniuk, sex and death, which should be an almost effortless win. In the end, it was Palahniuk, sex and death that saved the book, kept me reading the end, and not the plot twists, linguistic quirks and gritty visuals that we have all come to expect from the author of Fight Club and Choke.

But then again, that’s just me. Thoughts?

Guest Post: Jasmine...A Short Story by Matthew Lynn

She called herself jasmine and she carried my folding money around in her
panties. She drank cherry dr pepper leaving wounded and dead soldiers
to litter my nightstands and countertops. we played games like hop
on pop, hungry hungry hippos, trivial pursuit, rock 'em sock 'em
robots, and operation. Translated that means we fucked, ate a shit ton
of narcotics, I chased her frivolously, eventually beat her up and she
removed my heart. She loved animals, I loved drugs. I wanted her to
love me.

We got drunk and got tattoos out on the beach one sunny april day,
mine was a tear drop on the inside of my index finger, it cost me
sixty dollars american, the shop minimum. She got something written in
greek, claimed it was some wise old phrase. I told her to think for
herself and she punched me in throat. I couldn't sing karaoke for a
month without collapsing, the rednecks and red-faced suits ate it up.
I was their hero.

The out of shape business world failure with the outgoing bottle
blonde bombshell. Being a hero is a lonely thing to be. Heroes don't
bleed or feel pain or have lives of their own aside from public
opinion which tends to state, "aww c'mon look at your life, it's not
that bad, man. You got it great! Look at everything you've got going
for you! Count your blessings, bro, be thankful."

Yeah, lets. A house in foreclosure, an estranged ex wife who took the
kids and now takes the money, while some square with glasses and a
website kicks his shoes off at the front door and lays his head in her
bed, a driver's license lost to unpaid speeeding tickets for doing 9
over, a father with Alzheimer's taken care of by a mother who believes
only in labels and how posh the name is, and a drug habit that has
claimed every guitar, bass, amp and surfboard that ever took me away
from all this hero.

But I can hold my liquor, I can sing karaoke, and I date a stripper
with great big cans. So to them. I am God.

I, on the other hand, am an atheist.

I believe in waves.
The up and the down in equal undulating perpetual motion. Crests and
valleys, mountains and pitfalls. Just like Jasmine's
unnaturally-oversized chest.

The thing is, these traits that the racing rats idolize me for are the
same things we abandon as we grow from boys into manhood. I have
regressed and anyone who would care enough to point this out and set
me back on the straight and narrow has since been slighted in some way
shape or form and walked away. Now all that's left is the dreck, the
shipwrecks of voyagers whose journeys met with violent storm, the
broken body of icarus who flew to near the sun, bald, blind sampsons'
shackled and humiliated publicly. Which of these has voice enough or
perception enough to rise and say "drop that fucking pipe, dickhead!"?

None.
they say tomorrow, tomorrow. we sing the song of tomorrow, glorious
and high. promises as heartfelt as they come, sworn to, oaths of
camaraderie taken to hold one another up come the rising sun. but it's
heat melts us back into the quagmire and we remember that there is no
crazy glue for our dusted hearts. So make an encore of the pipe, let
the bottles once again take center stage, and in the green room the
scent of artificial Jasmine lingers on yellowed fingers and a crowd of
jackals goes wild while the hero dies, then rises to the occasion.

Story by M. Lynn
Photo by Dylan Hartmann

Help us save Arts & Culture in Miami

A proposed $11 million reduction in arts and culture budgets has the potential of endangering arts organizations in Miami-Dade County, as well as being detrimental to our economy and tourism. Speak up now to your commissioners and get the word out that Miami-Dade County NEEDS arts and culture.

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Even if youre not from, or currently in Miami, help us keeps arts and culture Alive in this beautiful city of mine.

Thank You.

The Cat Owner's Home Veterinary Handbook

I keep a copy of the Cat Owner's Home Veterinary Handbook next to my bed, not because I think am in way qualified to heal my animals at home, but because you never know when you may have to. I live with three cats, my children, and, like children, they dislike each other at varying degrees depending on the day/time/or amount of food they have eaten in a given amount of time.

The three have lived together for going on 6 months now, co-habitating as indoor/outdoor cats in a fairly large house that stays always open, allowing them to come and go as they please from my fairly large, wondrously green neighborhood. You would think with the amount of space, coupled with the infrequency with which these animals see each other, that they would be able to spend a night, one single night, without bringing down hell, high water and the wrath of khan upon anyone who is unlucky enough to get in their way.

But that's not why I keep the Cat Owner's Home Veterinary Handbook next to my bed. You see, they are unique, these animals, in that in their absolute hell-hath-no-fury-like-a-cat-with-an-attitude scorn, they never manage to hurt themselves, nor either of my family memebers, but only me.

The book therefor, serves as self defense, and often I find myself chuckling at the fact that one of my devils has run off yelping after the 300 page tome has been flung at this tail at maximum velocity, the irony too much to handle for even my half asleep brain. No worries, I never hurt the damn things, primarily because in my state of half sleep, I am much more likely to improperly aim and accurately smash the book directly into my own toe.

I'm pretty sure that my cats are going to one day figure it out, they are, especially Ninja, devilishly intelligent, and take the book away from me before attacking.

Until then, I will continued to be baffled by my cat's insatiable desire to eat my feet in my sleep.

Dear Miami,

You were cooler when I was 15. You were cooler when staying out past 2 at a nightclub to watch a group of musicians kick ass was actually the thing to do, and worth doing. You were cooler when we used to go out to the car at 3am, drunk and stumbling, to find the last few coins stuck somewhere in between the car seats with the hopes of buying another drink, and not to add money to the meter, because we knew in our bones that the meter maids were bitter and didnt care if you had one minute or five, you were still getting that ticket.

Now, I know you’re mad. I left you without a lot of notice, for Orlando, for a man, for an education, but that’s no reason to act like a baby and shut down at 2:00, thats no reason to push all the amazing artists out of your streets with your lack of opportunity and competition. That’s no reason to greet artists with distracted conversations and leave them performing to empty dance halls. And its definitely no reason why the same ten schmucks are always at the same place doing the same shit in a city so damn large.

Miami, you have a responsibility you may not be aware of. People think you’re cool. They look at you in your little bikinis and your pastel colors, your famous beaches, your lights and your stars and they think you’re the shit so they come visit. And then they get there and you don’t care. You ignore them.

What makes you think they’re gonna keep coming back? The amazing attitude that each of the stuck up hotel attendants have when you walk past them? The traffic? or are you thinking that its the intense heat and cruel and inhuman humidity? Let me be the first to tell you: No.

None of these things are enough. Miami, right now, to a lot of us, youre like that really hot guy from high school, or that girl that you wanted to bone worse than anything else in your at the time so far short lived human existance. You pursue them for years, you worship their style, their tastes, their legacy. You yearn each night to dip you toes in that pink sand of exstacy that you just know has to be waiting for you at the end of your dreams.

Then you get them naked.

And your left there, staring at a tiny dick, wondering what you could possibly to with something so small in the name of fun. That or you're facing a bush that hasn't been trimmed since 1987, very a-la-Demi-Moore.

The difference is, Miami, youve got sooooo much potential. Your dick is not small, its just flaccid. Underneath that genital mane, are the most luscious pussy lips that you have ever laid eyes on. You just gotta learn how to use it. You gotta realize that pushing out the cool people to spread your good name ain't working for you. Because the rest of here are just bored. and its still so early.

So Miami, I'm back now. I'm back to give you that second chance that i know you wanted, because you know I got a lot of say and a lot of outlets through which to say them, and the last thing you want is to hear that I called you a whore again.

I have a lot of faith in you. Mostly because I've seen what you're capable of, I've seen what you can produce. So please, try not to let me down.

Yours truly,

Miss Melo