The first volume of James Maker‘s autobiography, Autofellatio, is now available for download at Amazon.co.uk, for UK customers, as Kindle or Kindle for PC. The second volume, Autofellatio Encore, will be available by Winter 2010.
By Royal Young.
Are celebrity sex tapes better than real people porn?
They gotta be on the level that you’re seeing these people without their handlers. Now it’s so controlled. Dennis Hopper used to openly talk about having threesomes with Natalie Wood and Nicholas Ray. That would never happen now. I find sex tapes boring in a way. Paris Hilton fucks like she speaks. If I was Paris Hilton’s PR person I would tell her to become a crackhead. It would be fascinating to see a crackhead with unlimited resources. Watching someone get high or shoot up is like porn for me.
What do you think about fame? Is fame a drug?
I’d rather have money than fame. Fame seems like a pain in the ass. The only reason I want to become a famous author is to get access to doctors that will prescribe me the best shit. When I was on Top of the Pops I was literally starving. I think religion stopped being relevant to people and they needed icons.
Is sex for money more gratifying than sex for love?
If you’re good enough at it. I respect the honesty of exchanging hard cash for hard cock. But depends how you define gratifying. Guy junkies can’t keep a hard on or if you’re withdrawing you cum in two seconds. I’ve got a lot of respect for sex workers. I never had the money, if I had the money it was going into my arm. Anything for money is gratifying except for an honest days work.
Do most junkies have father issues?
My mom and dad were working class people from Ireland. Dad was a bus driver and I always looked up to him from afar. Dad was into fixing cars and I was obsessed with movies and the theatre of the absurd. My parents didn’t have bookshelves. My dad got ten pages into my book and said he got a headache. When my folks stayed at my apartment in L.A. I smeared make-up on my arms to hide the track marks. Then when I was getting clean, Dad told me I had uncles who were junkies and one who smuggled Morphine. I think it’s more about control issues. The big C.
What do you think about the celebrity rehab trend?
It’s ridiculous. There’s drug rehab, sex rehab, fucking is bad all of a sudden. Rehab is like the mea culpa now. Yet, there are very few drugs of addiction. There are drugs of compulsion. Most people don’t need rehab, what they really need is to get out of Hollywood, a blow job and a vacation. Now rehab is a commercial prospect. I quit Heroin, Crack, Methadone because I didn’t want to do them anymore, not because I spent $3,000 on rehab and all they did was tell me to pray.
Sick City by Tony O’Neill was published last month.
Mark Twain had his Sholes & Glidden, Jack Kerouac his Underwood, Thomas Pynchon an Olivetti and Ernest Hemingway a Royal Quiet De Luxe Portable, but it was Paul Auster who wrote a book about his typewriter, the Olympia SM9.
“It was never my intention to turn my typewriter into a heroic figure,” writes Auster. “That is the work of Sam Messer, a man who stepped into my house one day and fell in love with a machine.”
Of course, Olympias are serious collectors items these days, but Auster and his typewriter have been together more than a quarter of a century (allegedly everything Auster has written since 1972 has been typed on it).
“The only alternative was an electric typewriter, but I didn’t like the noise those contraptions made: the constant hum of the motor, the buzzing and rattling of loose parts, the jitterbug pulse of alternating current vibrating in my fingers. I preferred the stillness of my Olympia.”
“At a certain point, I realized I could shape events from my own life into narratives, using a protagonist rather like me but not exactly me. I do enjoy using that sort of “found” material rather than inventing it.” The Rumpus interview Lydia Davis. * “If you write truthfully about human life you don’t have to strive for contemporary relevance.” David Mitchell. * “I have no idea how Imperial Bedrooms falls into the body of my work.” Bret Easton Ellis. * Lengthy profile of James Ellroy. * Jonathan Lethem‘s imagined Metropolis. * 10 stories of suburban ennui. * Allen Ginsberg sings William Blake‘s The Laughing Song with Don Cherry [MP3] (via) * On Nabokov‘s short stories. * Brain Candy, on Penguin‘s Great Ideas series (via) * Kurt Vonnegut memorial library to open in Indianapolis. * The Ballad of David Markson: A Primer. * Visual Editions, “literary fiction & non-fiction books that are as visually breathtaking.” * The Marienbad Palace, exhibition inspired by J.G. Ballard‘s ‘The Enormous Space’. * Julian Schnabel ‘s polaroids (via) * A chronological look at 13 classic comic heroines. * 10 musicians who would probably write good books. * Kristin Hersh talks Rat Girl. * 4AD celebrates 30th anniversary. * The golden age of Max’s Kansas City. * Sean O’Hagan on the art of punk. * Roger Ebert‘s 100 Great Moments in the Movies (via) * Death to Humans! Visions of the apocalypse in movies & literature (
What you (may have) missed on 3:AM this week:
Interviewed: The world’s shortest Jim Jefferies interview, courtesy of Graham Rae
Reviewed: Max Dunbar on Louise Wener’s Different for Girls: My True-Life Adventures in Pop; Joseph Ridgwell on Mark SaFranko’s God Bless America; Tom Jenks on Richard Barrett’s Sidings:
Richard Barrett is often associated with experimental/innovative poetics, partly because of the publications in which his work has appeared over the last few years but also because he undoubtedly has those particular shots in his locker. Sidings is the work of a sophisticated intelligence, a writer who is not insular, who is aware of technique but is not ruled by it, who can pick a colour from his palette without being tempted to apply it as a coat of whitewash. The cover of Sidings depicts, apparently from above, a Brutalist tower block: geometric, kaleidoscopic, sliced, mirrored. It suggests a body of work characterised by hard angles and gleaming aluminium edges, but this is a false note. Just as Brutalism, for all its astringency and confrontational aesthetic, was underpinned by a fundamental concern for humanity, so this collection for all its stylistic tricks and tropes, its plurality of reference points and its ventriloquism, is underpinned by an unwavering interest in people. In fact, one could go so far to say that at the core of Sidings is not a white hot experimental fuel rod, rather something older, earthier and less fashionable.
Much of Sidings alludes to the world of work, to what Roethke called “the misery of manila envelopes.” This unashamed embrace of the prosaic, regarded by some as a poetic no-fly zone, is a large source of Sidings‘ strength. Like Frank O’Hara with his “I did this, I did that” poems, Barrett is a poet for whom no detail is too small. Sidings is not the projection of an idealised persona, rather the delineation and diagrammaticisation of an organic, imperfect consciousness.