joey made a cartoon

fatkid.pdf

 

nectar of a slug

 

monarch butterflies

progress remains out of sight

getting laid today

 

Hippies

 

EXCERPT! The Decline and Fall of the Long Island Sound

The Lackawanna Review is proud to present this excerpt from the new, independently published unauthorized autobiography of Hymen Shamrock, entitled The Clover Inside. This interactive excerpt details Mr. Shamrock’s college days, the promise that was, and the success that wasn’t.

By Tony Tugmaziti, author of I Carry Micro Fiction In My Pocket for Occasions Such As These

“Nothin’ honest or authentic of humanness is ever stated in events. Experience itself has not the actuality that lies with the seeds of truth itself buried deep into our fiction. Or even the microtruths dropped on the topsoil of our shit-ass microfiction” – Marcus Aurelius

I recently met up with Hyman Shamrock at his favorite watering hole in Rockville Center, Long Island. “Oh my Gawd,” he rasped, a little too loudly, “look at the tats on that whore.” Mr. Shamrock glances back at me, that inimitable, gee did I shit the bed again? face that little children flash their mothers from time to time – this face is Mr. Shamrock’s bread and butter . These days he is a little disheveled and a bit out of shape, but doesn’t look all that different from the pictures taken of him during his college days. He is still fairly attractive, tall, charismatic, and in conversation he can be quite engaging. One can easily tell he is well educated, and just as easily pick up on his anxiety, as he frantically jumps between film, historical, and (at times very personal) anecdotes, even while trying to tell a simple story. Of course inevitably, he will always return to the crude. “You can take the boy out of Rockville Center!” he exclaimed, partly a joke to relieve my uneasiness, partly an explanation.

“But you’re still in Rockville Center,” I quip back.

“What are you, my fucking editor?”

I delicately try to return the conversation back to the Long Island Sound, but he’s not making it easy. Between ‘why I hate living with my parents’ monologues and the tragic demise of his most recent band project, the conversation is going nowhere, and then finally Shamrock brings the dialogue to a close – “You’re just a Dago right? You sure you’re not part Hebe? You look like you’re part-Hebe, part-African.”

Five years ago this month, Mr. Shamrock, then a Sophomore at Binghamton University, seemed on the fast track to rock stardom. He was in a relationship with two girls at the same time, doing a ton of drugs, and “his” band – a unique, if unlikely foursome inspired by the schizophrenic, punk rock stream-of-consciousness of Wesley Willis – had just taken second place in a battle of the bands, and with it a cash prize of $500. As a show of good faith, the Long Island Sound had agreed to share $400, and donate $100 to the memory of Curt Slack, the lead singer of a competing band who died tragically a few days earlier. They charged the task to Shamrock, who predictably spent the money on cocaine. Days later he was arrested for narcotics possession and disorderly conduct, and before any one knew it, he was back home in Long Island.

“He wanted so bad to be creative that he tried on and adopted all the bad habits of his influences, especially those of his main influence, Wesley Willis – a schizophrenic drug addict. He felt, in order to become a creative force, he had to let his demons out. He really did confuse debauchery and bohemia for artistic creation, so he got wasted a lot and went on his own hellride and pissed everyone off, again. It really took a toll. He was a fucking asshole, and a fucking mess.”

Shamrock took the following semester off. Upon returning to school, he discovered that Patrick Beaudry, the creative leader of the Afficianadoz, had transferred to Syracuse University. Still, the band’s cult status only seemed to grow. And this time, it was Shamrock in charge of the band’s direction. For a while, it worked.

 

Musings on Philosophy

 

Grand Mother City of the Universe

So I’m here at a Starbucks just outside of Times Square posting to you today. I have moved into Williamsburg, Brooklyn (sorta) and I just travelled uptown to set one of my helpful family members on their proper transportation home. So far, I have no bed, no couch, no internet, and no…love. Please, Grand Mother City of the Universe, cradle me in your arms and provide security for me. Tell me, “All is well Mr. Attki, you will fly like a dove, wings outstretched, and drop soggy wet bombs on the masses that line 42nd Street.” Love me.

 

Civil War Re-enactment Weekend!

In addition to being the day taxes are due this year, April17th also has tremendous historical significance.  The last Union officer killed in action in the civil war was none other than Lieutenant Edward L. Stevens, who was killed in a skirmish at Boykin’s Mills, near Sumter, South Carolina on April 17th 1865.  Stevens was a New England patriot, a member of the 54th Massachusetts volunteers.  I humbly place his name here so that he may never be forgotten.  To honor the memory of this oft-forgotten hero, the Lackawanna Review staff got together this weekend for a good, old fashioned Civil War Re-enactment. 

 

Pride of the Commonwealth

Fitzy’s Wicked Pissah

Baseball fans are the yardstick of American cities.   Do you love the dirty water?

 

Sex is a Misunderstanding

It was a somewhat warm spring night in April when Lucy had called me to have a drink or two at the local watering hole.  A light rain had been showering the area, so I put on my trench and began walking to the bar.  This particular bar went by the name of “Sharon McNalley’s”, and while it shared it an Irish name, the patrons consisted mainly of buff Italian twenty-somes with greased hair and tight polo shirts that made their chest look like two hams with buttons affixed to the middle. 

When I arrived at McNalley’s, I was greeted by the Thursday bartender, Al, who never seemed grow tired of wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey.  As I made my way around the bar, I spotted Lucy sitting at a table in a dark corner just behind the pool table.  Two over serious types were playing, and I had to wait for a moment as I turned the corner so that one of them could miss a routine shot at the eight ball.

“Hey Lucy, what’s up?”

“Oh hey Mike!  How are you!”

“I’m good, very good…”

I sat down.  Lucy was looking delightful.  She was a relatively small girl, short in stature, though incredibly fit.  She was a gymnast, and I can imagine where a man’s thoughts can travel at the mention of that notion.  Twisting, turning, oh, you know the story…  However, I did not, and as you can imagine, I was wanting to discover that for myself. 

 

Notes from the Troposphere