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The Big Stupid Review


American Dream Serialization (Early Chapters)
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Maurice Stoker
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Tom Bradley
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: American Dream Title Page by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 1 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 2 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 3 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 4 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 5 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 6 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 7 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 8 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 9 by Jim Chaffee
Modern Tragedy, or Parodies of Ourselves by Robert Castle
Totally Enchanté, Dahling by Thor Garcia
Hastini by Rudy Ravindra
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 5 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
Unexpected Pastures by Kim Farleigh
Nonviolence by Jim Courter
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 4 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Poet Laureate of Greenville by Al Po
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part VI by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 3 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part V by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part IV by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 2 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part I by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part II by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part III by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 1 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
DADDY KNOWS WORST: Clown Cowers as Father Flounders! by Thor Garcia
RESURRECTON: Excerpt from Breakfast at Midnight by Louis Armand
Review of The Volcker Virus (Donald Strauss) by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
Little Red Light by Suvi Mahonen and Luke Waldrip
TEXECUTION: Klown Konfab as Killer Kroaked! by Thor Garcia
Miranda's Poop by Jimmy Grist
Paul Fabulan by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
Operation Scumbag by Thor Garcia
Take-Out Dick by Holly Day
Patience by Ward Webb
The Moon Hides Behind a Cloud by Barrie Darke
The Golden Limo of Slipback City by Ken Valenti
Chapter from The Infinite Atrocity by Kane X. Faucher
Support the Troops By Giving Them Posthumous Boners by Tom Bradley
When Good Pistols Do Bad Things by Kurt Mueller
Corporate Strategies by Bruce Douglas Reeves
The Dead Sea by Kim Farleigh
The Perfect Knot by Ernest Alanki
Girlish by Bob Bartholomew
The Little Ganges by Joshua Willey
The Invisible World: René Magritte by Nick Bertelson
Honk for Jesus by Mitchell Waldman
Red's Dead by Eli Richardson
The Memphis Showdown by Gabriel Ricard
Someday Man by John Grochalski
I Was a Teenage Rent-a-Frankenstein by Tom Bradley
Only Love Can Break Your Heart by Fred Bubbers
Believe in These Men by Adam Greenfield
The Magnus Effect by Robert Edward Sullivan
Performance Piece by Jim Chaffee
Injustice for All by D. E. Fredd
The Polysyllogistic Curse by Gary J. Shipley
How It's Done by Anjoli Roy
Ghost Dance by Connor Caddigan
Two in a Van by Pavlo Kravchenko
Uncreated Creatures by Connor Caddigan
Invisible by Anjoli Roy
One of Us by Sonia Ramos Rossi
Storyteller by Alan McCormick
Idolatry by Robert Smith
P H I L E M A T O P H I L I A by Traci Chee
They Do! by Al Po
Full TEX Archive
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Successful P's

By Chris Vaughan

A list of fabric conditioners, bio-agreeable … Everyone’s a winner in advertising. I was told this on my first day and everyday since.
Fabric Conditioner is now our number one concern. Think, think. The word should sound as soft as the product, or as hard. Crisp. Like crisp.

Marketeer has the adventurer’s edge to it — the word Marketeer. Frontier’s of the advertising world flattened to make way for the flush of ideas — the ideas that make us Marketeering wordsmiths, image makers and wizards with lyrics — 'take your time to try, and in the fragrance fly — It's Fabrik, thaaaaaat's Magic(k).' One piano tunefully preening weak notes, one voice reading and half singing from the auto-que.

My last six sentences were:

'Asparagus makes your piss smell.'

'The paper won't load.'

'I like pastry.'

'I like John Carpenter films.'

'I don't like any reality TV or soaps.'

'The smell is pretty bad. It still won’t load.’

This stretches over half a working day. I do like John Carpenter films, I'm not a fanatic. I like them as much as I like English mustard and the Jackson Five. Nothing deeply felt, just an affinity. It's nothing like the way I feel about shop windows in frosty winters or driving nowhere in the night.

'I like driving in the night and browsing shop windows when it's frosty' I said to Sandra in bed that morning. She turned reluctantly, 'mmm.' A pillow doubled up and propped her head up against the head board. She smiled at me, 'mmm I know. You like a lot of things.'

'Not sure if I like it or not' I told Brian over the scanner which was coughing out sheets of shiny ads like a magician positing limitless stocks of handkerchiefs from its sleeve — the ads are dull, designed to show a phoenix rising from the ashes of a credit crises and emerging as Capitol. It was grand, supreme, vocal and unpleasant to look at it. It confronted a viewer with the possibility they had underestimated the significance of the crises and had been lacklustre, blasé — irresponsible. This ad told them they had another chance to take stock and understand their role in a time of crises — Capitol. Mixed feelings about Brian recently. He doesn't like eating out, I do. His desk smells of coffee even when he isn't drinking it. He reminds me of my Dad when he'd come home from work smelling of coffee, sweat and the irreversible toxicity of offices.

I have tried to find a mentor. Someone to show me what mechanics exist within the product, the process — the product is the result, the momentum built up like a coin flung from space through the atmosphere that eventually orbits an idea and becomes Product. The product is given over to the end-user is what I'm told. I bequeath my product to a user, and I am the maker. The maker it appears gets little back for what they do. They are users too, end-users for rival makers. It all gets so complicated. What do I use and when? Who is a maker I can trust but me? I like Jeremy; I could use his products, be his no.1 end-user on the factory belt of users and makers.
Product of …
'A product is the result. A product is the result of there being end-users.' Without the end-user, even if a trillion middle-users or a thousand foundation users, happy-go-lucky part-time users or clown users where ready to use — it would be useless. End — Maker, must there be the End Maker, one man? 'No.' Marketeer and Pioneer: one Maker, one User? 'No.'

Dreams melt between the keys as the fingers navigate 'We propose' other peoples proposals between the crumbs lodged between C-M and the dark coloured stain that wasn't our fault along the F1-F8 — it could be coffee or ink or perhaps it's cough syrup. There is a build up and one day whole words will stick out of the keyboard and the topography of symbols, numbers and letters will be alive with contours, elevated semi-colons mounting @. Everybody has days like:

pfeiohjpuhtrhjfohjr8492344';ldweLWED[QWW:W::QWLS ¬!!!!!!!

Pricing is not only determined by monetary exchange. Time is a price and is generally the favoured currency of those Makers who have a special capacity for making other people make. Everything is priced down to the deconstructed paperclip. The wasted paperclip, priced in its embryonic catalogue form at 23p per clip — is now priced in its delivered, matured, dulled silver form at ten minutes worth of looking dreamily at it attached to the network cable with three others like dead ravens on a telephone wire. Brian attaches them randomly to things they fit. He averagely has two hours per working day that is not priced up. Spent attaching wasted paper clips to incongruous objects, in the foyer talking to Lin the receptionist, sitting by the printer waiting for personal print-outs of blogs he wants to hand out to disinterested friends — a rave he went to in the woods. Up from the paperclip is the paperclip user, different from the Maker's User. The Maker is a user also, but of inanimate objects such as paperclips, staplers and presses and printers. Pricing up time is not easy. It must be measured against the person's value. Someone like Brian's time can be weighed at something like 1 hour per 8 @ £3.50. It is also altered inevitably by the time market, which ensures that time is never devalued, even if it overestimates the worth of Brian's time (which works out by the market standard at £5.60 per hour, ignoring the aforementioned two hour lapse.) Equally some people's time is judged unjustly. Simon's time can be estimated at £8 per hour but he will only ever be valued at the average £5.60. Time and people, when priced up together, never fully add up. Time is not the only component in this non-monetary exchange though.
It loads properly. 'New challenge everybody. Annual development.'
Attention is vital, as is the last, energy. Both attention and energy are packaged together, with time hanging around the corner. Attention can be priced upon a long performance review. If I were to complete this task before someone else my attention and energy are advanced, but only if the quality is equal. My energy is greater as it was quicker, and my attention equal as the quality is as good if not better. Attention + Energy + Time @1.2565 = £5.26p per expended brain cell, aching finger and mulled minute. The time is by default void as it is exchanged for its monetary equivalent.
This explanation of Pricing has kept me up. I rolled over to her 'I like simple equations that have no numbers. Like, I wash my hands because they are dirty. I wear a condom because you would become pregnant. We can't have a child because my time, attention and energy is undervalued.' She was still sleeping. The wind woke and the dog barked at the wind next door. 

'I've always liked toast in the morning.' Sandra doesn't lift her head at all; she curls her arm around and presses me to her. 'What else do you like?'

'I like John Carpenter films.'

'I like the colour red when it is faded into black.'

'The asparagus has made my piss smell, I can smell the loo from my bed.'

'Can you smell it?'

I lost my concept of sell. I no longer find anything compatible in selling and entertaining. It's a sick fallacy. My Dad's dreams were different, they smudged on letter headed paper — an elegant watermark streaked with my father's blue rinsed ambition, the finger printed patterns smooching across the address and Title in a sea spray of ink. He was left handed and his hands sweated when under minimal pressure — moderate heights, small crowds, easy equations - so that he swept the contents of his figures and announcements to one side in an illegible tidal scrawl.

'I don't mind the Beach Boys. I have a Best Of at home.'

'I like all sorts of music.'

'Do we have to go to Quayside for lunch? I prefer Deacon's Deli.'

'I hated lunch, we went to the Quayside. I had a salad. Leaves, tomato, egg, asparagus. Parts were warm others were lukewarm.'

These last few things I said were said partly to myself (the fluttering sub-vocals like ruffled scales over the brain), delivered to the peripheral Sandra, her hollow nimbus circling her scalp, reaching to me over the marbled surfaces, noisy culture of lunchtime drunks, three pint parameters. 'I like food one way or the other.' 'You poor thing. Come back to bed.' The marble beneath her softened billowed, and I wished I could sink with her - just her nimbus, yielding cigarette smoke and scotch vapours left floating tranquilly without her. It was gone in minutes, all of her and her cute nimbus. Brian is staring at me through a pint glass.

First and foremost we need to focus on Angel Accessories. Accessories, Accessorise — look at the spec, think, imagine, design and make my day. Make my fucking month — I love you guys.

Promotion people, it is everything in a nutshell without the bullshit. This is self promotion. I want you to think hard about it. Give me you, your me, all of it.

I do think. If I were a company I'd be:
1) Aspiring
2) Functional
3) Direct
4) Emotional
5) Beginning to feel uneasy
6) Indirect
7) Dysfunctional
8) Bailing out

Placement of this brand would include discreet stickers on the backs of chairs in AA meetings, defunct social clubs and on party hats. I am not interruptive enough; I am passing with bouts of involuntary activity when Simon shows signs of activity followed by short spells of passing.

Someone mentioned something about the smell, and I know no explanation suffices that transcend certain distrust over bad smells - however innocently and unavoidably dispatched.

Whichever suit I wear, blue, grey or darker blue I seem to fit less and less. The material distends although I know I've lost weight. The collar burns. The cuffs are crimped so delicately it's like trying to house fragile tiny birds through even smaller hatches. My hands are like fragile birds -infants - and they are raw with red marks and pocks. The coffee and nicotine stains of old age prematurely sweep up to the knuckles and taper around the base of the effeminate thumb.

Brand awareness, brand awareness is the complete understanding of the components of a brand in their individual parts in relation to the whole. Self aware, similarly, is the understanding of the elements within us that create the man in full, the complete picture in spiritual terms – completeness – of the individual characteristics which constitute your I, in relation to everything around you. The cross promotion there is compelling.

There is rarely a lull in marine life, the undersea scrabble, the lifeline spread so thinly in areas and so thickly in others that there are always hungry creatures near insatiable predators spoilt for choice. Advertisers live behind our wizardry; behind billboards, magazine two-folds, discreet logos and colourful vacuum packs. There is no relation whatsoever between marine life and marketeering. I was disappointed to have it confirmed in yesterday's board meeting that marketing and marketer is the appropriate and, I stagger to say, Correct terminology. I am a marketer. I am a marketer. I do marketing. I play marketing with my friend the Marketeer. I am The Marketeer.

I want your self brand, your Self Brand — and I want it here on this desk tomorrow morning. Successful self branding propels the promotion of others. We sell ourselves and we can truly sell anything.
Replenish the Self. Myself. Dull thudding marketer, like biros and pencils clapped against the desk unconsciously. The mounting scream of a million pencil rubbers bouncing from wood effect surfaces and the giant grounding grinding halt of a lunchtime breath, the last whispers in the senior rooms, job loss mutterings, questioning asides, demonstrative fingers on a keypad – I look through and see them circling my last design. Pencil rubbers critically circle areas of the blueprint, a doctor highlighting trauma and the signs of negligence along the folds — he marks the page with a crude tear with the pencil lead through the amputated header.
Replenish my values. It is written now. I'll scrap it. Sandra first then this fucking stupid project…
I like my wife more than anything I can think of.
A long wave of misty blue on one side of a cardboard box from one corner to the other and in the centre 'I like images that address the world without telling me it's something else; I cannot seduce the world and I can't make people believe me.' Minimise 'I like images.'
A long purple band, straighter and denser 'I like purple days.'
Red zigzag horizontally: across the top: 'I like asparagus.' Across the bottom 'but I wet my pants in school once and people smelled me in the classroom.' Even the teacher joined in a sort of whodunit baiting, some pupils vigilantly sniffing out other pupils' crotches ''here,' and I can see now the round face red cheeks and unevenly gelled hair 'here, here, here!'
'I like John Carpenter Films.' Beside it I draw what I imagine him to look like in all four colours. Red, purple, blue and black, but black is not a colour it is a state of mind the opposite to white which is where some say they've been.
I cut out the top and bottom. I have nothing else to say.

Do we all have …?
Jill has a collection of hand painted sleeves of old vinyls. On each she has put herself in the place of somebody she wishes she could be. I can't see her as Paul Simon and definitely not Cher.
I wish I were. I wish I weren't right at the end.
Brian has a notice board that has his doodling pinned to it. He does this habitually on surfaces. In the kitchen I saw one of Jessica Rabbit sucking off a stick figure with an oversized shlong.
Betty brought in photos and everybody is embarrassed by it. I find it simple and sweet. She is really saying that she is at home and rightly that these people, me too I suppose, are just part of her daily intake, air, cooled water and people assisting along the way practically unnoticed – hither thither wither. The people we don't know in the pictures know even less about us, who in reality might as well be dead. We are to her photogenic friends draughts in an empty reception. I feel even worse for her as Brian is loud without knowing it and says 'so what is her name Kodak?'
Mine finally. The perplexed look from the front, no I don't have anything to say about it as the task is to produce something that explains me. There you are.
Black/ I like John Carpenter.
Red/ I like asparagus/but it makes my piss smell: Small drawing of dribbling urine down the banner.
Purple/ I like purple days.
Blue/ I like images. All kinds, in black, red, blue. I like successful colours.
The wind barks at the dog next door and it's warm again and then cools.

© Chris Vaughan 2009