Friday, June 1, 2007
PAGE 10 (with some 2007 censorship)
my attempts at interacting with the hipper joycean crowd was just as memorable albeit embarrassing (even for me)....with in the ranks of the new guard was this fat, speech-impediment having, new york blowhard we unaffectionally dubbed eclaire.....eclaire fancied her self as the fuckin ___ ohio equivalent of gertrude stein and would have lame-ass cocktail parties where she served mimosas, played tori amos records and spent the evening getting sloppy drunk.....the first one of these parties i attended i actually hooked up with some chubby goth girl so i was kinda stoked to hit the 2nd with julie on my arm....i brought a fatty bottle of jagermeister with me and began pouring shots for all of my professors----especially my chick professors.....as the evening progressed the trippy trips began to kick in and i sorta lost control.....eclaire got hongry and decided to make her some pizza.....supposedly i got hold of some of the toppings and began to not so subtlely clock some of my professors in the head with slices of pepporoni....i went into eclaire’s bathroom, opened her medicine cabinet and decided to steal her laxatives.....i’m not exactly sure why, but i guess i just thought fat-ass eclaire would be needing to shit sometime in the future and her not being able to would be funny....at the time, eclaire was almost as fucked-up as me so she really didn’t notice what i was doing....as julie and i got ready to leave eclaire came up to me with the intention of drunkenly kissing me on the cheek.....on instinct, i turned and kissed her full on the mouth....there had been an ice storm the day before so when i hit her front step it was a solid sheet of ice....i slipped and fell right onto her flower pot shattering it into pieces....in the span of about 30 seconds i had kissed my current professor on the mouth in public and drunkenly fell on her porch breaking a flower pot.....eclaire wasn’t mad that night but by the time word got around to her that i had stolen her laxatives, she was furious.....i tried to apologize and give her some of my father’s homemade wine but she would have none of it.....i skipped her next 3 parties and finally decided to crash her last one before i left ___ state for good....i gave her a box of chocolates and asked if i could stay at her party..... this fat, watered-down gertrude stein said that i couldn’t come in the house but that i could stay in her yard as long as i didn’t smoke any marijuana.....again, why would anyone prefer a fictitious ernest hemingway when papa could be in your house stealing your laxatives and clocking you in the head with pepperonis?......you know i put a motherfuckin plastic yard duck down my pants before i left that party.....
PAGE 1 (with some 2007 censorship)
i wonder if she’ll ever read this.....i don’t really give a fuck if she sues me for using her real name....i haven’t spoken to her in 11 months now and if i don’t write this down soon i might begin to lose a piece of her....the fifth phone message i left last may 8th under a cloud of mushrooms and jagermeister was a lil hazy then and it is a lil hazy now.....it went something along the lines of: “dude, maybe you should just go ahead and marry some oldfat___..... no one in amerika is gonna give a ___ a job......they couldn’t fuckin afford the $80 zit cream anyway....go ahead and marry j. bob.....take his goldcard and go eat out your hairdresser...... i bet you could still make it back in time to be the goya ornament on his arm at the fuckin faculty mixer!”...... i was 28 years old and julie was the first girl that i had ever had sex with....(note--i’ll leave the king’s english behind because i didn’t vote for his ass anyway)... now i’m 30, work as a middle school librarian in virginia and live in my parents' basement..... julie supposedly lives in chicago where she gives piano lessons 10 hours per week and lives off her kalifornia parents......as we speak i’m sure julie is dining in a fabulous restaurant and discussing fabulous places with some fabulous, upper-middle class, cosmopolitan, bohemian muthafucker... for assmass, i had the art teacher at school do her portrait....in the painting, she was wearing blue jeans and a nirvana tee-shirt and holding 2 tix which read “choke horse”...... the trees in the background were in the process of turning into lollipops and by the time i framed and mailed it, i had spent like $200 bucks...i even included presents for her mom,dad and dog.....i didn’t hear anything from her but at least i got to play the martyr again.....maybe that is all that is left now....i have to prove to myself that i wasn’t an idiot for making her into my ideal....how could i not be in love with someone who would get so fucked up that she couldn’t even wipe herself?..... i remember taking her home to virginia to go hiking and having to wipe her ass because she was too high to do it on her own...it might sound crazy but i dug that more than i could put into words.....the fact that she trusted me enough to let me do the most private of things meant the world to me.... i would have wiped her ass for the next hundred years...she was just like a lil baby and she needed me....
BABEL REVIEW BY VICTOR THORN
REVIEW: CRAZY CARL ROBINSON’S FAT ON THE VINE
Back in the heyday of Babel magazine, one of the heavy-hitters who stepped to the plate each week was Carl Robinson. As the editor of this publication, I got to stand back and watch what type of reaction each writer received, and the feedback for Robinson’s no-holds barred catharsis was predominantly positive. But what I enjoyed even more were the comments from those who were outraged, offended, or disturbed by the words Carl laid on the page.
Why, you may wonder? Because literature is supposed to evoke a reaction. It’s supposed to get under people’s skin, strike a nerve, push their buttons, and make them squirm uncomfortably as they consider the schizoid world around them. And that’s exactly what Robinson does in Fat on the Vine. In between howling with delight at his antics, obsessions, crimes, loves, and out-of-control habits, the reader also sees things that aren’t normally discussed in “polite” literary circles. I could spend hours listing them all, but that would spoil half the fun for you. I mean, how many times have we read a blurb that says a certain novel is “hilarious” when in actuality it’s not funny at all? But I can say with 100% certainty that no book has ever produced for me as many laugh-out-loud moments as this one in an ultra-cool Sam Kinison kind of way (and you can’t get a much better compliment than that)!
Indeed, evoking visceral responses is Robinson’s most endearing strength, for once you start flipping through the pages of Fat on the Vine, any previously held notions about “literature” being safe, sterile, or far-removed are immediately dismissed. Instead, Robinson gives you “blood real” art that is stark, direct, and as compelling as our most private fantasies (you know, the kind we cherish, yet surreptitiously hide from respectable society). In other words, forget about all the status quo authors who want to keep their work at arm’s length. As you’ll discover, this book is impossible to remain separate from, for every crazy tale becomes indelibly marked upon our psyche like a backroom tattoo.
Why? Because it demands intimacy. Whether the reader consciously decides to or not, they’re very alluringly drawn into a world that is quite likely far different than their own. And, of course, this heightened sense of the extreme which transports us to realms never before experienced is precisely what differentiates quality story-telling from that which gets tossed by the wayside.
What we’re talking about here isn’t just another standard, run-of-the-mill throwaway book like thousands of others published each year. No, Fat on the Vine is worthy of a single word of praise that I wouldn’t bestow on many novels. It is IMPORTANT, and it is a book that deserves to be recognized as being important. If literature/prose expects to remain relevant in George Bush’s post-illiterate 21st century; or if it wants to be respected and recognized; then creations that are real such as Fat on the Vine need to be at the forefront. Forget about the academic automatons, pretentious poseurs, and formulaic phonies who currently sit on your local corporate-owned bookstore shelves like pretty little paper posies. I think its high-time we let a few of the unruly weeds run rampant in the garden to strangle the precious breath out of the more refined creations. Yes, I’ll take low art over high art any day of the week, and few push the envelope further than Crazy Carl Robinson.
The late demented visionary Friedrich Nietzsche once maddeningly declared, “The greatest enjoyment from life is to live dangerously,” so anyone who still values the printed word should throw caution to the wind and get their hands dirty, because this book is alive, vital, and miles ahead of anything else out there. My only regret is that I’ve already read Fat on the Vine (twice), because I’d give almost anything to be able to re-live (virgin-like) once again this dark, exhilarating masterpiece for the very first time. That’s how good it is!
-Victor Thorn, Publisher and Editor of Babel Magazine
Back in the heyday of Babel magazine, one of the heavy-hitters who stepped to the plate each week was Carl Robinson. As the editor of this publication, I got to stand back and watch what type of reaction each writer received, and the feedback for Robinson’s no-holds barred catharsis was predominantly positive. But what I enjoyed even more were the comments from those who were outraged, offended, or disturbed by the words Carl laid on the page.
Why, you may wonder? Because literature is supposed to evoke a reaction. It’s supposed to get under people’s skin, strike a nerve, push their buttons, and make them squirm uncomfortably as they consider the schizoid world around them. And that’s exactly what Robinson does in Fat on the Vine. In between howling with delight at his antics, obsessions, crimes, loves, and out-of-control habits, the reader also sees things that aren’t normally discussed in “polite” literary circles. I could spend hours listing them all, but that would spoil half the fun for you. I mean, how many times have we read a blurb that says a certain novel is “hilarious” when in actuality it’s not funny at all? But I can say with 100% certainty that no book has ever produced for me as many laugh-out-loud moments as this one in an ultra-cool Sam Kinison kind of way (and you can’t get a much better compliment than that)!
Indeed, evoking visceral responses is Robinson’s most endearing strength, for once you start flipping through the pages of Fat on the Vine, any previously held notions about “literature” being safe, sterile, or far-removed are immediately dismissed. Instead, Robinson gives you “blood real” art that is stark, direct, and as compelling as our most private fantasies (you know, the kind we cherish, yet surreptitiously hide from respectable society). In other words, forget about all the status quo authors who want to keep their work at arm’s length. As you’ll discover, this book is impossible to remain separate from, for every crazy tale becomes indelibly marked upon our psyche like a backroom tattoo.
Why? Because it demands intimacy. Whether the reader consciously decides to or not, they’re very alluringly drawn into a world that is quite likely far different than their own. And, of course, this heightened sense of the extreme which transports us to realms never before experienced is precisely what differentiates quality story-telling from that which gets tossed by the wayside.
What we’re talking about here isn’t just another standard, run-of-the-mill throwaway book like thousands of others published each year. No, Fat on the Vine is worthy of a single word of praise that I wouldn’t bestow on many novels. It is IMPORTANT, and it is a book that deserves to be recognized as being important. If literature/prose expects to remain relevant in George Bush’s post-illiterate 21st century; or if it wants to be respected and recognized; then creations that are real such as Fat on the Vine need to be at the forefront. Forget about the academic automatons, pretentious poseurs, and formulaic phonies who currently sit on your local corporate-owned bookstore shelves like pretty little paper posies. I think its high-time we let a few of the unruly weeds run rampant in the garden to strangle the precious breath out of the more refined creations. Yes, I’ll take low art over high art any day of the week, and few push the envelope further than Crazy Carl Robinson.
The late demented visionary Friedrich Nietzsche once maddeningly declared, “The greatest enjoyment from life is to live dangerously,” so anyone who still values the printed word should throw caution to the wind and get their hands dirty, because this book is alive, vital, and miles ahead of anything else out there. My only regret is that I’ve already read Fat on the Vine (twice), because I’d give almost anything to be able to re-live (virgin-like) once again this dark, exhilarating masterpiece for the very first time. That’s how good it is!
-Victor Thorn, Publisher and Editor of Babel Magazine
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