Writers who are alive, like really alive, not like Stephine Meyer alive

Since I woke up with crazy dreams still still slowly draining out of me and there was a big dead picture of Salinger, I thought: who is still around, it's just a taste but-

Here is who is still awesome:

Joyce Carol Oates, since she has written ten million things that are more important that anything on E! (alright except that dreamboat Joel McHale), we have to start somewhere so then lets start you off with "where are you going, where have you been?". As you read it, the inside of your head will untangle, and everything that you were asking yourself about life and fear and future selves will suddenly make itself known and then you'll be outside smoking a cigarette and people will ask you questions to make conversation and you won't be able to respond because you keep wondering if that guy walked funny because he was hiding hooves in his shoes. And that's just a fucking short story, imagine what the novels are like.

I give her five sexy hats out of five.

Also better than Dan Brown and that weiner who cried the whole time he poorly wrote the Ruins,

Dennis Lehane, what's that America is full of? Guns, drugs, madness, poverty, poetry, creepy hot sex, indistinguishable lines between what is a crime in desperation and what isn't? (Facetious) No way. (Sarcasm) Look just read anything out of Coronado, in particularly "Until Gwen" and lets just see how you feel afterward. If you feel nothing, then you are dead inside, and you should look in a mirror for a reflection to make sure that you aren't actually dead.

D.L. gets four sexy hats because Clint Eastwood turned Mystic River into a whiny, black-and-white mockery of what it actually is.

Kim Addonizio, is my favorite poet running around alive. Her stuff is smart, tough, disturbingly sexy, and always, always overwhelmingly affective. She also never falls into being pompous or crass or shock-for-the-sake-of-shock. I would stand her stuff up against anybody's and truly see if anybody can punch you in that tiny stomach that lives in your heart harder than her. She also pulls off some of the harder technical sides of poetry with out becoming stale or rigid, check out her sonnet "First Poem for You" if you think I'm wrong.

She get four and a half sexy hats, one half taken off because I always have to look up her name to spell it right.

Grant Morrison, isn't a writer, he's a witch. If you are so inclined and willing to look into trap doors on the dark side of your brain then you will notice that Morrison's cool, funny, exciting, and blazingly creative stories (sometimes with resurrected comic book material that died in the seventies)is also subtly worming new thought concepts into your head. What if a writer created a universe then created a character from our universe to be sent into theirs? Does that make the universe real because you believe it to be real? You can lay down now if you want. When you are ready, when you know who you are, read The Invisibles all the way through, it will mess with you.

There are no sexy hats, because they are just constructs in your mind's eye that pop up when you scan your eyes over a set of sound sets(letters) linked together to spell (like a witch) things into the think flesh that hides in your skull. C'est pas une pipe.

Alan Moore, fuck you, you don't take comic books seriously, fuck you. Alright, that's harsh, but think about it, everybody discredits comics. So if it is completely discredited, guess who flocks there? That's right the freakshows of talent that can't get away with it anywhere else. Do not buy into the crap movies they turn his stuff into, you are missing out on what might be an actual Shakespeare level talent. The Watchmen is the most creative, provocative, ballsy, and beautifully crafted story of all time. It is the best book of the last thirty five years, if not the century. (Editor's note: That's real Brazen Pomposity, folks.)

He gets three sexy hats because he needs to write another novel and because Promethea did kind of suck.

Two Old Dudes who don't need Pissants like me giving them props

Gabriel "The Hitman" Garcia Marquez and Ray "Fucking" Bradbury, if you don't know who they are you need to ask yourself, "do I have to think to breathe?" because you probably do. Read "One Hundred Years of Solitude" and "Something Wicked This way Comes", everthing is going to be alright.

They both get Five Sexy Hats out of Five because they both look very manly in trench coats.

There will be more writers ass-kissed here in the Lunchbox, this is just the beginning. See now I don't feel so bad about the last column.

Great Now I'm Depressed, Thanks Dead Writer, Thanks Alot

Which came first the recluse writer or suffocation by mass media?

It took one hundred years for everyone to have a telephone, fifty for a TV, twenty five for a computer, ten for a cellphone, and it now appears to be cannibalizing itself so that by the time you purchase a computer and an internet connection, the next gen, which is a thousand times faster, is scheduled for its release next week.

Since we now exist in a some sort of superfast information technology whirpool, I think its only fair to bring up the fact that we aren't actually getting any smarter. Are we getting more savvy? Oh sure, and more accustomed to high speed thought? But really how complex is that new thought, because personally I catch myself having my inner monologue resemble this: Need internet, need email, email internet ok, need TV, TV noise soothing, ooh Colbert, resist urge to look at porno, why what's wrong with porno, nothing I just have better things to do, facebook, gmail, bbc.com, what's that word?, wikipedia, craigslist, facebook, look at picture of self existentially on facebook, and such and such.

Seriously at times I feel like a gerbil: food pellet, water bottle, sleep under shavings, run on wheel, food pellet, look at self in reflection of cage existentially...

This is why I am going to miss Salinger, why I miss Vonnegut,why I miss all the voices. When your mind began to gerbilize you only had to remember that the inside of your head was more powerful than the world around it; the truest form of rebellion is in there. That your life and thought process are a million times more powerful than any Intel chip. And that there are others out there who also think that training your mind to be a well-oiled system of pulleys rather than an explosion of thought is a terrible terrible thing. We lose them and they are not replaced.

Mind you I am writing a quasi-political lament on my internet blog while my facebook is open in the other tab, but pay no attention to that. All Holden Caufield did was yell from the inside of his head that everything around him felt like garbage, that he wouldn't go along with the robot thought process. That's all I'm doing, that's all we can do. So today, when you walk around, just for JD, say fuck you to everybody inside of your head. It totally works.

This message brought to you by Twilight: It's like hot and junk.

You people should consider yourselves lucky that I'm granting you an audience tomorrow rather than twenty years from now.

Here is my attempt at an interview with Steve Jobs Yesterday because of the new space tablet that will change all of our lives because a well executed hundred and seventy million dollar ad campaign says so:

I called the Apple headquarters number, I assume that it is in California, but it seemed that the person I was talking to was not in America.

After a robot told me in a very classy and placid voice that my phone call may be recorded for "customer service purposes" I then hit fifteen different commands on my cell that I believed would direct me to the wizard.

Emsa: Hello this is Emsa with customer service, how can I assist you?

ME: I want to talk to Stevey.

Emsa: Excuse me?

ME: I'd like to talk to my father Steven Jobs.

Emsa: You're Steve Job's son?

ME: Yes, well, he doesn't know that but see I'm from the future-

That's when she hung up. So, look all I'm saying is that I am a smartass with time on my hands and a faux hawk five years too late but have you seen Jobs? He sits in front of a giant projection screen of himself. He brings out future tech so that all of us towheads can look up and gawk with our mouths open. He is obviously not from this dimension or , at least, from this time period, so listen up Apple customer service if a guy can go from building calculators that can out think physicists in his basement in the valley to owning the western economy with his star trek pads and Ozian stage displays; then there is a fifty fifty shot that he has kids from the future.

Thank you,
Journalism.

A Special Message from Our God Football

Hello every one,
I'll be guest writing this column, and as you can guess for that vacant-eyed photo to my right, it's me! The Tebow: your favorite Lord of Christian goondom, overrated footballia, and nightmarish haircuttrias. I have taken the time to put on a shirt and my signature guy-liner black baindaid eye make up, (its not sissy, its tough football stuff, I think, that's why I write creepy bible passages on it) so that I can deliver a special message to you.

A message so special that me and my mom and her friends at Focus on the Family, (a semi-facist, Christian think tank full of other over-privledged, vacant, spooky eyed goons) spent 2.8 million dollars to play it during the superbowl.

But I need to get the message out there, everyway that I can, that's why I'm writing on this blog normally written by a a kid that once had to go to the hospital for shoving peas in his nose (editor note: then why did god make peas perfect nostril size, hmmm? No Seriously answer me right the fuck now god, I'm dead fucki-) uuuhh, but anyway I'm using this opportunity to talk about my important message.

It's this: aborted babies can never ever grow up to be the quarterback of a college football team. They can't go fishing or secretly hate black people. They can never have that first exciting moment of having super hot girls throw themselves at you and then you have to be like no I'm saving myself for god and my wife, and then they like take they're shirt off and you don't feel anything, all you can think about is Deshaun your roommate, and you tell your mom this, and she just keeps crying and changing the subject. Aborted babies also can't never dance and laugh and sing and get insane concussions or work for Google.

Aborted babies can't do anything. Don't be lame, keep popping out babies for no apparent reason other than you because you can.

Thanks Alex for letting me get this message out there, I love every non-aborted baby, Hail Satan.

Everybody is a Giant Weiner

Let me get this straight, my generation, the one that could play Nintendo in the playpen and had the hand-eye coordination and reflexes of a jet pilot by eight is supposed to trust these guys. Look I don't know if I fully believe in the lightening snake bird coming to eat us in 2012 but man that time line seems to make sense in terms of how lame these guys are and how fast they are capable of driving everything into the ground. I'm no chicken little but here is my point.

Look at that guy.

Do it.

He looks like your high school class president who was always the grossest, creepiest, most convincing androgynous person you would accidentally sleep with out of desperation during a dry spell at spring break.
Alright, I'm saying it, here it is, we gotta start judging books by their cover. Sometimes, not like crazily but look at Hitler, that guy looks like an asshole. Who other than a complete dickhead would have that mustache? Bernanke looks like some skeeze who would completely rip you off. George Bush looks like at any moment he is going to rape you during a frat, "initiation", Dick Cheney has cat-slits in his pupils, Obama looks like he is terribly accustomed to having a massively pampered life style provided by his friends the healthcare corporation. Daley looks like a goon, no seriously look up goon and you will see a wide jawed, loud mouthed jackass. It is time, if they look like scumbags, maybe they are. Seriously look at Mark Kirk again, theres no way that guy doesn't have a Napoleon complex.

Is there anything scarier than a Dutchman chasing you in briefs?

One of the things that will be in the Buddha Lunchbox will be movies you should be watching because when you watch them they give you nose bleeds from your brain exploding inside your head to an over load of rad magnificence.

The first movie in the Lunchbox is Blade Runner, now for some of you overly knowledgeable film weirdos that I associate with this is a no brainer, but if you haven't seen it, you should know that in the Christian faith you can't get into heaven until you do. But it's not like its painful. It's an amazingly beautiful neo noir where everything is rain, neon lights, weird guns, badass thirties style roughed up for the future, serrated writing, and uber hot robot/clone broads.

Another piece of evidence that CGI instantly dates it self and looks like garbage because this movie was made in '82 and visually stomps things like Transformers because matting, costume, make-up, and just all around astoundingly slick set & visual design will always, always win. That and it does not involve the Shia LaBouf "comedy" hour.

The plot and theme also play with some of the darker aspects of human connection and technology addiction without ever becoming preachy, heavy handed, or super lame. I used to fall asleep to this movie until I started waking up screaming during the final part due to nightmares about Rutger Hauer. But that is only because Rutger Hauer can actually jump between dreams and hunt you down.

I give the FINAL CUT of this movie 363,857,909,871 stars in our galaxy out of 363,857,909,872, all of them except Alpha Centuri, fuck you Alpha Centuri.

Fun Fact: This is a great movie to slowly ease pretty or artsy girls who hate scifi into possibly liking Sci fi, which you love and have been hiding from her for the first several months of your relationship.

Welcome to the Nonsense of a Childhood Adrenaline Junkie.

There was a time, not too long ago for me (last week), when what was on your lunchbox defined you. It was the first critical choice that you made in the social stratosphere. It was your flag. Comic book characters? Day-glow ponies? Movies? Athletes? Mr. T? Elite Teams of American Commandos who only ever killed robots? It really didn't make much difference to me because I believed you were cool as long as you rocked it. But most of the other goblins didn't see it this way, to them, this was as critical to understanding who you are as your DNA.

At first I secretly wanted to be one of the kids with a paper bag; they were non-entities, barely noticed but rarely ridiculed. However lunchboxes had a certain social thrill to them, an adrenaline rush, an "I'm cooler than you" game of community respect. Lunchboxes were war.

Lunchbox with the wrong GI JOE on it? Unfortunately until middle school, you are a "dick bag". Girl with the Billy Ray Cyrus one? "Redneck." Your parents are thoughtless inhuman jerks when you forget your Urkel one at basketball practice and they make you take your sisters back up Pound Puppies one? You are now officially for the rest of your childhood, with no concern for your actual sexual preference, a "homo."

I realized how critical this was early on. At first I went with a cultural standard; The Ninja Turtles. No one made fun, but no one said anything either. I mean the Turtles were super fucking awesome but this also meant that half the y chromosomes had one.

So when the rare time for a new lunchbox came and I stood in the back-to-school isle at K-mart, which looked like a demilitarized zone, I was needless to say taking my time. My kid brother picked up a Joker one instantly and wandered off because he has was in kindergarten and could careless about the social Russian roulette I was currently in. I muttered, "shit" under my breath because the Joker was actually a pretty bold and badass choice.

Everything seemed so bland and over done. Everything reflected nothing about me. Sure I liked Spider man and The Super Mario Brothers, yeah I road dirt bikes and skate boards, but come on I had cooler things going on in my head than just that, didn't I? I wanted something bizarre and intimidating and cool. I took a second and visualized what I wanted, I let the universe in and a strange thing came to me, it was the Buddha Siddhartha sitting on a Lilly with crazy holographic psychedelics all around him on a black lunchbox. Wouldn't that be fucking rad, I thought. Nobody would have that, and who would dare mock it.

I was still in a K-Mart though, they would have nothing remotely that cool. Then I saw it and ever since I've decided that the world is one big lunchbox arms race, it really only matters if you buy into the magic and make sure that you pick up the right one, the right anything, the stuff for you. I've kept this sucker since I was a kid and I've been putting my coolest and spookiest shit in it since I was seven years old. So now I'm putting my "awesome box" online and flying my lunchbox flag high. Check it out if you want and welcome to the Buddha Lunch Box.

The picture at the top isn't the same one, but its close.